Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 27065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 135(@200wpm)___ 108(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 135(@200wpm)___ 108(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
A beat later, I’m knocking on her door.
She answers in a white cocktail dress, her hair in long, loose waves, her lips painted a deep, bold red and I simply forget how to speak. Legs.
My God, her fucking legs.
She’s wearing red high heels that flex her delicate calf muscles and make those lithe limbs appear even longer.
“Goddamn, Ms. Rogers.”
“I was thinking the same thing about you,” she whispers, chewing her lip as she looks me over, her nipples turning to pointy outlines beneath her too-short dress. Watching me turn her on in real time is a gift I can’t ever imagine taking for granted—and this is one of the things I love about her. She’s honest about wanting me. She can’t help it, because she has no filter. What is she going to be like once we’ve started sleeping together?
Anticipation has left my mouth dry. “You think I’d bring you anywhere near the senator in that dress?” I ask, backing her into her hotel room and kicking the door shut behind me. “Not a fucking chance, angel. I wouldn’t bring you around a priest.”
“We’re not going to the gala?” she blinks.
“No.” I catch her hips in my hands and pull her close, so I can rove my mouth through her fragrant hair, feel the press of her tits against my chest. “We’re going to dinner.”
She tilts her head left and I bite her exposed neck softly, kissing the spot. “We are?”
“Yeah.” I slide my palm up the back of her dress and cup one of her ass cheeks, stroking it in a circular motion. “How do you feel from earlier? Does this hurt?”
“No, sir. Just a little tender.”
“Poor baby.”
She makes a brief mewling sound and melts into me, lifting her arms to circle my neck—and I make a note, she likes being babied. Likes being soothed. For my part, I’m just walking on air to be holding her, inhaling her scent of vanilla and tight, clean pussy. My gaze strays to the bed and I’d love to carry her over, lay her down and get to work with my tongue, but after the beastly way I took her mouth and brutalized her innocent backside earlier today, I’m determined to spoil her. Make sure she knows how much I value her.
“Let’s go eat, Eloise.”
Her arms drop reluctantly from around my neck, but I can’t seem to pry my hands off her hips. I’m molding them roughly, my cock stiffening over the shape and feel of her.
“I’ll go get my purse,” she says.
“You don’t need a single thing when you’re with me,” I say, leaning into my new possessive streak. This need to recognize and fulfil her every need before they appear.
She nods, absorbing that statement for a moment, then places her hand in mine trustingly. “Yes. Lead the way, Mr. President.”
eight
. . .
Eloise
I’m trapped in the middle of a fairytale, and I never want to be free.
We ride in the service elevator down to the bottom floor, entering the restaurant through the kitchen where all the staff has been corralled to one side, allowing me and the president to move through safely. We’re led to a “chef’s table” on the other side of a heavy wooden door, located inside of a small wine cellar. The carpet is a dark velvet red, the walls lined with old-looking bottles of wine, our table in the center of the intimate space, candlelight flickering in hollows and on rustic surfaces.
It's the epitome of romance…and I’m about to share it with the president.
Pierce holds a chair out for me and I sit down, trying not to giggle or sweat or say something ridiculous, but I’ve never been so…happy? In my life?
Is this a date? Am I on a date with Pierce McAlister?
I’m afraid to ask. I’m afraid to wake up from this dream.
He removes his tuxedo jacket and I try not to watch too closely as his bicep pops, his pectoral muscles shifting against the front of his white shirt. He hangs the jacket on the back of his chair and sits down, looking me in the eye while he settles my white linen dinner napkin onto my lap.
“What do you want to drink, Ms. Rogers?”
“Seltzer with lemon, please.”
“No wine?”
“I’ve only drank wine once in my life and I ended up inciting a protest that led to several arrests and permanent jail records.”
Pierce chokes on his amusement. “Do you mind sharing the details?”
“Well.” I shift in my seat. “Back when I was at Villanova, there was a political commentator who shall remain unnamed coming to town for a speaking engagement. My fellow political science majors had already submitted a petition to cancel the appearance, but the university wasn’t going to comply. I drank a glass of wine intending to drown my sorrows. Instead, it made me feel immortal and I climbed a streetlight with a bullhorn and told everyone we were doing a sit-in. There are pictures if you Google them. Please don’t.”