Chapter 16
sixteen
Alex
I’m known for my level head and calm amid a crisis. That’s one of the reasons Tim said he chose me as his VP—that and the many electoral votes represented by my home state.
But I’m pissed, pissed , that a certain segment of the media is coming after my dog.
I march down the hallway to my hotel room, surrounded by staff and security, ranting about the video going viral online. “My dog makes people think I’m gay, huh? If I was gay, I would just be gay, this isn’t the fucking Handmaid’s Tale . I don’t need to tell the world by owning a tiny mammal, like some kind of captive sending up flares from my little gay prison in the White House.”
The viral video completely overwhelmed my visit to the new factory opening. So much for the White House’s planned emphasis on manufacturing this week.
“Can we issue a statement from Thor? Completely laugh them off?” I wait for an agent to open the hotel room for me .
“It will breathe more air into the controversy, give it another day of conversation,” says Maggie.
“It’s pretty likely to come back up anyway,” says Dan. “Better to shut it down now.”
“I don’t mean to be a dick about it,” Maggie counters. “But do we even have anyone who can write a statement like that? We’re not funny people.”
She and Dan go silent, exchanging looks. Some of the best things about my staff are their comfort with staying behind the scenes, writing in my voice, and fear of making waves. Until now.
I roll my eyes. “Thank you for being honest,” I say. “You have many other fine skills. Now go find me someone funny.” I pause, rewinding what they’d said in my head. “But why is it likely to come up again?”
They both blink back at me like deer in the headlights. Of course. It’s because a single man can’t remain single without people coming up with conspiracy theories.
“Never mind. Go, get out of here.” I pull off my tie and throw it onto the desk before I move into the bedroom of the suite.
People are going to mock me for my little dog and my suspect masculinity for as long as I’m a bachelor. America is more comfortable with married leaders—preferably heterosexual ones. Managing my singleness is a catch-22. The other extreme, dating a lot of women, might earn me high-fives from the people snarking it up on certain streaming channels, but it would earn me criticism—and outright distrust—from the Bible Belt. There’s no way to win.
Besides, dating requires intense energy, and my job is greedy.
I flop onto my bed face-first for about five seconds before I remember the next thing on my to-do list and roll over to find my phone. I don’t see it, so I pop my head outside the room and ask Ted.
Ted hands it over. “Apparently your mother called.”
“Has she seen the video?”
Ted raises his eyebrows, like I’m an idiot. “I didn’t talk to her. But who hasn’t?”
I sigh and take the phone back into the room. Before I close the door, I add: “Oh, I might have a guest later. If I can convince her.”
Ted nods. “The congresswoman?”
“No, my other secret girlfriend.” I make a face.
Ted is impassive, all business. He says, “Don’t tell her your room number. We can send someone for her.”
I nod and close the door so I can call my mother back.
“I just feel terrible,” she says after greeting me. “Your father was right all along, that dog makes you look like a you-know-what .”
“Mother.” I rub the spot on my forehead between my eyebrows, pacing by the sofa in my hotel room. There are too many assumptions to parse behind my mother’s lowered voice. “If you mean it makes me gay, there’s nothing wrong with that. And Dad shouldn’t think there’s something wrong with that either.”
“But you don’t want to look like something you’re not, do you?” She pauses. “ Do you?”
“I don’t want to look like I’m ashamed of being something that I don’t happen to be. But Mom, you know there’s no inherent way of being gay , don’t you? It’s not like everyone who happens to be gay immediately buys a tiny dog or, I don’t know, assless chaps.”
“Alex!”
“Mother. You’re from California, you should know better.” I was a grown adult before I discovered teasing works on ingrained prejudice, at least from my mother and a number of donors. My father, though, is still immune to being called out .
“We’re from northern California,” she corrects me, but her voice turns contrite. “I suppose you’re right.”
“I’m definitely right, and I’m right that you shouldn’t blame yourself for this dumb criticism. Thor is tough and so am I. We’ll handle it.” Funny how having to calm someone else down helps me soothe myself. I can’t believe anyone would use my innocent dog against me.
She moves on to asking where in the world I am and what I ate for dinner. Then we reach the subject my mother really relishes: My other little sister’s upcoming wedding.
“I went ahead and gave you a plus one because it balances out the table, but don’t worry. If you don’t have a date, I’ll get you one.”
Refusing to take the bait, I smile, kicking off my shoes and taking off my belt. “I wasn’t worried.”
Her voice does the mom equivalent of going in for the kill. “Does that mean you do have a date?”
“Not currently.” My mind is full of Cindy Wight, and the way she got vulnerable with me the last two times we saw each other. I’m almost afraid that I’ll blurt out her name. “But maybe by August I will.”
My mom says nothing, but I get a mental image of her clutching the phone to her side and screaming silently as she bounces up and down. “I’m so excited!” she finally says, her voice completely even.
I laugh. “Well, let’s take it slow for now. It might fall apart in four more months.”
“Don’t predict bad things,” she warns sternly. “Speak only good things and good things will happen. And it’s about time, too. I hate to think of you all alone in that city.”
“Believe me, Mom, I’m never alone.”
“You know what I mean.”
And, to be honest, I really do.
Cindy
The vice president offers wine when the hotel room door closes behind me. I take it, but walk to the table in the front room of his suite and sit down without drinking it.
“We should talk about the bill,” I declare. I’d decided on the way over here we needed to have this conversation. It might be 11 p.m., but this is not a booty call. I came for work. I even left my work clothes on from earlier, heels and all. Discomfort is good for determination.
He nods and pours himself a glass before he follows me. “I don’t want to guess how you’re feeling, so would you mind cluing me in?”
My gaze darts up to him as I’m taking the folders out of my file-sized purse. “What?”
He pulls out the chair across from me so that it’s facing me more than the table and sits down, crossing his legs. He’s wearing the same clothes, but he’s taken off his tie and jacket and his shirt is unbuttoned at the top. “You seem tense. I don’t want to make any assumptions, but it’s making me think you aren’t happy about earlier.”
“Oh.” I put the folders down and stare at him, trying to gather my thoughts. His face is open, like he’s willing to wait on me. Like he’s interested. “I’ve never been asked anything quite like that before.”
He pauses as he’s bringing his glass to his lips. “You’ve never been asked about your feelings?”
“Not as straightforward as that, no.” I run my finger over the edge of the folder. I try to be a straightforward person in general, but sometimes, in relationships—or whatever this is—it’s easy to retreat behind a shield. It’s hard to put words around my thoughts. “I’m not unhappy about earlier at all. I feel kind of vulnerable and a little embarrassed.”
His eyes on me are so intent I can’t quite keep his gaze. “I’m the one who didn’t make you come—isn’t the embarrassment mine?”
I smile, because my instinct is to reassure him, and doesn’t that illustrate the whole problem in our dynamic? Speak up, Cindy. I press forward. “It’s more a reaction to, um, feeling like we got distracted. Like I’m doing this other thing with you when I should be focused on negotiating this legislation. For my constituents.”
“Ah.” He nods. He puts the wine glass down on the table and uncrosses his legs so he can sit forward, clasping his hands between his knees. His eyes are locked on my face. “Do you think I’m doing it deliberately? Distracting you from what you want?”
Who knew I could be this turned on by someone having an open and direct conversation with me? I’m distracted from the actual conversation by how thrilling it is to have someone’s entire attention. “Are we having a DTR right now?”
He cocks his head. “What’s a DTR?”
Feeling like a teenager again, I laugh. “A defining-the-relationship talk.”
“Oh, right.” He smiles. “I went to an all-boys school; I missed out on a few things.” He pauses. “I don’t want to have a DTR if what you want to be doing is working on this.” He points at the folders on the table.
I stare at him hard, because what I want and need to do right now are very far apart. “I want to make some tangible progress on this,” I agree. “But maybe after that, we can...make some progress on us?”
“Incentive. I like it.” He sits back again. “OK, let’s do this.”
So we discuss the language I refuse to remove from the bill, the votes I can guarantee with one provision, and each of the votes I think I can secure if we’re careful about language and messaging around both of them. Naturally, I argue for going bigger; Alex argues we have to be cautious to make any progress at all. I’m starting to understand, despite myself, why he can’t get carried away by one cause. He has so many to balance.
He tells me he can convince the Senate Majority Leader to support a slightly more ambitious version of the bill if it passes the House with overwhelming support. I acknowledge that support depends entirely on whether the issue remains popular between now and when our legislation finally comes up for a vote.
It’s 1 a.m. when we’re done, and he stands and stretches and tells me, “There’s never going to be an ideal moment for us, but if you want to take a raincheck, I certainly understand that.”
I think about it as I stand. I’m pretty tired. But I also don’t know when this moment will happen again. The way he’s stretching, with his shirt untucked, I can see a sliver of his bare stomach. I step toward him and slide my hand under his shirt. It’s like crossing a forbidden line. From wanting this to doing this.
“Alright,” he agrees, and smiles. He puts his hands on my shoulders and slides them down my arms, brushing my breasts with both thumbs on the way.
He raises both hands up to my hair and gently takes it out of the ponytail. I close my eyes and enjoy his fingers massaging my scalp.
“Take off your clothes,” he orders me softly. I open my eyes. “All of them,” he says simply. It’s not a negotiation. Then he steps away and stands there, watching me.
Taking a deep breath, I obey. I don’t know how I can hate being ordered around everywhere else but in the bedroom, in a space of mutual consent, it turns me on faster than anything else. In my fantasies, when I’m alone, I imagine being tied up and surprised by what a man—who, historically, looks a little like Brad Pitt—does to my body. Helpless to his touch. Lately, the outline of that imaginary man is morphing into the shape of Alex, though still with shaggier hair and a mild Missouri drawl.
I peel off my clothes, one item at a time, leaving my panties and heels for last.
In general, I like my body; it has stayed strong and curvy as it’s aged and that’s more important to me than some cellulite and sagging. Still, I’m not used to someone watching me take my clothes off with all the overhead lights on.
He steps forward, once, after I take my bra off, and caresses my naked breasts, running his thumbs over the nipples in a way that sends sparks through my body. His eyes are intent.
I pause with my panties and heels still on and I’m not sure what to do with my hands. Fortunately, he gives me more direction.
“To the bedroom,” Alex says. He touches the curve of my butt as I pass him and walks behind me down the short hall.
“One knee on the bed,” he says, and I climb onto the edge, kneeling with both hands and one knee on the mattress and my other heel on the floor. I take a peek over my shoulder at him, arching my back. I know the vision I’m presenting. I hope he likes it.
He puts one hand on my bottom, caressing it. He gives it a very light pat. “Do you like this?” he asks.
“Sometimes,” I say. “Not too intense.”
He nods, and slaps my butt again, harder this time. Then he slides his palm in between my legs. “You like it more than you’ll admit,” he says. He runs one finger back and forth, over my panties, down my slit.
“It’s you...telling me what to do,” I admit. It’s intensely vulnerable to tell him how he affects me, even though he can feel the evidence. My fingers are shaking against the bed. I can’t remember the last time I got this turned on by nothing more than the low, steady murmur of a man’s voice and the confident, attentive way he assesses me.
He nods. He slaps my ass one more time, causing another blurt of desire.
“Then turn over, spread your legs, and put your hands above your head,” he says.
I swallow hard and lick my lips, enjoying the rush of heat at my core, before I do what he says. Part of the turn-on is wanting to please him. Allowing myself to reach the point where I’d do anything he told me to do. It’s so sexy, my body feels like a live wire. I’m already ready for him to fuck me. I can tell how swollen my clit is from the way it throbs against my underwear.
Lying spread-eagled on the bed, I brace my hands against the headboard, tucking my fingers around the top of the mattress. “What are you going to do with me?” I murmur.
He takes my heels off, one by one, and drops them on the floor. “I’m going to fuck you,” he says, unbuttoning his shirt. “I’m going to fuck you until you come, and then I’m going to make you come again to make up for earlier on the plane. Don’t move,” he adds, as I wiggle a little in anticipation.
“Alex,” I say, rolling the syllables around my mouth as I adjust to calling him by his first name out loud.
“Yes?” he murmurs, pausing before he pushes his shirt off his shoulders.
“I want you to fuck me hard,” I say. I want him to fill me up, get so close to me that our skin blends.
He drops the shirt on the floor. “I intend to, Cindy,” he says. It’s the same voice he’s used in interviews where he talked about national security. Calm, reassuring, certain. He unbuttons his pants and my eyes are glued to his crotch as he pushes them down. The bulge in his boxer briefs is promising. I dig my fingers into the mattress.
“Do you have condoms?” I ask, suddenly worried. I didn’t come prepared. Now I’m imagining the vice president trying to buy condoms at a convenience store, perhaps trying to hide his purchases behind a soda and a lottery ticket.
He picks up his pants and I notice he’s wearing blue socks with dogs on them. He pulls a wrapper out of his pants pocket before he drops them again. “Thank a Secret Service agent,” he says with a grin.
I wince.
“Stop,” he commands. He’s looming over me, knees on both sides of my hips. “I didn’t make anyone run an errand for me. It’s a personal loan.”
My attention is torn between him and everything outside these walls. “I hope they don’t want it back.”
He smiles before he grows serious again. “Close your eyes, Cindy.”
Without asking questions, I do. The darkness instantly transports me back into my own body, to the sensation of being beneath him with every nerve ending attuned to the next time he will touch me. His mouth closes around one nipple, then the other. He bites it, a sharp bite that makes me gasp and open my eyes again.
“Yes?” he asks, looking up at me.
“Yes,” I agree, appreciating how he keeps checking in with me. “I like it.”
He slides back off the end of the bed and pushes off his underwear. His dick, thick rather than long, is standing at attention like the soldier he once was.
I hear myself whine a little, because I want it. But I follow his directions not to move. He smiles and rolls the condom on as he’s standing there, too far away. I clench my toes in the bedding because I’ve never seen anything more attractive than this right now, the vice president of the United States naked and nearly between my legs .
Finally, he puts both knees on the end of the bed and pulls my underwear down. I lift my hips so he can take them off and then spread my legs again for him once they’re free.
“Good girl,” he says. He positions himself over me and nudges the tip of his penis against my opening. “I’m not going to be gentle,” he warns me.
“Good,” I whisper.
He slides in a little. My eyes are rolling back in my head. He pulls out again and I make that keening sound I’ve never heard from my own mouth before.
Then he shoves into me, all the way, so far he brushes against my organs somewhere deep inside.
All day since the flight, I’ve been conscious of the emptiness between my legs. I’ve longed for this. I forget myself and reach up with one hand to grasp his shoulders, but he grabs me by the wrist and puts my hand back above my head. Fuck, that’s exactly what I wanted. He holds my hand there as he fucks me, thrusting deep and pulling out with every stroke. One thumb keeps brushing over my palm, soothing even as he plows into me.
On purpose, I move my other hand, so he’ll grab it and stop me. “Fuck, yes,” I say, the words forced out by a spike of pleasure. He is so big above me, like he could genuinely hold me in place if he wanted to, beyond the illusion of being held down. He clasps my wrists in one big hand and uses his other to pull one of my thighs up to his side, giving himself better access as he fucks me.
But I need more. I need pressure against my clit. I squirm, trying to build some friction against his moving body.
He pauses, half-way inside me. “What do you need?” he asks. “Speak up.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling another rush of desire from the evidence we’re on the same page. “I need you to touch my clit,” I whisper.
He lets go of my leg to reach between us. I moan as he starts circling the raised nub of nerves there. He slides in and out shallowly, creating delicious friction against my opening. I squeeze my internal muscles as hard as I can against him and my mind goes blank from how hard I come. His lips slide against my arched neck and I coast over another hump of pleasure.
I’m still gasping when he starts fucking me again, hard, deep strokes until he comes inside me. He collapses on top of me, the hand holding my wrists above our heads sliding up my wrists until our fingers are loosely clasped together.
He slides his other hand down my sweaty side to press my clit again. I jump. I’m not sure I can handle stimulation again so soon, but he strokes gently, leaving my center alone, until the need lazily starts to build again.
“Show me,” he says. “Show me what you like.” He releases my hands and guides one down my own body. I show him, watching him watch me give myself what I need. The intimacy between us gets me closer than what I’m doing alone.
“I think we’ve found another campaign slogan for you,” I say, once I’m satiated again and smiling aimlessly up at the ceiling.
“Oh yeah?” he murmurs, unmoving at my side.
“Alexander Hamilton Drake: Orgasms.”
He raises his head. “Is that it? Just orgasms?”
I close my eyes drowsily. “Yep.”
His soft laugh is the last thing I hear.