Total pages in book: 26
Estimated words: 23818 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 119(@200wpm)___ 95(@250wpm)___ 79(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 23818 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 119(@200wpm)___ 95(@250wpm)___ 79(@300wpm)
Focus, said the voice in my head sternly. They’re not paying you to sit here like a bump on a log. You need to produce some work, otherwise you’re gonna have some serious problems making rent next month.
Jolting upright, I stared at my computer screen. Of course. Just because I’d had sex with the President didn’t mean that I no longer had bills to pay. I needed to do some work and be a good employee deserving of my paycheck.
So with a determined shake of my shoulders, I tried to do some work, including proofing the newest article on creamy versus matte lipsticks. Blegh. But it’s okay. Copyediting is easy for me, and I carefully read each sentence, marking up the text with my favorite red pen.
Once finished, I stretched and yawned a bit, looking at the clock on my computer. Dang. Two p.m. already. I must have lost myself in the article because several hours had passed without me realizing it.
Suddenly, my cell pinged. I glanced at the screen. Unidentified number. I wasn’t going to pick up, per my usual MO. But suddenly, my hand jolted forwards and grabbed the handset, jamming it against my ear because last time, Gold Medallion had called from an unidentified number, and look where that went.
“Hello?” I murmured hesitantly. “This is Bridget.”
“Hello Bridget,” said a smooth female voice. “This is Gold Medallion. We’re calling to book another date for you with Robert Half.”
“Um yes,” I stammered. “I’d love to go.”
“Perfect,” said the disembodied voice. “Are you available this weekend?”
What a question that was! Because of course I was ready to see President Carter again. Frankly, even if he’d been just a normal businessman, and not the most powerful man in the world, I’d have been ready. So I nodded furiously even though the woman couldn’t see.
“Yes, I’m free,” was my reply. “Saturday night?”
“That would be perfect,” the clipped voice said. “We’ll pick you up at seven p.m. for dinner at eight. Please wear cocktail attire.”
“Certainly,” I said quickly. “I’ll be ready.”
But before clicking off, the voice spoke again.
“By the way, are you afraid of heights?”
I was silent, nonplussed. Why would it matter?
“No, not really,” was my murmur. “Is there something I should be prepared for?”
The woman didn’t even hesitate
“A helicopter ride,” she said smoothly. “We’ll be escorting you to Washington D.C., where Robert lives. Marine One will be available, so please dress warmly.”
And then she was gone. I stared dumbly at the phone in my hand. I was going on a helicopter ride to meet the President? He was inviting me to the White House, where we’d have dinner together? Suddenly, my body flushed with anticipation, creamy curves going hot. Because this was going to be the best date ever, and honestly, I didn’t even care that Robert was president. All I wanted was to see the dark man again … who’d swept me off my feet on our first date.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Robert
I waited in the Oval Office for Bridget. Because shit, it’d been a long Saturday. Being President isn’t a forty-hour a week job. It’s fricking one hundred and forty hours a week. They try to make it nice by providing a lavish place to stay and amenities up the wazoo, but it’s backbreaking labor all the same. So despite the fact that I’d wanted to take Bridget out to a nice restaurant somewhere in D.C., here I was, waiting for her in my office.
“Anything else sir?” asked Daniel, popping his head in to do a last minute check before he left.
I waved my hand.
“Naw, go home,” I growled. “It’s Saturday night. Have a good time. Live a little.” Dan flashed me a smile before bobbling a nod and disappearing.
Good. Finally I had the place to myself, and I leaned back, stretching out my frame. Shit. Ever since I tasted Bridget, I haven’t been able to get her out of my mind. That beautiful body. The hot juice that flowed in a constant river between her legs. The way she let me trash both her holes, working my huge cock into her tiny cunt and then her ass. Oh yeah, she was absolutely magnificent.
But it was more than her slutty ways. It was her playfulness and how she didn’t pretend to know things when in fact, she had no clue. I’d teased her about bump stocks and the Second Amendment, but the woman had been refreshingly honest. I don’t know, she’d said softly. I’ll have to read up on it.
And I respected that because I’m surrounded twenty-four seven by policy wonks. Most of them are genuinely well-read and intelligent, but what bothers me is that they feel like they have to know everything. And when they don’t, they start making shit up, spewing trash when a wrong decision could mean war for our country. So I hate when people assume. Wouldn’t it just be easier to say, I’m sorry, I’ll have to get back to you on that?