“What are you guys talking about?”
The guy sitting next to me looks over and takes a sip of his scotch.
He snorts, shifting his hips. He puts a hand on his armrest to rise as though he’s trying to relieve some of the pressure building in him. He’s an old dude who could probably do without the drink in his hand.
“Let’s just say that if I had my way, I wouldn’t be smelling like cigar smoke tonight.”
Maxwell huffs out a laugh and looks over at us.
“Yeah,” he says, “maybe you can smoke one of those cigars over there to cover the smell of that hot little thing Bruce has running around here. I think your wife would welcome the smoke if she knew what the alternative was.”
My jaws lock into a clench and my fingers dig into my armrest. I white-knuckle the thing. My nails could cut right through the leather. I think they are. I’m aware that moments of anger can cause you to “see red,” but I never really understood it until now.
“You do know that’s his daughter, right?” I grit through my teeth.
“I thought his wife was hot, but damn, his daughter is a nice little slice, isn’t she?”
“Hey,” I say, my face getting hotter by the second, my fingers digging harder and harder into the armrest, my fist curling tighter and tighter around my glass, “you don’t talk about her like that. Have a little respect.”
“We’re just messing around, man.”
The look I give them shuts them up real quick. I get up and head toward the door. When I open it, Bailey is there and lets out an adorable little yelp as she hops backwards. Seeing her face has instantly replaced my anger with tranquility. Jesus. She’s like a fucking sedative.
“Bailey, what are you doing out here?”
A crimson blush sweeps up her neck and cheeks as she pushes the door closed behind me. The she backs up slowly, eyes wide.
“Sorry,” she says. “I was kind of…eavesdropping.”
“Shit,” I reply. “Did you hear anything?”
“Yeah,” she says, rolling her eyes. She crosses her arms over her chest. “I’m used to it. It’s actually becoming a little bit of a problem.”
“A problem how, exactly?”
The idea that any of these guys could try something is definitely a cause for concern. I know she can handle herself, but still — I don’t like the idea of these creeps being in the same room with her.
She lets out a big breath as she motions for me to follow her.
“Every man in DC either wants to get close to me because of who my father is or won’t go near me with a ten-foot pole because of my father is.” She slips her arm around mine and nestles up against me. “Those guys are all talk. They were probably just trying to intimidate each other into staying away from me. I swear, they probably have their pants down right now comparing dick sizes. They don’t want me. They want access. I have a lose-lose situation on my hands, David, and I don’t know what to do about it.”
“If they’re in a contest to see who can keep the other far the hell away from you, I might actually be good with it,” I say, “if I don’t hear them saying stuff about you ever again.”
She grins up at me.
I don’t think these guys’ interest in her is purely professional. Take her senior prom, for instance. She had so many guys itching to go with her that she ended up going with a group of girlfriends instead. Her father’s always had to be overly cautious to keep the guys away, especially because she was only sixteen when she graduated high school. Academically, the sky was the limit for Bailey. At the same time, though, she had to adapt faster than most other kids her age, given her aptitude. Her parents held a tight rein on her. They didn’t want her to get hurt.
“Maybe you’re better off without a man from DC,” I say. She looks up at me and smiles, pats my hand, and holds me a little closer.
“It’s too bad I don’t know what else is out there,” she whispers.
As we walk the wide, sun-drenched corridor arm in arm, I don’t know the last time I’ve felt so at peace but excited at the same time. The feeling is short-lived because we spot her mom down the hall and then Bailey is leaving me in the dust, promising to catch up with me soon. As she walks away, I can’t help but take in how incredibly sexy she’s become. Her shoulders are narrow, petite, and her waist is small. Her ass is thick and prominent but perfectly proportioned to her waist.
She walks with quiet confidence, her legs moving with graceful femininity.
I feel like an asshole checking her out so blatantly, observing the round swell of her ass in that dress and the way her hair bounces against her shoulders, but I keep watching her until the last second. I can’t help it. I try to look away, but there’s something about her that I’m so damn drawn to and I don’t understand it.
Everything about her is remarkable, in every sense of the word.
She knows where to seat people based on introductions she thinks will be mutually beneficial. She knows whose wife doesn’t like another’s dog because it barks too much, and she knows who to slip that information to — someone who’ll broker a meeting at the dog-park to make the dogs and their owners best friends. She’s keyed into people’s thoughts and motivations like a freaking mastermind, and she does it flawlessly and without seeming like she’s doing anything at all. She’s fucking smart as all hell. She was confident enough to eavesdrop on those guys back there and that same confidence was displayed, again, when she gave me a no-bullshit rundown on her interpretation of the situation.
But there’s something else. Something intangible. She isn’t just pretty. She isn’t just sexy. She isn’t just brilliant. I swallow thickly as she gets to the end of the hallway and looks back at me, puts her hand on the edge of the archway, and smiles, the long, thick cascade of her brown waves tousled in a way that makes her look effortless, effervescent, breezy, as though there isn’t a thoughtful mind and loyal daughter just below the surface.
Bailey is so beautiful, so immediately arresting, that it’s hard not to be distracted by it.
When she passes the arch, she gives me a little wave and I feel a sense of emptiness wash over me. There’s another feeling, though, too as I start to make my way after her. It’s attraction. It’s lust. It’s the one thing I can’t let myself feel, and it’s coming straight at me like a goddamn freight train.
The notion that she might not be wearing panties under the dress as a way to achieve her perfect, flawless curves dawns on me and is a thought that inspires a singular, epic torture, making my pants into some kind of medieval vise. It seems I’m no better than those guys I shut down back there, the only difference being that I’m either smart enough not to say something about her or just have more self-control than they do.
I’m going to need to get some relief, and it’s going to have to be in the form of a few drinks. There’s no alternative right now, because I’m going to be in a room with Bailey for the next few hours. I try to will myself into a zone where my cock isn’t going to be hard the whole time, but I’m throbbing at this point, my length pressing up against the front of my pants. I can already feel the dampness from the tip leaking onto my boxers, but the more I try to ignore it, the worst it gets.
I can’t help but imagine taking her by the hand, pulling her into some dark corner, crushing my lips against hers, and slowly sliding my dick into her soft, curvy little body inch by inch.
How would things be different if she weren’t Bruce’s daughter? What would I do?
And just like clockwork, that’s when I see Bailey run across my path, yelp a little greeting to me, and make her way into the kitchen. This time, I don’t look at her as she walks away.
There’s the willpower I was looking for. I take a deep breath and psych myself up.
I can do this.
3
Bailey
“Lillian,” I say, grabbing two glasses from a kitchen cabinet, “would you like some water?”
“Oh, sure,” she says. She comes up next to me,
leans back against the counter, and takes a deep breath, shaking her fingers through the blond bangs cut loosely across her forehead. “I know, these things can be stressful, right?”
“Uh-huh,” I say through exasperated lips. I pour us each of glass of water and put the pitcher on the counter. I grab my water and start to chug it. I feel like I’ve walked a thousand miles in the desert. No. I’ve crawled a thousand miles in the desert, on my hands and knees, and every time I thought I was getting close to the patch of land with the palm tree dripping with thirst-quenching coconuts, the world pulled the rug out from under me, and I realized it was just a mirage.
“Bailey, you were really thirsty!” Lillian gawks at me. “Slow down or you’ll have to run to the ladies’ room during your speech!”
Crap. The speech. But I can’t stop. I pour myself a refill and start to drink the second glass a little slower. I need to pull myself the hell together. I can’t have twenty-five of my parents’ closest friends see me all jittery and nervous as I make my speech. They’ll know there’s something wrong with me. It’s normal to be nervous while giving a speech, but not this nervous.
“I was just stressed out,” I say. “A glass of water is like hitting the reset button, you know? If you had a bad day, drink a glass of water. Nervous over an exam? Water!”
“Did you get a job as a consultant at Big Water without telling me?”
“I just happen to be thirsty!” I put my glass in the sink, return the pitcher to the refrigerator, and dash out of the kitchen where the caterers are putting final touches on everything. Lillian follows me.
Maybe getting so close to David was a mistake. I was okay when we were just saying hello. Why’d I have to go and put my arm around his, nestle into his jacket, and feel his hard, sculpted body beneath my fingers? He smelled so amazing, the perfect blend of woodsy, heady, sharp masculinity.
I wanted to get closer to him, reach out and touch him, maybe softly run my hands up and down the three-day stubble he’s sporting, get a little taste of his muscular stomach beneath my roaming fingers, but just being next to him made my panties damp.
And then, when he looked down at me, I felt him everywhere. I felt my nipples twist into tight peaks; I felt something inside my belly expand, crack at the edges, and then explode. Electricity skittered over my skin like a hissing drop of water on a hot-hot griddle. His eyes lit me up from the inside, and my heart floated away like a balloon.
“There she is!” Dad’s voice rises over the din from the center of the room. Everything looks perfect, but I barely have time to notice the flower centerpieces on the cocktail tables. There’s even some tasteful uplighting that I know will look spectacular once the sun goes down and the party really starts, but I barely take note of it.
I walk in, all eyes on me as soft applause lifts into the air. I shake a few hands as the current of guests floats me to my parents. I hug Mom and Dad. It’s time for me to say a few welcoming words. The light, jazzy piano music stops and the DJ on the other side of the room gestures toward me. I cross the room, careful not to trip on my gown. My knees are a little shaky, but I’ve trained my whole life for things like this.
Growing up as the daughter of a DC power couple means I’ve had to mature fast, hide my mistakes, and look like a lady. There’s almost no currency more valuable for the people in this town than the illusion of a perfect family. The perfect family is likable. The perfect family is respected. And in our case, our perfect-family exterior hasn’t been an illusion. Not at all.
Hide my mistakes? What mistakes? I’ve never rebelled and I’m about the most quintessential good girl you can get. The worst I’ve ever done in school was the C+ I got in a photography class because I didn’t realize until right before the midterm that I was even still enrolled in it.
Paperwork SNAFU.
I’m not itching to get out of my parents’ house, either. I love and adore them, I look up to them as my role models, and let’s face it, with a house this big, everyone has as much privacy as they want and need. Yes, I’m in grad school, and sure, most of my peers have cute apartments in the trendier parts of the capitol, but I like it here. I love cooking and, even more, cooking for people.
I’m generally composed. I was on Model UN in high school and president of the debate team.
I’m about as composed as I can be right now, and I can’t believe that my head is so up in the freaking clouds over a guy.
A guy. I huff out a little chuckle. As if I could allow myself to get all worked up over a guy.
At long last, I’m on the other side of the room and taking the microphone from the DJ. I search the crowd for David. It’s probably better that he isn’t in the room.
“Hello, all,” I say, the eyes in the room finding me. Still no sign of David.
Good. I don’t need him here as a distraction.
“I just wanted to say thank you to everyone who is here today. As you all know, this is my parents’ twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. I know some of you here today were at their wedding all those years ago and some of you are newer friends, and that’s what makes this so exciting. A special thanks to those of you who were able to come from out of state.” Like David whose suitcase I might have to sneak into so he can bring me home with him. “Please join me in a little toast to my parents.”
I put my glass in the air and then take a sip of my champagne as everyone in the room claps. I smile and let out a big, relieved breath. Okay, I succeeded. I hand the microphone back to the DJ.
“Thank you,” I say.
“You did great,” she replies. Then she winks at me. I give her a sidelong glance, a smile quirking at the corners of my lips. I know her. We hire her for all our big events. Maybe she’s just being overly friendly with that little wink. As I’m about to ask what the wink was for, she gently pokes her chin toward the hallway.
David’s standing there, in all his incredible glory. His eyes, half-hooded, are piercing right through me. Hands in pockets, lips slightly parted as if to speak. I start toward him, but my toe catches on the corner of the DJ stand. Panic grips me. Oh no. It’s a car crash happening in slow motion. I try to grab the edge, but I just shove my hand into a sharp corner and I feel it pierce my skin. A collective chatter fills the room as everyone braces themselves for my fall.
Out of the corner of my eye I see a few of my dad’s friends rush toward me. I close my eyes and brace myself, but then I’m being cradled in a pair of big, strong arms. I peel my eyes open one at a time. The first reveals a broad, protective chest. Then I realize where I am.
I’m in David’s arms. I sink into them for a long moment, reveling in the comfort of his strength. His eyes stay on mine for a moment — maybe too long — before he reaches out and brushes a stray lock of my hair away from my face and tucks it behind my ear.
“Are you okay?” David says, his eyes flickering down to my lips and then to my eyes. The way he’s looking at me is turning me into a mess, making my clit throb hard and my pulse race. I’ve barely even been kissed before. And now I have this man, the one man I’ve looked up to as the absolute model of masculine perfection, gazing into my eyes while holding me safe in his arms.
If I grabbed the sides of his face right now and pulled him down to kiss me, could I pretend later that I was suffering from a temporary brain injury, one that made me do a reckless thing? He deepens his gaze on me and his jaw gets hard as his nostrils flare. We’re both pulled out of the moment when we realize a crowd is gathering around us, my parents pushing through to get to me.
The moment between me and David probably only lasted five seconds. I look around at the crowd.
“I’m okay,” I breathe as David returns me to my feet. He holds me with his fingers curled around my upper arm. I brush my good hand on the front of my dress, trying to make it fall the right way.
“She’s okay, folks.”
I turn around awkwardly to see just how close everyone is. David takes my hand and I turn suddenly. He’s inspecting my palm.
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“It looks like you got a cut on your hand, Bailey.”
“Oh,” I say, taking a step closer to him. “Thank you for catching me.”
“You would have been fine without me.”
“I don’t think so,” I whisper.
“There’s a first-aid kit in the upstairs bathroom on the east side of the house,” Mom says, shuffling toward us. She gets between us and looks at my hand, wincing. “Oh dear. Do you think she needs stitches, David?”
“Mom, it’s really nothing,” I say, chuckling as I put my good hand on her back to comfort her. I smile at the irony of me comforting her and shake my head to myself. “I just need a Band-Aid. Easy. I’ll be better in no time.”
“David,” Mom says, putting a hand on his chest, “does she need stitches?”
“No, ma’am, I don’t believe so.”
He smiles at me. He knows as well as I do how my mom gets. She once nearly called in the National Guard for a splinter he got on the dock of our beach house one summer.
“Would you please go help her? She needs to clean it and put some Bacitracin on it and then wrap it in some gauze and put a bandage over it.”
I give my mom a half-cocked smile. “It’s not that bad, is it?”
“You’re not a doctor, dear.”
“You aren’t either, Mom!”
“Come on,” David says, corralling me. “Let’s go get you better.”
“Oh no, Bailey,” Mom says. I turn my face over my shoulder. Mom grabs my elbow and rushes me toward the stairs. “You also need to change your dress. You know there’s someone here taking photos.”
My stomach drops. Did I drool on my dress? Or get…something else on it, maybe?
“Why, Mother?” I say through gritted teeth.
“It seems that there is a small tear near the bottom of your gown.”
“Oh, thank goodness,” I exhale.
“Why are you happy about a tear in your dress?”
“I thought…I thought I got food on it or something.” I motion for David to follow me upstairs. “Okay, I’ll change.”
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