“I need you inside me.” My chest is dancing up and down with excitement.
“I know I said inspirational fuck but quickie now. Long, inspirational fuck later.”
When West says quickie, he means no foreplay. Not that this will be quick. The man doesn’t know the meaning of the word.
Not that I’m complaining, of course.
He sits up, divesting himself of his clothes, while I quickly pull off my leggings, panties, T-shirt, and bra.
Then, we’re both naked, and he’s back on me. Skin to skin. And nothing has felt better in my life than being naked with this man.
He kisses my mouth while he slides inside me.
When he’s to the hilt, he pauses. Stops kissing me. Just stares into my eyes.
My heart starts to thrum in my chest.
I feel like something changes in this moment. I don’t know exactly what. But something.
He starts to move, slowly fucking me, but doesn’t take his eyes from mine.
“I like you,” he says in a rough, quiet voice.
My mouth dries. I lick my lips. “I like you too.”
Our eyes stay locked on each other’s, and with his slow thrusts and words ringing in my ears and the intensity of the moment, I start to feel a pressure on my chest.
Like the feelings that I have for him—the ones I’ve been hiding, locking away—are breaking down the door and forcing their way out.
It’s too much. I’m feeling too much for him. And if I keep looking into his eyes, he’s going to see exactly how I feel.
He’s going to know that I’m falling for him.
Fuck.
I’m falling for him.
twenty-eight
West
“West, I’m so happy you’re here. It’s been too long since we last saw you.” Catherine kisses me on the cheek.
“Happy birthday, Catherine.”
We’re at the White House for my stepmom’s birthday. She’s having a gathering of family and close friends to celebrate.
“Thank you.” Her eyes immediately go to Dillon, who’s standing at my side.
“Catherine, this is Dillon.”
“Hi, ma’am. Mrs. First Lady,” Dillon stumbles. “God, sorry. I’m so nervous. Happy birthday.”
She puts out her hand to shake, but Catherine leans in and hugs her and kisses her cheek.
My stepmom is a wonderful woman. Too good for my dad. Just like my mom was.
“It’s so lovely to meet you, Dillon. You’re from England. Whereabouts?”
“East Yorkshire.”
“I’ve been to England but only London. I’ve heard that Yorkshire is beautiful.”
“Yes, it is.” Dillon sounds so formal that it makes me want to laugh.
My father strides over, deciding to honor us with his presence. “Weston.” He sticks his hand out for me to shake.
No hugs from the old man. I can’t remember a time when he ever hugged me.
I take him in. It’s been a while since I last saw him in the flesh. He has more gray in his hair than he did before. I hate to admit it, but I do look like him. Staring at him is like looking at myself in the future. Except I can’t even imagine having his clean-cut hair and wearing a suit every day. The one I have on tonight feels like it’s choking me. Although I did like the way Dillon reacted when she saw me wearing it, and her eyes said that she had definite plans on removing it from me tonight.
“Dad.” I release his hand and watch as his eyes slide to Dillon. “This is my friend Dillon,” I tell him. I don’t know why I felt the need to call her my friend to him. Even after all these years, I’m still subconsciously choosing my words with him so as not to get the third degree over my life choices and how they’ll affect him. “Dillon, this is my father, President Mitch Oakley.”
“Hi, Mr. President. Gosh, it’s so wonderful to meet you.”
My father says nothing, his eyes doing that probing thing he does when he sees a potential threat. Dillon is a beautiful woman. That fact does not escape him. But even he will overlook beauty if it’s a perceived threat to his political ratings.
Maybe bringing Dillon with me tonight was a mistake.
With a few simple words, my father has the ability to make people feel like a bug he’s about to squish under his Ferragamos. Probably part of what makes him a great president.
I don’t want him to make Dillon feel shitty. I have to take his crap. She doesn’t.
“Dillon is from England, Mitch,” Catherine imparts happily. “Isn’t that wonderful?”
“Hmm. So, what brought you to our country, Dillon?”
No hello or nice to meet you.
God, he’s an ass at times.
“Oh, erm …” Dillon’s eyes nervously shoot to mine. “Holiday. Sorry, vacation. I’m here on vacation.”
She’s so nervous. I just want to pick her up and carry her out of here.
“How did you two meet?” he asks me.
I hold his stare. He’s checking to see if I’ve brought home another scandal for the press to run a story about. He’s not worried for my sake, but his own.
“On vacation.” I’m not making this easy for him.
His eyes go to Dillon. “So, you were on vacation first in the Maldives and now America?”
Dillon swallows. “Yes, sir. I, um … I was on vacation first in the Maldives. But when West suggested I come to America after my vacation ended there, I thought it would be a good place to get inspiration for my new book. I’m a writer. Author. I write books.”
“What type of books do you write?” Catherine asks Dillon. “Will I know them?”
“Oh no.” Dillon laughs softly. “I’m not well known at all. I self-publish my books. I write romance.”
“Oh, how wonderful!” Catherine beams at her. “I love romance books. Come with me, and we’ll get a glass of champagne and talk all things romance and books.”
She threads her arm through Dillon’s and leads her off, and I’m thankful to Catherine for whisking her away from the awkwardness of this conversation. I watch them go for a few seconds before turning back to my father.
“So, you brought home some random girl that you met on vacation?”
“No, I invited a friend to come stay with me for a little while. I’m surprised you didn’t already know about Dillon.”
He gives me a look. “Of course I knew. I just didn’t expect you to bring your latest fling with you here to Catherine’s birthday party.”
“She’s a friend.”
“Whom you’ve known for a few weeks. I’m assuming you’re screwing her. Do you really think bringing some hook-up back home with you was a good idea after the reason you went on the vacation in the first place?”
It’s hilarious that he’s giving me a hard time about having a fling when this man spent all of his married life to my mother—and maybe his married life to Catherine—fucking anything with a pulse.
I clench my jaw. “I went on vacation because of a video of something that I did when I was a kid.”
“You were seventeen and snorting coke off a random girl’s stomach.”
“Seventeen. Ergo a kid.”