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)
An hour in the company of Eloise Rogers and I’m lost.
My body wants to be in her care…and I want her body in the care of mine.
Now.
God help me.
“See you tomorrow, Mr. President,” she says, kissing my chin.
Rocking me, mind, body and soul.
She strolls out of the Oval Office, leaving my hunger to multiply painfully, an obsession with Eloise Rogers already manifesting. Leaving me to count the seconds until I see her again.
Despite the hundreds of reasons I need to keep my hands to myself.
And I will.
Starting right fucking now.
three
. . .
Eloise
The presidential motorcade showing up at my apartment was not on my bingo card, yet here I am, standing on the steps of my building, an overnight bag slung over my shoulder, watching as around nine Escalades roll up, like it’s no big deal.
I pop out my AirPod slowly, positive this is a mistake. I was contacted by the Secret Service last night and instructed to be at the White House no later than 7am. But it appears the White House has come to me. All nine SUVs roll to a halt at the sidewalk, men with earpieces, mirrored sunglasses and dark suits popping out, moving in all directions, speaking into their dangling microphones about who-knows-what.
What I do know is that someone can knock me over with a feather as I watch President McAlister alight from the fourth Escalade and button his navy blazer while striding toward me. “Ms. Rogers.”
It’s ridiculous, but my first incoherent thought is, oh my gosh, he remembered my name, which is utterly ridiculous considering what transpired between us in the Oval Office yesterday afternoon. Every time I think about it, I have one of two reactions. I slap my hands over my face in humiliation for coming on so strong. For making my borderline unhealthy attraction known within an hour of meeting the man.
For being so wildly unprofessional.
My other reaction is a lot more NSFW. It involves my fingers and a lot of moaning.
The first man I’ve ever made come was the President of the United States.
And I made him come with the tip of my finger.
What does that mean? Were my endless fantasies…more of a manifestation? Or is the connection I always hoped to have with him…real? A real-life, happening-now type thing?
“Good morning, Mr. President.”
“Good morning.” He takes my bag. “Is this your only luggage?”
“Yes,” I respond, dazed by the beauty of his face in the daylight. “But you’re not supposed to be carrying my bag, sir. You’re not supposed to be here at all. I live in the opposite direction of the airfield. I was on my way to—”
“I wanted to see where you lived.” He scrutinizes the building over the top of my head. “You said it was safe, but I’m a see-for-myself type of man.”
“I know this about you,” I say, smiling to hide my full-body blush. He came to check on my safety. “Well. Do you agree with me that it’s safe?”
A grumble in his throat. “What apartment are you in?”
“2B. Why?”
Instead of answering me, he seeks out the nearest SS agent. “Take a few men up to 2B and make sure all entry points are secure. Test the locks. And once we’re back on the road, run security checks on everyone in the building.”
The man wastes no time doing the president’s bidding. “Yes, sir.”
“Is this the kind of five-star service afforded all your cabinet members?”
“I think you know it’s not, Ms. Rogers.” A line snaps in his cheek. “Get in the car.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
I can feel him looking down at the top of my head as he follows me to the SUV. Stopping at the open door, which is being held that way by an agent, I remove my jacket and fold it over one arm, securing my tote bag to my chest and climbing inside, settling into the plush leather seat of the president’s luxurious Escalade.
He gets in beside me and the door closes.
There are men in suits entering my building, but I’m so overwhelmed by the heady presence of the president, I forget why them going inside my apartment is a bad thing.
“Oh!” I fumble to take the phone out of my purse. “My roommate is in there sleeping with her boyfriend! They’re going to have heart attacks!”
The president’s head turns slowly. “You didn’t mention a boyfriend.”
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
Despite that assurance, the hard set of his jaw doesn’t budge. “You’ll give his name to the agency just to be safe.”
“Fine,” I say, pressing the ringing phone to my ear. “But he works in politics, too.”
“Even more reason to run a report on him,” he grumbles.
I giggle, despite the oddness of the situation, but the scream in my ear cuts me off.
The president and I share a wince, but his is way less sincere. “Hi, Catherine.” I attempt to make sense out her screeches. “The Secret Service is just securing the apartment. Isn’t that nice? We don’t even have to pay for it.” Looking up at the man beside me, I lower my voice to a whisper. “Right?”