Title

SEDUCED BY THE SENATOR is a work of fiction. Names including the reference to historical figures, characters, places, organizations, business and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. The author makes no claims to, but instead acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the word marks mentioned in this work of fiction.

FBI ANTI-PIRACY WARNING

Published in the United States of America

By S.P, LLC

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Photographs:

©Scyther5/Depositphotos.com

©Olly/Dollar Photo Club

©Coka/Dollar Photo Club

©Jonathan Vasata/Dollar Photo Club

©Sarymsakov.com/ Dollar Photo Club

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SEDUCED BY THE SENATOR by Alex Elliott

DIRTY LITTLE SECRETS

Seduced By The Stranger Prequel

Seduced By The Senator Book 1

Vetting The Senator Book 2

Affianced To The Veep Book 3

The House On The Hill Book 4

“The marks humans leave are too often scars.”

― John Green, The Fault in Our Stars

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ABOUT SEDUCED BY THE STRANGER

It’s the prequel to

SEDUCED BY THE SENATOR

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A fairy tale for girls who crave dark, twisted

hardcore hair-pulling,

ass-slapping erotica!

A story about lust...

not love!

Not yet.

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WHAT’S YOUR DIRTY LITTLE SECRET?

EVERYONE’S GOT ONE.

After one Nantucket cocktail party too many, Xavia Kennedy is ready to bail from Boston. She’s hungry for freedom, far away from her elitist and famous family with their overbearing expectations. When she’s given the opportunity to intern for the hottest senator this side of D.C., she doesn’t walk, she runs, willing to do whatever is required to secure her spot on the congressman’s campaign trail.

Bennett Stone’s rocking the nation in his challenge to his supporters to ‘Get Committed!’ Voted Cosmo’s sexiest senator, he’s blazing a campaign trail, nicknamed Senator Rolling Stone.

He’s a mystery. Complicated. Ben doesn’t date, doesn’t screw around; he committed to his Capitol seat. But don’t be fooled by appearances. Sure, he’s gorgeous, rich, charming, but Ben’s got a dirty little secret.

One that he keeps hidden. Unless he’s back at the ‘House.’ A secret society where he exorcises his craving for hardcore encounters in a private club he owns and runs with other likeminded congressmen from the Hill.

When he encounters Xavia, he walks away the first time. She’s a door marked ‘X’ for all the right reasons. But when she ends up on his team as his newest intern, he’s caught between a rock and a hard place on his last campaign stop. One that proves to be a doorway to decadence or the road to ruin, neither he nor Xavia can resist.

SHE’S A KENNEDY. HE’S A U.S. SENATOR.

TOGETHER THEY’RE GOING TO MAKE HISTORY!

Dirty Little Secrets is the newest series in erotic romance.

Seduced by the Senator Book 1. Over 88,000 reads and 750 reviews when released on FF.

Vetting the Senator (Book 2) is releasing early 2015.

Enjoy!

The Fall Should Always Be Fast...Memorable

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SECRETS. SECRETS. Are no fun... Patently untrue propaganda. And in my world, that’s precisely how I get by. I was born to a mother who refuses to divulge my father’s identity, and adopted by Mom’s husband number three. A Kennedy. You know the ones. Like my mom, I keep my intimate details on lockdown, akin to some miser of minutiae. I’ve learned to be greedy with personal information out of necessity, and what’s the saying? Necessity is the mother of invention. Well that rings true, especially in my family.

“Let’s do another round!” Brooke drums her hands on the table. She just returned from dancing, and sinks onto the chair next to me.

“How about peppermint schnapps?” Rowena suggests.

“One more drink? Can’t hurt,” I say in response to the proposition of doing another shot of pretty-colored liquor. We’ve done everything from Alabama Slammers, a round of fireballs to flaming B-52's, and fine. One more.

Brooke orders singles this time. “Anyone up for a bump?” She pulls out a vial of coke, but I shake my head.

We’re seated upstairs, overlooking the dance floor in a club her uncle owns. Wall-to-wall people crowd the place with a line outside, and security up the wazoo. Techno thunders from the speakers, and I can’t resist tapping my foot.

“Isn’t that George Clooney?” Rowena asks, pointing to a man with an attractive woman.

“Yep. And his new wife,” I reply. “God, what a catch. Funny and handsome.”

Katrina pulls my hand and shouts, “Xavia! Come dance with me!”

I shift my focus to the dance floor, then pensively glance over at my friend. “If you promise not to step on my toes.” I raise the shot glass placed in front of me.

“Deal,” she replies.

“To getting laid.” Brooke clinks my glass, then I tap everyone else’s before tossing back the shot.

Both Kat and I rise on heels that should come with a warning against drinking and dancing.

“This is my favorite song!” she declares.

“You’ve said that at least three times,” I admonish her but laugh as we descend the stairs, and blow through the crowd toward the dance floor.

Four of us flew down to New York for the weekend. We’re hanging out in Brooke’s dad’s brownstone, clubbing all night, and I don’t care that within the last two days, I’ve downed several liters of alcohol. It’s June, classes are over, I’m twenty-four, and for once, I’m not going to sit and worry about my future. Not when there’s a bounty of handsome men around who smile at me, beguiling enough to make even me believe that I could do something crazy...say, ditch my friends in a New York City second, and lose myself.

When in Rome—am I right?

The men giving me a once over have no idea who I am, and don’t frigging care! That’s why I love escaping Boston and getting lost.

“We’re almost sprinting!” I shout.

“Don’t want to miss the best part.” Katrina doesn’t stop until we’re out in the middle of the dance floor. Soon afterward, she’s sandwiched between two guys and shouts, “Come join us!”

“I’m good.” I close my eyes. This is what it’s like to be free! I lift my arms, swivel my hips, the music blaring all around...and when I open my eyes, I see him. From flying high, I’m tumbling fast.

My brain sizzles.

I stare across the dance floor at a man. More like some mythical hunter... Orion.

I shiver from his power. Projected. It’s his eyes.

Brighter than exploding twin stars.

They consume me.

Obliterate my next thought and the one after that one.

I swallow, and gather he’s not just some run-of-the-mill handsome hunk. He’s got this stare that slices through the bodies gyrating next to me, and right into the center of my being. I want to look away—Christ, I tell myself—look the hell away...but I can’t. Instead of being mortified that Mr. Gorgeous is staring holes in me, I’m excited. He’s seated maybe twenty feet away, behind the cordoned off VIP area at a table with three other men—all of them in suits. He doesn’t seem to be focused on their animated conversation. No, he’s zoning in on one target...me.

He lifts a glass to his mouth, and over the rim, he watches me dance. There’s something so familiar about him. No way could I have met him at one of my family’s parties. He’s not only gorgeous—there’s an intensity about him. Proof that I’m caught in a mind-screw-fest as I dance for him—nearly a whole song.

Mesmerized, I let go as though I know what he wants. I don’t feel cheap or sleazy—he makes me want to be daring. Provocative. And in return, I want to tempt him like he’s tempting me. Trailing my fingers down my breasts, I alternate rotating my shoulders slowly to the music, and yes, I imagine that his mouth is on me, drinking between my legs, driving me wild. Best of all, in my fantasy—he doesn’t care who my family is as he forces my legs wider, imprisoning me under him until I forget everything except how insane he makes me feel.

My dress—a tiny scrap of shiny white material—rises up my thighs, the hem tickling my skin. Thank God there are people all around and steamy clouds float up from the floor or the slice of man cake would be getting a shot of how little I’m wearing. And just as I think that thought, the crowds part, and guess who gets an eyeful of me and my dirty dance routine? My admirer leans over, setting his glass down, and I get that his eyes have just gotten a panoramic view of me and the strip of lace I call my thong.

He breaks eye contact. He’s saying something to the men seated with him, and then he’s up and out of his chair. Now, I’m the one leaning to the side, then to the other, wondering is he leaving. I track his movement, my heart thudding, and I’m edging off of the dance floor. He’s a head taller than everyone and easy to spot as he walks from the VIP section. Even in the dimly lit space between the bar and tables overlooking the dance floor, I follow his progress. When he enters a section that is better lit, our gazes reconnect. We’re closer and in that flash, I can’t move. Or think. Or breathe. Tractor beams aren’t this strong or mind warping.

A woman shouts, “Excuse me.”

Shit, I’m frozen, and have to decide, either I can hover at the edge of the dance floor, getting knocked and bashed, or exit. I’m no longer dancing, and without warning my feet direct me toward him. “Okay, wait,” I tell myself. I can’t just head off his progress—he might be headed for the front door.

“You’re quite a dancer,” he says in a deep voice, shaped by a slight Southern accent, and towering like a redwood right in front of me.

For the year it takes for my brain to reconnect, I lift my chin and face him. I say, “Thanks...” and stare in stunned silence.

What.

The.

Fuck!

His gaze pulls the thoughts right out of my head. This impenetrable specimen of a man isn’t like the mama’s boys I’ve known. Up close, I look into his smoky grey-green eyes that don’t just consume, they devour me. He holds off smiling, looking down at me, and slightly cocks his head. Instantly, I want to run my fingers through his thick dark messy hair that frames his chiseled and yes, stunning face. All at once, it’s like the weekend of drinking pretty-colored shots goes straight to my forebrain, and I totter.

“Hey.” His hand shoots out, taking hold of my arm. “You all right?”

His touch isn’t static. His fingers on my arm send a racing jolt that hits me like a rocket, tingling along my skin, then diving deep. A spark of fiery pleasure implodes in my belly. “Uh...It’s kinda crowded. I’m just hot,” I think I say.

I’m beyond charred standing next to him and now with his fingers on my skin, it’s all I can do to stay upright.

“Come talk to me. Over there.” He tugs on my arm, jutting his chin to some invisible place, not that I break eye contact to see where he means.

“Okay. Sure.” I hope I’m speaking and the mute button isn’t pressed. Confirmation.

He leads me to an alcove, down from the dance floor, and one I didn’t know existed. Not that I’ve been to this club before. Thunderstruck, I follow along, his hand on my arm and a tiny voice inside my head, asks the question. Should I be afraid? We’re alone and even though he’s wearing an expensive suit, he has the body of someone who clearly doesn’t sit around all day, crunching numbers.

“Why are you dancing alone?” He stares down at me, thoughtfully assessing as he waits for me to say something, I imagine.

Inside the narrow hall, I’m panting and the blood is pounding in my ears. Should I admit that I’m floored that a man who is taller than any jungle gym I’ve encountered, wants to talk?

“Who the heck are you?” I ask not answering his question. My tongue is numb instead of loose from all the drinking, and being this close to an unchecked power source of masculinity—let’s get real—he’s too... I don’t even know a proper term—but he’s too.

Leaning closer, he whispers in my ear, “Your worst nightmare.” He chuckles—the sound is gravelly, hooking, and a decadent rumble in his chest. Far different than those men I associate with from Nantucket. Each is owned by a woman, birthed and bred to rear the next generation of power moguls. Each woman is expected to dress in pastels, smile graciously while wearing strings of pearls, and wielding a saber.

“Trust me,” I reply. “You’re not.”

For a beat our gazes lock. He leans closer. “I’d like to kiss you.”

Okay, he’s not a nightmare, but definitely the idea of him really touching me more so than what he's already doing, is all at once frightening and mind-bending. But instead of being truly scared, my clueless brain is saturated with lust so deeply tinged, it’s cloying. I know without question, whatever he has to offer, I want in on. Now.

“Just a kiss?” I ask.

“Just a kiss,” he promises and my heart batters within my chest.

I don’t close my eyes, bending toward him. He’s what I need. Maybe this is just a kiss, but it’s a reminder that I don’t want to spend another New England summer counting days, hours, minutes.

I want hard, dark, gritty.

A blur and a storm.

Dangerous.

I can’t become what my family wants. Predictable. Safe. A cog in the wheel.

One kiss and I’ll remember. I’ve got to remember this night. Our lips meet and his warm mouth envelops me in a way that fully relays he knows how to kiss—knows how to...how to do other things. He slides his hand to the back of my head, imprisoning me. In reality he’s freeing me by taking the reins—guiding me so that our mouths meld at the perfect angle as he traces my jaw with his fingertips. Without warning, he thrusts his tongue in between my lips, fisting his fingers in my hair, shifting my head back as my chin tips up.

I grab onto his muscular arms, bracing myself in free fall off a jagged cliff into an ocean of lust where his hot, velvet, and very wild mouth beckons me. He sucks my bottom lip between his teeth, biting down, and pushing me back until I’m flush against the cool wall.

Sweet Jesus, this man can kiss!

His body is hard, so hard and forceful I'm moaning against his mouth. I take a breath and the scent of his cologne enters me, taking root deeper than the darkest of dark secrets. Like one of those ancient pine forests but a titch smoky, and then there’s an undercurrent of leather. I inhale, swallowing a groan as I savor the aftereffects of another whiff of him. It’s a potent projectile that travels through me, landing between my legs.

He takes my face between his hands, kisses me again, and orders, “Open for me. All the way.”

“Please,” I moan, blinking up to his face.

He kisses my mouth harder this time, pushing my lips apart. His tongue goes deeper. He’s a little rough. Not too much, but the kind of kiss that relays, without argument, he’s in control as he plunges his tongue into my mouth. He’s consuming and at the same time filling me...with sparks of pleasure, tingling from my nipples to my toes, from my mouth to between my legs. Giving me a taste of what he could do, if he desired to do more.

And that’s what I hunger for: MORE!

I want his hands on my body, rougher than the edge of this kiss and equally demanding. I arch against him as he holds my face, tongue banging my mouth. Our hips connect and the rigid bar of his cock presses into my belly. I lift up onto my tiptoes, seeking to get closer, lifting my knee to give him better access.

He stops devouring my mouth, dragging his lips along my jaw as my breasts ache for his touch. I reach for him and he hoists my hands above my head. “You can’t imagine the things we could do,” he whispers. “The way you’d feel if you gave yourself to me.”

“If?” I ask, hooked by what he’s done so far.

“Yeah. If.” He releases my arms and spins me around, recapturing my hands. He presses my palms to the wall. One by one. Without stopping, he kicks my heels apart and pulls back on my hips. Just a tug while lifting my hem, and draping my dress across my lower back. “How old are you?” he asks, leaning over me as his thumbs peel apart my ass cheeks.

I’m fully exposed to him and I answer, prepared to let him do me in any way, shape, or form he desires.

I gaze over my shoulder and meet his eyes. “Old enough for what you have in store.”

“That’s not an answer,” he replies, his thumbs sweeping down my crevice.

“I didn’t use a fake ID to get in. Okay?” I bite my lip to stop from whimpering when he pushes my hips down, letting my hem fall and cover my bottom.

“You like to argue.” He scrapes his jaw against my cheek as though punishing me for not giving him a direct answer.

“You seem to like a woman who isn’t a total pushover.”

“We’re equally paired. You and I.” He nips my skin, and moves his lips to my neck, sucking a point that has my eyes rolling back in my head. I’m going to come so unbelievably loud and hard from this man kissing me in a dark hall. In an ear-popping club, I decide this is my moment of flying by the seat of my pants, past the land of pastel pleasantries. I push back, swaying my bottom against his cock, fitting his thick erection in between the valley of my ass. He pushes himself forward, his fingers curl around my hips as he grazes his cock against me. We’re two seconds away from going from dry humping to full-throttle sex in public, and I hear a low growl escape his lips.

“That was some kiss,” he grunts. “Guess we got carried away.”

I’m stunned as I pivot toward him. He bends forward, kisses my mouth one last time. A sweet kiss, a lingering plant of his lips against mine, and then he releases me. “Shall I walk you back to your friends?”

No more hands on me. No more lips. Only a few paltry words.

“My friends...” This isn’t how I envisioned our conversation—we shouldn’t be talking—we should be half-naked. Clearly this is an ending and I don’t understand.

He steps back, raking a set of long fingers through his hair, and gazes down at me with that same unrelenting stare that first grabbed me. “You didn’t come alone. Did you?”

Almost...so it seems. I shake my head, my cheeks heat from embarrassment. Was I too crazy? Too easy? Not enough? “I’m fine. I’ll probably go to the restroom.” I gesture across the club toward the stairs.

“This was...incredible,” he says in a voice that’s low and deep, but even with the music rebounding off the walls, I feel each rough syllable resonating in my body. He doesn’t offer more and the ensuing awkward silence is louder than the techno song in play.

“You’re leaving then.” The words are out of my mouth before I can censor the comment as ‘not cool—don’t say.’

“I am. Just stopped in for a drink. Friend’s birthday. This place is too dangerous.” He lets his gaze slide down my body, then he looks back at my face. “Much too dangerous to make a mistake.”

A mistake? My heart hammers in my chest, and I feel like he’s tossed ice water in my face. I return to the land of autopilot—devolving to how I am around my family. “It’s been fun, but I better get going too.” If I don’t leave, I’ll say something incredibly stupid. I look up and into his eyes—predator like and heavy-lidded—then turn on my heel and away from his arresting face, away from his unrelenting gaze. Away from the hottest mistake of my pastel-colored life.

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I Found My Heaven...and My Hell

Bennett Stone

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WHAT THE...? I do a double take. Who is that girl?

Out on the dance floor, I spot her, and it’s as if I can’t look away. I eat her up, inch by incredible mind-blistering, dick hardening inch. What’s not to like? Not a damn thing—except that she’s not my usual dish—she’s a shade of innocence someone like me should never touch.

Blond hair, long legs, hips swaying. Her nipples dart the sheer shiny material, stretching over her incredible tits. She’s braless, free of being encumbered, and has got the type of tits I could suck and slide my dick between for hours. Some quality about that girl screams a secret verse that only my cock seems to hear. That fucker is harder than granite, getting harder the more I stare.

Shit. This captivation has got to stop.

Shifting my gaze, I feign interest in the conversation between Noah, Jax, and Ethan, my congressional associates from the Capitol—they’re engaged in another argument on foreign policy after the war, but for the hundredth time, I find myself gazing at a woman who dances as if she’s in a dream. Mine.

“Ben,” Jax says. “You in for a shot?”

I return my focus to our table. “To wish your sorry ass happy birthday, hell yeah!”

The server smiles and places a bottle of bourbon and shot glasses on the table. We all do a shot and then another, and I glance back at the dance floor just as the girl opens her incredible eyes and our gazes connect. My heartbeat races—it’s an adrenaline rush to my senses. I lift my drink and study her. Every last thing about the girl reaches inside me and demands that I get hold of her. Soon!

I’m sitting here with the Honorable Jackson Carter. Aka Speaker of the House.

Jax, the man in command at the Clubhouse or the other ‘House,’ a private club far removed from the Capitol.

Aka...the guy who’ll give me a rash of shit for getting a hard-on for a sliver of innocence we both know is nothing more than a prick tease to men like us who command and control the women we fuck. He along with the other guys at this table...we’re all hardcore Doms. Together with years under our collective belts, we maintain control in every aspect of our lives. Our public image and our dungeons never intersect. Ever. We’re brutal, stone-cold control freaks, so much that three years ago we put our rules in writing when we opened our own elite club, and that includes no meeting chicks in random places. Prescribed private online sub hookups or at the House. That’s it.

But tonight I’m not thinking with my head. Well, not the one above my shoulders. Watching this young woman, I quickly assess what I can do and how fast. There’s a private hallway off the dance floor that is used to access the club owner’s secret dungeon onsite. I know the owner; he’s the representative of the 14^th District, and wants to be the newest House member when we open our semi-annual acceptance of a few select applications. One member will be admitted. This is our surprise visit to check out his place of business, and he’s not allowed to be onsite. He left twenty minutes after we arrived. When we spoke earlier, he divulged that’s where he houses his dirty little secret. A locked room that he uses and invited us to watch him in action this coming weekend.

Not my thing, but now I’m wondering if I can get the keys. I know I can’t. It’s against our House rules, which means I’ve got to either stop this fantasy of what I’m devising, or keep this insane idea of tasting that girl under wraps. I imagine spreading her legs, binding her ankles, and having my complete way with her for one night. The things I’d like to do to her—fill my head. I haven’t felt this keyed up in fucking forever.

Nothing might come of this, I remind myself. The girl could be here with a boyfriend or husband, but why is she dancing like that... alone? Doesn’t look like the kind of girl that’s tied down, but fuck she needs to be.

My muscles constrict. Decision made. My hunger to make contact with her overrides my common sense. Crazy doesn’t begin to describe the level of intoxication running rampant in my veins from watching the blond bombshell. “I’m heading out,” I say, downing my drink.

“What the fuck, Ben?” Noah replies. “You just got here!”

“Jax has other plans tonight. Don’t you?” I query my friend, knowing full well he’s contracted two subs and he’s got a private jet on standby to take him back to D.C. Back to our club for the night.

“Let the pussy go,” Jax follows up. “He’s got to get his beauty sleep. Can’t have the prettiest of the senators with dark circles under his eyes.”

“Actually, I’m going to go find a girl and fuck her up against a wall if you three pricks don’t mind.”

They all laugh, believing I’m pulling their chains.

“Better than your self-imposed celibacy!” Jax snorts, eyeing me critically. He doesn’t say anything else—no one does. What can they say? I got royally fucked, and now, I’m taking a break—trying to figure out my future. I had a sub who nearly threw me under the bus and why I’m on a hiatus from offering up my services at our club.

“Are we good?” I ask, looking between them. I still take part in the running of our club and tonight is the first time in a long time that I feel the itch to do more than paperwork.

Ethan leans back and looks around, looks toward the dance floor, and suddenly I feel a twinge knife my chest. I don’t want his eyes or anyone’s eyes on that girl. He squints but doesn’t do more than lift a brow as he swings his attention back to me. “Yeah. This place is happening. No doubt, it’s classy. So, do we accept Congressman Lowe or not?”

Jax nods as does Noah. I stall as if I’m on the proverbial fence. “I’d like to scope out what’s happening at the bar. Listen in on what’s being said. Ask a few questions. Lowe’s got to agree no more action in his onsite dungeon. If he shuts that door, and there’s nothing being talked about, I’ve got no problems with him.”

“Good fucking idea,” Noah says. He was a D.A. before becoming a senator. Cynical as shit and what a ballbuster.

“Enjoy.” I stand and loosen my tie, then reach into my pocket and remove a pair of tickets. “Happy Birthday, cocksucker.”

Jax has a thing for jazz. Good jazz, and he smiles. “Fuck you, boy,” he says, his voice brimming with a Texas twang, and I laugh.

“Later,” I say in parting.

In D.C. we’re the face of Congress. Three others are missing tonight. No biggie. Together, we’re classified as the ‘poster boys.’ A photographer captured and posted a series of us online during a joint session that turned into a Whitehouse PR blitz that caught fire. From magazine covers to rallies, we’re featured around the nation in a campaign to reinvigorate or popularize politics. PR bullshit gone wild!

Tagged as the gang of seven—the other one. We don’t crawl up anyone’s ass. We’re too busy covering our own. We’re the ones you elect and with any luck, you never contact. Yeah, screw any idea that we want to hear from you if you think that writing a check gives you power. Shut up but pay up is my unwritten motto. Not everyone’s. There’s only one type of contact we appreciate and it’s silent; contributions with no strings. Make a deposit. Send a check. Hell, cash works.

And sure, there are those constituents who really care. Voters who aren’t interested in owning our souls and trying to turn us into political marionettes.

Those people, step right up. I, like my other esteemed congressmen seated here, have plenty of staffers and interns to deal with voters—their questions, calls, emails. And the ton of letters that arrive each and every day. For one moment—one night I’m putting aside that political B.S.

Walking away from the table, I see the girl move to the side of the dance floor. Fuck me flying! Is she leaving...? I lengthen my strides comparable to how I’m lengthening in my trousers. When I reach her, I say the first thing I noticed—not what I’m actually thinking, “You’re quite a dancer.”

The material of her dress stretches over her chest, molding tightly to her tits, and I imagine sucking each erect nipple into my mouth as I fist her hair, and after I’ve thoroughly spanked her ass. God, to stain her cheeks with a paddle or a cane... On that thought, my cock turns to forged steel inside my pants.

She thanks me, her eyes—fuck I’ve never seen eyes that crystal color, and it’s my turn to say something. Do something. Come up with a plan that goes beyond trading stares. I’ve got to move us away from the line of sight from the table, and when she agrees to come talk to me, I can’t resist but touch her. Tug her. And the feel of her satin smooth skin has my nerve endings relaying a message that she’s too young...too innocent for what I hunger for. Too perfect and that’s the problem.

“Who the heck are you?” she asks me.

Moment of truth. I’m going with honesty. “Your worst nightmare.”

When she promises I’m not, I wonder what’s she been through. No one this pristine should be touched by darkness. I should step away and leave her be, but fuck I can’t. Not if my insane life depended on it.

I move us into the hall and I lay out the edge of what I want. A tiny morsel. A kiss. She agrees and I tell myself to go slow, but hell when our lips touch, I thrust my tongue all the way inside her mouth, threading my fingers in her silky mane, and pull—yank her hair. The exquisite feeling of owning her mouth has me ravenous for more. Holy hell, I’m ready to unzip my pants and have her ride me in this hall. In fucking public.

I command her, “Open for me. All the way.”

In reality the door within my Dom self has burst off its hinges and I’ve got to have her. In sixty seconds, I crave her like a drug, worse like the answer to a curse. One I possess and she’s the one who will break it apart. Break me apart! I know sampling this girl is as dangerous as it will be satisfying. I haven’t traced the edge of something this sharp...something this eviscerating...NEVER.

“Please,” she begs me in a siren’s voice that reverberates in my brain. Her tone, the softness she offers I hunger to devour.

“You can’t imagine the things we could do,” I murmur against her ear. “The way you’d feel if you gave yourself to me.”

I’m out of my head. Insane to possess this girl and when she gives me a snappy answer, I turn her around, prepared to show her how she can expect to be treated when she disobeys me. Lifting her dress, I stare at her perfect ass. And I do mean perfect. Firm, round, and I separate her cheeks, imagining how I’d feel with my hard-on thrusting into her.

“How old are you?” I ask and she tells me old enough with her fresh mouth. Between gritted teeth, I remind her that’s no answer.

I close my eyes, seeking the strength not to cave and fuck her up against this wall when every cell in my body demands that I take her.

Own her.

Bite her.

Mark her.

Make certain she understands how good, how extreme, how complete what I offer can be...if she submits to my every desire. In truth, she’ll own me in how much I hunger to possess her.

Well fuuuuck! Again, she contradicts me and again, I’m closer to the point of no return. Her fresh remarks are pure friction, leveraging my libido against my self-control. I lean over, cupping her ass, pumping my cock between her cheeks, and ignore my need to make sure she’s legal age. If she’s nineteen or twenty, this won’t work. Over and over I slide up against her ass, skimming my fingers down between her cheeks, and stopping short of touching her pussy.

If I do, there’s no stopping me. I’m so close to freeing my rod and slamming into her.

Fuck, I don’t even have a condom handy!

Without knowing if she’s legal age, one slip...one fall, and there goes my political career. With the Veep offering me a spot on her campaign ticket, I can’t risk a scandal. And being in this hall is career crushing enough. I lower this woman’s dress and step back...both figuratively and literally. I admit she and I would make a pair and as I do, I see how fucked up this is if I take her in public. So many shades beyond scandal—if she realizes who I am, she’d ruin me with the truth. I can walk away now, and what could she say? We shared a kiss. That’s not exactly headline news.

I’m harder than titanium and carnal instinct imbues me with an unshakable sense of how good it would be to bury my cock inside her over and over. Raking my fingers through my hair, I nod as the tendons knot in my neck and shoulders. “Guess we got carried away,” I say...or some line of total bullshit.

She looks up at me with the face of an angel and I’m slipping...fast. I need this girl. Why? I don’t fucking have a clue!

If I don’t say something incredibly asinine, I’m going to back her up, into the corner, and that’s it. I’ll fuck her until she screams and comes all over my cock.

I admit this is a career MISTAKE. I say the word aloud, and inwardly curse myself. She’s upset—probably hurt, and I want to reach out, smooth away what she feels. Get her naked, feed my hunger, and then take care of her. Hold her until the first rays of dawn burst apart the darkness in my soul, reflected in the sky and then do it all again. Over. Over. And Over.

Instead, I watch her turn on her lovely heel, and walk way. Best mistake I ever let go of I keep repeating, not that it’s helpful. I’m not a complete prick...just the unnamed running mate for the position as Vice President of the United States.

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