by Alex Elliott
The line moves fast as I force myself to breathe. Each step closer I come to crossing the line, my lungs require more prodding, and then I’m through the metal detector without a hitch.
On the other side, I scoop up my bag and keys, then skitter across the polished marble floors, following along in the crowd as we head toward the elevators. Within the center of the lobby is a gorgeous rotunda—majestic and I wish I had more time to simply enjoy how awe inspiring it is to be in the midst of history being made. I blast by the milk-white marble statue carved by the famous sculptor Frederick Hart—another Georgia born man like Ben with a penchant for the sensuous.
People are talking in low voices, a droning buzz as I continually remind myself to entertain routine, sane thoughts. No one has a clue that Bennett had his head between my legs less than twenty-four hours ago.
Entering the elevator, there’s no need to request the fourth floor; the control panel buttons are all lit up. I step toward the side, and then farther back as more and more people cram inside until we’re jammed together and no one else fits. The doors close and my stomach pitches. The elevator ascends smoothly—it’s not a herky-jerky ride, but tell that to the butterflies flying out of control in my stomach. At each floor, the swarm on the other side of my ribcage flies faster and faster. When the elevator doors open on my floor, I almost stumble out on the heels of the six people ahead of me.
I glance at the signs on the wall, veer to the right, down a hallway toward Bennett’s office, Room 416. Dammit! Where the number plates should be are blank spaces. Looks like they’re all being replaced. I count and at the doorway I imagine is his office suite, I pause, taking hold of the knob, and am annoyed that my face feels sunburned. I’m all out of sorts—completely opposite to how relaxed I was last night.
Before pushing in, I stop and close my eyes, praying that my cheeks don’t get any redder. There are voices on the other side that rise and fall. Not exactly arguing, but border on strained. The doorknob yanks out of my hand, and I stare, openmouthed at a woman with deep burgundy hair and porcelain skin so white, I don’t think I’ve ever encountered skin as flawless, and quickly my focus switches to her perturbed posture as she stands frozen in front of me.
“Is this Senator Stone’s office?” I ask.
“You’re in luck. It is,” she replies shrilly, arching her brow. She huffs out a hasty, “Pardon me.”
God, I hope she’s not Nora and then I spot a senator pin on the lapel of her jacket. I step aside as she glides past me, her heels clattering on the marble floor. I enter into a reception area, stepping onto the dark blue carpeting, and encounter gleaming mahogany paneled walls where an impressive, framed antique American flag hangs.
“Senator Warner—oh sorry, you’re not—” A woman wearing one of Bennett’s campaign buttons comes forward. “May I help you?”
“I’m looking for Mrs. Swan.”
“You’re Ms. Kennedy! Aren’t you?” She claps her hand over her mouth for a second as she laughs.
“I am,” I reply, wishing to say more, but not a drop of saliva is in my mouth. The woman in front of me mentioned Senator Angela Warner. She’s the congresswoman who was investigated in the death of a prominent D.C. businessman last year. He was a huge campaign supporter of Warner’s—Jon said they were lovers.
“I was about to bolt to the ladies’ room, but not now. I’m Nora. Nice to meet you and come on in.”
“Finally,” I say in relief. “It’s always good to put a name with a face.”
“I agree. Lucky for me, I caught the photo spread from the cocktail party. I could pick you out of a lineup. Easily.”
“Really. It was packed.”
She smiles, tilting her head. “You were mentioned by name.”
My face tightens. I do remember, but say nothing. Instead, I watch as Nora backtracks inside. The reception area is another version of the beautiful architecture found throughout this building. This suite is part of the original 1909 building and there’s a crystal chandelier over the long table that’s visible in a side conference area. I’d read that Bennett was provided with one of the larger office suites due to his involvement chairing several committees. Nora sits down behind a large wooden desk and taps on the space bar of her computer. As Ben’s administrative assistant and scheduler, she has not one, but three monitors. She types rapidly and the printer spits out a stack of paper.
She lifts the pages and rapidly staples them, then grabs a lanyard. “Your schedule and your identification. You’ll have to go and get your official ID badge after you visit personnel. But this will get you in and out of the building without having to stop and prove who you are each time you come through.”
She’s maybe five-five in heels, and has a powerhouse body that’s built for speed as she hurls back out of her chair and winks at me. “I just knew you’d be coming to D.C.”
“Was there a question?” I slip on the lanyard.
“Oh, don’t mind me.” She shrugs, walking toward the inner corridor. “I say what I think before my brain has time to verify what comes out is socially acceptable.”
“Better than being a hypocrite,” I reply.
“Some days, I don’t know. After all...look where we are,” she snorts. “Let’s get you settled. Follow me.”
“Am I in the office with the other interns?”
Her eyes sparkle and the corners crinkle. “A little different. Special instructions from our boss. This way.”
From what I know there are staff offices nearby and I don’t understand where we’re headed as I follow her further inside the suite. “You don’t have to give me a tour. I mean you were headed out.”
“I’m not giving you a tour. I’m showing you to your office.”
“Office?”
“Myra, our communications director is on leave. Maternity and you’ll take her spot. If you decide to stick around after the summer, we’ll find another locale. Is this all right?” She opens a door into an office.
“Sure. I’m not particular. Any spot will do.”
She shots me a side-glance and smiles like she doesn’t swallow that one—maybe she’s right. From the doorway, I spy the next door...it’s larger than the others and dark wood. My heartbeat which had slowed into a normal clip crashes within my chest.
I don’t need a neon sign or directions to know who’s behind that threshold. It’s like I’m suddenly here...and he’s there. And this is real!
My hands grow cold and I refocus on Nora. She’s talking about who is around at the end of the summer. Monday, there’s a meeting in the Caucus Room downstairs...
“You’ll attend with Ben, and it’ll be great to get you involved. Right from the start, but shoot... after you pitched in and what you did in Boston—I guess this really isn’t starting from ground zero. Anyway, you’ll have our boss eating out of your hand in no time. He’s got a bite, but you can handle him. Or so I heard.”
I blink, entering the office. She’s got to be talking about something far different than the flaring images bursting within my head. “I’m happy to do whatever is needed.”
“That’s a bald-faced lie,” I hear a familiar deep voice behind us. “I’m all bite.”
“Jesus, Ben!” Nora exhales loudly. “How long have you been standing there?”
Swinging around, my pulse races and I freeze. His lips quirk and our gazes collide. Connect. “Not long enough to hear anything other than I’m an unbelievable hard-ass. Welcome to the Hill,” he says, staring into my eyes. “Nora, for the record, Ms. Kennedy already has me eating...out of her hand.”
What should I do? I can’t just stand there and gawk. Nora’s turning on the computer and booting it up. “Thank you. You’re too kind,” I murmur.
He steps closer. “So...what do you think of this place?”
I try and swallow the brick lodged in my throat as I say, “This building is amazing.”
His gaze lowers down the front of my dress. “It’s not the only thing that’s awe inspiring.” When he lifts his
eyes, our gazes reengage, and I feel our connection twine like racing jolts of electricity coursing within me.
“Boss, your meeting with the Veep is in twenty-four minutes. The file you need is on your desk.”
“I’m not going to be late, Nora. Relax.” He winks at me and I tell myself to stop staring. “Come find me, Ms. Kennedy if you have any questions. I’m right through there.”
For seconds, we don’t move, but then Nora says something about a briefing, and he gives her instructions as a muscle along his jaw clenches.
Dressed in a dark blue suit and a red tie that pops, his eyes shimmer in the subdued lighting within this office. I tell myself, turn around and calm down, but for a beat I enjoy watching him as he walks toward his office. Dark hair combed back and his broad shoulders stretch the fine material of his jacket. When I do turn, Nora is waiting for me and she says, “He’s something...isn’t he?”
“Hope I can keep up,” I choke out, praying to cover my tracks.
“Just enter your login information and reset the password,” she announces. “And take a deep breath. You’re going to do just fine. I can tell.”
* * *
FINDING XAVIA inside my office is enough to heighten my need for her—full tilt.
I want her...want to be buried to the hilt inside her.
And after hearing her almost say my name last night—that didn’t put the brakes on my hunger, but had me on the verge of confirming she was right. I was calling her—checking up on her. Hearing her voice, soft and hoarse on the other end of my cell, intoxicated me... I craved her as I sat in my car. Outside her apartment building for the second time in one night. Hard and ravenous to have her ride me.
Now, turning away from her isn’t the message coursing through my veins. If Nora wasn’t here, I’d push X back into that office, and fuck the rules. I want to taste her mouth.
She’s a door down from my office and I don’t want to leave her. But Nora’s breathing down my neck, while staring at me like I’ve lost my mind. “Ben. You’re cutting it close.”
“Veep is still at home. Probably in her bath robe.” I purposefully ‘forgot’ the file on my desk and am retrieving it, thankful that X is militant in being on time. “I’m fine.”
“Christ, you’re flying by the skin of your teeth,” Nora scoffs. “Do you want to me to phone her assistant, and buy you a couple of minutes?”
We both walk out of my office, back into the hall, and just beyond the doorway where X is sitting. Nora’s focus flares to her, and she rejoins my little sub, doing something on her computer.
“Negative. I’ll be back soon,” I say, stealing a quick glance down Xavia’s legs.
“Not if you don’t get going,” Nora utters, then speaks to X. “Key in your social.”
“I’m getting an error message,” X replies and crosses her legs. The hem of her skirt rides up her thigh, teasing me with a glimpse of lace—her garter. I’m staring, hoping her skirt will slide higher.
I grind my teeth, pretending to look at the folder in my hands. It’s been too long since her thighs were splayed for me, and I’m counting down the minutes until I’m tongue fucking her pussy, sucking on her clit, and making her scream my name. I imagine her pretty ankles bound wide apart and make a mental note to purchase a coil of silk rope that won’t abrade her delicate skin.
“Ladies.” I walk past the open doorway, and head out into the reception area. On Nora’s desk, I see a note written in familiar handwriting. Angela Warner. Senator Warner—my last sub—the woman who two-timed me, and almost entrenched me a scandal she managed to sidestep.
Fuck. I set my file down, and pick up the note in which she’s requesting an appointment. I get my phone out, preparing to text Nora an absolute no-go message, but shit. Angela is passive aggressive to a fault. Better to face her head-on. What in the hell does she want?
“The door is that way!” Nora snaps her fingers.
“I’m leaving. Warner gets no more than five minutes.”
“Ben. I’m on it.”
My car is downstairs and it’s a fifteen minute ride to the Veep’s home where I’m supposed to act like I don’t remember seeing her Deputy Chief of Staff last night. Naked and getting fucked every which way from Sunday by Ethan as the woman was bound, gagged, and sodomized during a tag team ménage. Something Ethan’s good at delivering. Apparently with the eagle on deck, that special request was acted upon.
I scan the others within the meeting room and stop. Besides Virginia Ryan, there’s a small gathering of people, and they all cease talking, gazing in my direction.
“Senator Stone,” Virginia announces. “Welcome.”
“Morning, Madam Vice President,” I reply formally.
“Would you care for coffee? Breakfast?”
“Coffee. Black,” I say, unbuttoning my jacket as I take a seat at the table.
She makes introductions and I withhold any comment as I listen to people present relay their names, and then strangely, identify their qualifications. Another executive coaching PR team, and I wonder why they’re here. This is a preemptive meeting in which Virginia and I are supposed to discuss if me as her running mate is something serious and where to go from here. I’m handed a notebook. The media specialist to my left talks about my voter appeal and explains the research he’s conducted.
“Senator Stone?” A familiar feminine voice pricks my awareness and I glance upward into pools of crystal blue. Xavia is led into the room by Virginia’s assistant. She’s next to me and I stand, reminding myself not to touch her.
“Ms. Kennedy,” I say and can’t help smiling down at her.
“Your folder, sir.”
Sir. Christ Almighty. My dick twitches at the sound of X’s voice, and I tell myself to abort doing anything but ‘thanking’ her...except I glance down at her mouth as she runs the tip of her tongue—her pierced tongue—along the underside of her upper lip.
“Thanks,” I growl, ready to pull her from the meeting room and into the back of my car outside. How’d she get here so fast? Then I remember the subway connecting the Capitol buildings. I don’t catch it, but plenty of staff do in running errands between Hill offices.
“My pleasure.” She nods, then turns on her heel, and retreats from the room.
All too soon, she’s gone and I’m standing, staring after her.
“New intern,” the Veep comments. “And a Kennedy?”
“Xavia Stillman Kennedy from Boston.” From my lips, the texture and weight of her name are like silk and steel outside my body. Soft and sharp imagery flares in saying my soon-to-be sub’s name aloud. I sink down into my chair, corralling my unruly concentration.
“She’s Patrick’s stepdaughter.” Ryan affirms what I know. Her words come out measured as she studies me across the table.
My muscles go rigid as I return her stare. Tersely, I state, “Yes, that’s correct.”
“Interesting, considering her ties. All Democrats.”
“Well you know how it is? Interns needing a placement.” The ligaments lock along my neck and shoulders. Everyone at the table is silent.
Ryan leans forward, folding her hands. “I won’t lie, Senator. I heard she was part of your staff.”
“You heard?” I ask, buying time to consider what in the fuck to say next.
She smiles. Cheshire-like and the oxygen burns from my body. “News travels fast. Her family. The press. You understand.”
“Matter of fact, I don’t. They’re not my concern.” There’s an element of bullshit in what I just said. X is bothered by her family. She’s my concern. Ryan’s interest irritates me. Xavia isn’t the Veep’s concern and shouldn’t be on Virginia’s radar.
“Really?” Her eyes widen incredulously.
“Madam Vice President, I came here to discuss your offer. Not my staff or their family affiliations.”
“The two might intersect,” she replies, steepling her fingers in that superior way I can’t stand.
Fuck! Be cool! I’m dow
nplaying what she’s said thus far, so much, I glance at my watch, then back at her to indicate my annoyance.
“So far, they don’t. The Stillmans and Kennedys aren’t our supporters. I’d prefer to deal with more pressing issues. Both of our calendars are packed. I’ve got several appointments this morning as I’m sure you do as well.” I push the folder toward Ryan, containing a compilation of my latest power hitting supporters who didn’t vote for POTUS that she requested. “We should begin.”
“We can’t be sticklers for black and white party affiliations. You of all people are making headway in garnering swing voters. New supporters. I had a brainstorm and want your input. Take your time reviewing the information in the binder.” She slips on a pair of glasses and her assistant places a fresh cup of coffee in front of me.
“Thanks,” I murmur, and open the notebook.
Scanning the first page, I tighten my fingers on the binder. It’s my history, starting from Harvard. I don’t need to re-read the arrest report. This bullshit was filed when I was involved in a drunken brawl at a frat house. Not one I belonged to, but I tore up the place during a party. A couple of us were hauled away in cuffs. Didn’t matter if we were stopping a girl from getting mauled by drunken members. The guys involved called their parents and that’s all it took. The girl was paid off. The school was given an endowment. And three students were arrested. Booked. Charged.
Me being one.
I beat the charges. And my record was eventually expunged and sealed, but it took years and my own efforts.
“If this is your way of intimating that you’ve found another running mate, you could have called,” I say, meeting Virginia’s pleasant smile.
“On the contrary, Senator. I’m very interested in you as my running mate. We’re here to head off any mudslinging. Figure out your target lists and integrating those with mine.”
“You and I run different campaigns. What you’re suggesting requires hiring IT people who understand social media.”
“Have faith, Senator. Give me a moment. Dr. Mazina will fill you in.” The Veep stands, gesturing to one of her minions. I divide my focus between the woman who identified herself as Dr. Mazina, and Ryan, who is now whispering instructions to her staffer.
