Rogue Affair

by Tamsen Parker

  “And Mr. Theodore? Just dessert and some coffee is all, but after that everyone can go home.” I gave that a beat and added, “We’d prefer to be alone.”

  Mr. Theodore, ultimate professional, nodded without any obvious change in expression. “I understand, ma’am. I’ll take care of it.”

  “Thank you so much. You really have no idea.”

  He offered a very small smile. “Have a good night, ma’am.”

  “Thank you.” I gestured Ram toward the family kitchen, which was blissfully empty (all the real cooking was done in the formal kitchens). “Let’s hide out here for a few minutes while they set up.”

  “It’s an inspired idea, but you realize I didn’t pack a swimsuit.”

  I fanned myself. “Did you pack?”

  “I like to be prepared. I am a Marine, ma’am.” He winced. “Sorry.”

  “Miriam,” I intoned. “Try again.”

  “That is really hard to get used to. I tried practicing in my head, but it feels wrong to call you by your first name.”

  I stared at him. And waited.

  He stepped a little closer, almost exactly my height, our eyes on the same level. “I like to be prepared, Miriam. And you did mention getting laid.”

  “I certainly did. I’m glad you were paying attention.”

  “If you’d mentioned swimming, I would have brought a suit.”

  “Are you wearing underwear?”

  “I…am. Yes.”

  “So am I. That should be good enough, don’t you think? We’re adults. We’ll be as alone as it’s possible to be alone when you’re the president. Or, I suppose, dating the president.”

  “I hope we’ll be a little more alone in a bedroom.”

  I shrugged. “You’d be surprised. One of the maids once stumbled on Hank taking a bath in the middle of the day when she’d expected him to be eating lunch. Poor thing. I still feel bad when I see her.”

  Ram took a deep breath. “How long did it take you to get used to things like that?”

  “Awhile. And you don’t have to stay, if you don’t want to. Or to go swimming tonight. We can do it some other time. But it’s still a lovely place to have dessert and coffee.”

  “I’d like to go swimming with you, Miriam.”

  I was far more relieved than was warranted. Some quiet, insecure part of my brain had wondered if he would rather leave than put up with the complexities of being with me. And judging by his far too shrewd expression, he guessed it.

  I swallowed, losing some of the bravado that had carried me this far. “Good. Thank you.”

  He might have said something, but there was a soft tap at the door. Saved by the butler.

  “Dessert is served in the cabana, ma’am.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Theodore.”

  We lingered another minute. I felt vulnerable suddenly, seducing a man so much younger, so good looking and fit as hell. I had to brush it off.

  “I’m taking you through the tunnel,” I said, grabbing his hand.

  “Like we’re spies.”

  “This house is great for a game of spies.”

  Back to careless banter, thank god. The tunnel came out in the cabana itself, where dessert and coffee was neatly arranged on the much more intimate table. The pool gleamed blue just outside the windows, and I appreciated whoever had only turned on a few key lights, by no means all of them. Our dessert was lamp-lit, and the pool practically glowed in the dark, steam rising from a backdrop of sapphire.

  He surveyed the spread. “Wow.”

  “I told them not to overdo it, so they fancied up one of my favorites. I will say this for being president—the only other place in the world you can find such good produce is California.” Bowls of strawberries, blueberries, blackberries, sliced mango, sliced kiwi, spears of pineapple.

  “You grow kiwi in California?”

  “Actually, we can. Though we don’t have many commercial outfits doing it.” I reached for a bowl and spooned in some of the rich yogurt Marisol made for me. I added a little of everything and topped it off with whipped cream and shaved dark chocolate.

  Ram followed suit, skipping the blueberries and pineapple, and also skipping the whipped cream, though he did sprinkle chocolate over the top of the strawberries.

  We ate for a few minutes, sitting beside each other this time, making comments about how brilliant the berries were, or how delicious the yogurt. Perhaps if this wasn’t a first date, we could have branched out some with the whipped cream.

  I made a mental note to keep that in mind for some other night.

  The coffee was also just as I liked it: in two small thermoses, made for keeping warm, not appearances. I picked them up and cocked my head in the direction of the pool. “Shall we?”

  “In our underwear?”

  “The pool is heated.”

  He was still hesitating. “You know I’m trans, right?”

  “Oh. Yes, of course. I mean, not of course, but yes. There was some press coverage, if I remember correctly.”

  Ram smiled wryly. “Just a little.”

  “Small price to pay for an excellent Secret Service agent.” I frowned, still not tracking where this was headed. “You said you liked swimming, so I just assumed…”

  “I do. A lot. Just, when I plan, I can wear a swimsuit that’s designed for packing. Or a harness that can go in chlorine. I have on leather right now, which is my favorite, but I’m not getting it anywhere near the pool.”

  I figured it out. After, yes, a rather embarrassingly long pause, but I figured it out. “Oh, you mean your—”

  “Yeah. Well, my packer. I brought something else for more vigorous activities.”

  More vigorous activities. Were the thermoses oozing heat? Goodness. I was sweating. “You’ll have to show me,” I murmured. “Tell me what our options are with regards to the pool. And, again, I’d be perfectly happy to forgo a midnight swim. At least this time.”

  He shook his head. “Now that you’ve said it, I’ll regret not taking a midnight swim with you on our first date. I can take off the harness.”

  “And that’s…all right?”

  “It’ll be a little weird, being without something. I probably wouldn’t do it with someone I’d just met. But that’s not exactly this.”

  “No. I’ve been thinking about that all night. In a way, this feels like a first date. In a different way, it feels like a perfectly inevitable extension of our friendship. If I can say we have a friendship.”

  “We definitely have a friendship, Miriam.”

  “In that case, I won’t feel bad abandoning you to go outside. Though I think I’ll actually take a bit of the cream with me for my coffee.” And leave you alone to get changed in private.

  “Will you grab enough for me, too?”

  “Yes. Wait until you taste it. It’s gorgeous.”

  His lips curved. “If I was using the word gorgeous around here, it wouldn’t be about the whipped cream.”

  The damn thermoses were overheating again. I picked up the bowl of cream and two spoons, and escaped outside.

  I’d poured each of us a lid full of steaming coffee and stripped off everything except my bra and underwear by the time he came out. There was something almost reckless about standing outside with only a robe on over my undergarments (and I was certainly thankful for the presence of two bathrobes and a stack of fluffy towels).

  I was just stirring in my cream when I heard the door open.

  And oh. Oh my.

  Ram, all smooth skin and dark hair over black boxer briefs. His body wasn’t ostentatiously muscled, but one could certainly settle on well defined for a description. I caught my breath, eyes tracing a trail of hair down the V of his abs.

  The bathrobe was even more scorching than the thermoses had been.

  “You’re stirring that coffee more than I’ve ever seen anyone stir coffee before.”

  “I…” I put the spoon down. “Sorry. Or…” Get it together, West. “I’d offer you a bathrobe, but
I’d hate myself if you said yes.”

  “The only solution to that is you taking yours off.”

  In a general sense, I looked good. Compared to people in my age group. Or even people ten to fifteen years younger than my age. But Ram looked like a Greek god.

  He held out his hand. I surrendered my bathrobe.

  “Never mind about the coffee,” he said softly, dropping the robe and reeling me in. “We match.”

  “This bra happens to show my assets to their best advantage. I would have worn it even if it was lime green.”

  “You look beautiful. You’d look beautiful in lime green, too.” He kissed me and I closed my eyes into it, grateful for his arms around me. A little shaky, now that we were here, now that we were practically naked.

  It was almost too much. “Let’s go in.” Better to be in the water, a little shielded, than out here in the open.

  The pool was kept at a constant temperature of eighty-one degrees. Stepping into it was perfect, and I lost myself a little to the glory of being buoyant after the constant pressure of gravity. We sidestroked languidly from one end to the other, then rested at the edge. He went out and refreshed our coffees, adding cream to the fresh cups (dumping the cold coffee in a plant, and shooting me a boyish, mischievous grin as he did so).

  We drank hot coffee in the glow of the pool lights and told stories—about childhood, about early misadventures. I talked about campaigns I’d run, he talked about life on base in Japan and Afghanistan and Germany. I hadn’t laughed so much with anyone in years, and by the time Ram offered to refill our coffees again, I felt more at ease.

  I took his cup and set it on the ground. “Maybe later.” I reached up, fingertips resting along his jaw, and kissed him.

  His hands immediately settled on my hips below the level of the water. I closed the distance between us until I could feel his body pressing against mine, and I’d forgotten what it felt like to give way like this, to cede my balance to ours, to be so in the moment with a man that my skin tingled everywhere he touched.

  “God, Miriam…” He ran one hand up my side, a strange play of water and fingers against skin. “Should we take this further?”

  “Mmm. I don’t think we should actually have sex in the pool, but I’m good with further.”

  He slid a leg in between mine. “Agree on all points.”

  And oh, oh, I gasped when he hit the right spot, and only Ram’s hands holding me steady kept me from sliding into the water.

  “Well,” he amended, whispering directly into my ear. “Maybe I’m a little flexible on the ‘no sex in the pool’ rule.”

  “You’re just teasing me, you bastard.”

  He laughed, deep and throaty and oh, god, he was grinding me against his thigh. I clutched at him as if I was falling. “Ram—I really think—we should—”

  “Stop?”

  I kissed him hard, almost panting. “In point of fact, yes. We should be responsible. And have sex in a bedroom. Not outside on the White House grounds.”

  “You’re probably right.” He eased me off, held me until I found my legs. Kissed me. “Can we do that now?”

  “You bet your ass we’re doing it now. Leave the coffee. Leave everything.”

  We didn’t bother with towels. I grabbed a robe and tossed one at him before half-dragging him back through the tunnel and up to the second floor.

  What happened then goes well beyond the scope of presidential memoirs, but you can trust me that it was very, very vigorous. I flush now just remembering.

  The country grew accustomed to many things during my tenure at the White House, some obvious, some more subtle. We didn’t hide the fact we were dating, but it took a little while for folks to catch on since Ram had already been something of a fixture. When the headlines started breaking about the president dating a trans man, Ram asked if that meant we could have sex in the pool. The secret—such as it was—was out, after all.

  We started a rather adventurous bucket list of things to do together.

  So far, we’re on target to do them all.

  Also by Kris Ripper

  If you’re a fan of queer community…and murder mysteries…

  Queers of La Vista

  Gays of Our Lives

  The Butch and the Beautiful

  The Queer and the Restless

  One Life to Lose

  As La Vista Turns

  * * *

  If you’re a fan of chosen family and long, delicious series…

  Scientific Method Universe

  Catalysts

  Unexpected Gifts

  Take Three Breaths

  Breaking Down

  Roller Coasters

  The Boyfriends Tie the Knot

  The Honeymoon

  Extremes

  The New Born Year

  Threshold of the Year

  Ring in the True

  Let Every New Year Find You (coming soon)

  Surrender the Past

  Practice Makes Perfect

  * * *

  Kith and Kin

  * * *

  If you’re a fan of somewhat (or extremely) kinky queer folks…

  New Halliday

  Fairy Tales

  The Spinner, the Shepherd, and the Leading Man

  The Real Life Build

  Take the Leap

  * * *

  Little Red and Big Bad

  Bad Comes First

  Red Comes Second

  * * *

  Erotic Gym

  Training Mac

  Teasing Mac

  Taking Mac

  * * *

  If you’re a fan of alternate universes…

  The Home Series

  Going Home

  Home Free

  Close to Home

  Home for the Holidays

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to many folks for helping at various stages of this story: General Wendy (who came up with “Strider,” a most excellent Secret Service name for President West), Zoe York, Emma Barry, Tamsen Parker, Stacey Agdern, Alexis Hall, and a very special thank you/damn you to Amy Jo Cousins, who sent me an email with the subject line “Wanna get political?” She knew I’d say yes. It’s just wrong. And also very, very right. With additional thanks to Barbara Bush for the phrase “First Gentleman,” and apologies to President Truman for the misquote (it’s actually “finest prison in the world”).

  About the Author

  Kris Ripper lives in the great state of California and hails from the San Francisco Bay Area. Kris shares a converted garage with a kid, can do two pull-ups in a row, and can write backwards. (No, really.) Kris is genderqueer and prefers the z-based pronouns. Ze has been writing fiction since ze learned how to write, and boring zir stuffed animals with stories long before that.

  Ripper’s Irregulars (on Facebook)

  Twitter

  Fallacies & Flirtations

  Amy Jo Cousins

  She’s an ex-chain mail bikini-wearing actress-turned-mayor of a major metropolis with a bright silver streak in her hair, and I’m a rising star political speechwriter still paying off student loans. She’s my boss, and I’m pretty sure her ex-girlfriend is looking to get back together with her anyway. I *know* nothing can happen. But somehow it’s always Anna and me huddled over my latest draft in the office at 2 a.m., and I’m starting to think I’m not imagining the heat between us…

  1

  Oscar

  She was the most famous actress of my childhood. The woman who first ignited my fumbling sexual fantasies, while teaching me to appreciate women who could kick my ass as soon as look at me. When I was a boy, she’d been my far-off icon of feminine beauty, sex appeal, and power. When she left Hollywood and jumped into the political arena, I was a teenager and lost track of her under the onslaught of hormones and rebellion. But as a college student, stomping my way through the debate circuit and honing my writing skills with editorials and social media virality, I’d cast my eye across local campaigns, looking to hi
tch my wagon to a rising star and had spotted her.

  I hadn’t even gotten an interview with her team.

  My fantasy. My dream. Now a real-life progressive candidate moving from local school council to alderman and then to the mayoral race, which she lost the first time around. Mostly—in my expert twenty-seven-year old opinion at that time—because her campaign manager was an idiot who thought name recognition and some movie star glamour was all she needed to get into office. I could’ve told him different. Everyone from our city knows we might love our local celebrities, but our precinct bosses will back the savvy candidate who knew how to deliver benefits to the ward over a famous face, no matter how gorgeous, every time. Her second campaign manager had understood the city better, and scandals had erupted like volcanoes under the administration of the man who’d beaten her. Mayor Anna Fowler had won her second race for citywide office handily.

  As a man, a speechwriter with building fame of my own now and a face that lands me on the cover of local magazines running pieces like 30 Hottest Chicagoans under 30 (thanks for the genes, mom and dad) or, most recently, Fabulous Under Forty lists (don’t remind me), I walk into the mayor’s office and try not to kiss the ground she walks on.

  She is twenty years older than me and, ultimately, my new boss, although technically I am a temporary outside consultant who reports to her chief of staff, who I’ve known since we tore up the college debate circuit together. Nothing can happen between the mayor and me—not to mention her most recent two relationships have been with women, so who knows if she’s even looking at men these days—but still.

  When she arches an eyebrow and smiles at me, I want to fall to my knees and worship her. With my mouth.

  “Right. Oscar Aranda.”

  I like hearing my name in her mouth. I like the silver streak that frames her face and how it shines against the deep black of the long hair she’s grown out over the years.