The Press Secretary's Passion (A Presidential Affair Book 3)

by Jennifer Rebecca

  “Talking to yourself?” Ryan asks from my doorway, making me jump.

  “Eek!”

  He lets out a delectable chuckle. “Babe, what are you doing?”

  “Shh!” I snap.

  “What?” Ryan asks, and I can hear amusement in his tone.

  “Don’t ‘what’ me!” I whisper-yell. “And don’t call me babe either.”

  “Why not?” he asks with a smile on his face. “You like it when I call you babe.”

  “I like it in certain scenarios,” I admit. “But not here. Someone might hear you.”

  “You like it.”

  “I don’t.”

  “You do,” he says, stalking his way into my office. “You like it when I’m fucking you. And you like it now.”

  “Don’t be crass.”

  “You like that too,” he purrs, and dammit he’s right, but I won’t admit that to him or anyone.

  “I don’t have time for this,” I say. “I have a meeting in the Oval in five minutes and just enough time to get there.”

  “What a coincidence,” he says with a smile. “So do I.”

  “Of course you do,” I mutter under my breath, but Ryan clearly hears it, because his smile grows even wider.

  “Shall we?” he asks, holding the door open for me.

  “Thank you,” I reply even though I don’t want to, because good manners were practically beaten into me at an early age. It doesn’t bode well to have a society wife who is rude and common at dinner parties.

  We walk side by side down the hallway of the staff offices and through to the Oval Office. The bitchy secretary gives Ryan her best come-hither look, and it takes about everything in me not to roll my eyes.

  “I saw that,” he says under his breath.

  “Saw what?” I ask innocently.

  “Don’t be like that,” he says. “It’s unbecoming.”

  I bite down on my bottom lip to keep from screaming at him. If there is one person on the planet who could make me crazier than Ryan Black, I don’t want to know them. I’m surprised my hair doesn’t completely stand on end every time I’m around him.

  “The president will see you now,” one of the Marines guarding the door says.

  They pull open the doors, and Ryan and I step into the Oval Office, and I take it all in. It’s been months that we’ve been working here and Jake and Grace have been living in the residence, and I’m still not used to it. The history, the architecture, and the beauty of it all still take my breath away.

  “Good to see you both,” Jake says when the doors shut behind us. “Come on in and let’s get down to business.”

  “What’s going on?” I ask as I sit down on one of the sofas. Jake sits across from me and crosses his ankle over his opposite knee in that casual way men do. Ryan stands beside me but leans a hip against the arm of the sofa. It’s a casual but ready stance.

  “What I want to know is why my father is giving sit-down interviews with Brenda Watson on uniting our families,” Jake prompts, and I feel like all the air has been sucked out of my lungs. And not only has all of the air been sucked out of my lungs, it’s been sucked out of the room. And Ryan, who was casual, is now anything but.

  “Brenda Watson?” I ask in a small voice. “Brenda Watson of the big cable network emotional celebrity sit-down interviews where everyone always cries?”

  “That’s the one,” he answers.

  “Fuck,” Ryan bites out.

  “I don’t know,” I answer honestly. I’ve never even been on a date with him.

  “Well that’s interesting, because he seems to be under the impression that you’re engaged,” Jake adds, not helpfully at all, because Ryan is obviously—to me, anyways—negative two seconds away from completely losing his mind and ripping the room apart like a barbarian.

  “Are you shitting me?” he asks Jake in a low voice.

  “Why would he do that?” I ask. “I don’t understand.”

  “Has he ever given you the impression that he was romantically interested in you?” Jake asks.

  “No,” I reply and then change my answer almost immediately. “Yes. As we were lining up to enter the State Dinner, he told me that we would make a strong political match, and I politely turned him down. He implied you would look favorably on uniting our families.”

  “I bet he did,” Jake growls. “I do not like the idea of marriages made for political or financial gain. He was pushing me toward one when I finally caught Grace’s eye.”

  “Sure, that’s what we’ll call it,” I snark with a sweet smile on my face, and Ryan laughs. It’s not public knowledge, but those in the inner circle know Jake and Rick had staged a blackmail setup in order to force Grace into a public relationship with Jake. My friend thought it was fake, but in the end, it was all real. Swoon.

  “True,” Jake says with a smirk. “But that doesn’t explain your parents’ interview over the weekend.”

  “Actually,” I say, holding up my hand like I’m in school again, “I can answer that one too.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  A phone on the desk rings, and Jake stands, making his way back to the desk. He picks up the receiver and speaks, “Hello? Just a second.”

  He presses a button on the phone and sets the receiver back in the cradle.

  “Hey, Rhys,” Jake says to the room. “I’m here with Jules and Black.”

  There was a pregnant pause, and then the deepest voice spoken in a heavy brogue I’ve ever heard speaks. It’s not quite Scottish, so I can’t place it. “Am I free to speak here?”

  “Yes,” Jake answers. “You’re protected.”

  I don’t have a chance to dive into that one too deeply before the conversation takes off, but I have so many questions. My Spidey senses are tingling.

  “I hear congratulations are in order,” Rhys says, and I watch Jake bite his lip to keep from laughing.

  I roll my eyes.

  “We were just trying to get to the bottom of that,” Jake says.

  “I figured it wasn’t as it seems,” he tells us, and I think for a second I would be happy to listen to him read the phone book or the dictionary his voice is so damn pretty.

  “I take it there’s a reason you called,” Jake urges.

  “There are things in play that you don’t understand.”

  “No,” Jake says, the fun tone of the room becoming serious.

  “I found her,” he replies quietly.

  “So it’s true?”

  “It’s true,” Rhys confirms.

  “Be safe,” Jake says.

  “You as well, mate.” And then the line goes dead.

  “What was that?” I ask.

  “I think your question is more a ‘who was that?’” Ryan corrects.

  “Okay,” I amend. “Who was that?”

  “That was George Rhys John Aidan Alexander,” Jake answers. “Crowned Prince of the Isle of Saints.”

  “Holy shit,” I breathe.

  “He has some stuff going down, so you can’t speak of this conversation,” he warns.

  “I won’t.”

  “This is serious, Jules,” Ryan adds. “No one can know.”

  “Okay, I get it.” And I do. I have enough crazy shit going on in my life; I don’t need to know what a crowned prince has going down that would put that shocked tone in Jake’s voice. In fact, I don’t want to know anything else. I need those Men in Black guys to come erase my memory. Actually, that sounds great, because then I could also forget Ryan’s beautiful cock and the magnificent orgasms he gives me with it, his hands, and his mouth.

  “Now, back to your parents,” he says, pulling me out of my thoughts, and I let out a sigh.

  “They want nothing more than for me to make a strong match for them,” I explain. “My whole life, I was raised with the knowledge that I was expected to become the wife of a powerful businessman who could benefit my father, or a strong politician who could help my brother with his political aspirations.”

  “How is Gil?
” Jake asks.

  “Wanting me to call my mother so she will leave him alone,” I answer.

  “And how’s that working out for him?”

  “Not so good,” I reply and watch his lips twitch as he tries not to laugh. It must be difficult to be the president of the United States and have to try and be dignified all the time. “I fear my parents must have caught wind of the senior senator’s interviews and jumped on the bandwagon. I’ve since set them straight.”

  “And what did they say to that?” Ryan asks from beside me.

  “That I’m a disappointment, because what better link for Gil than to have his sister be the stepmother to the current president,” I answer. “We’re not currently speaking.”

  “Good girl,” he murmurs for my ears only.

  “I’ve told the press repeatedly that I’m not currently involved with anyone.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Ryan mutters again.

  “I think they’ll get the hint and give up on it… eventually.”

  “Let’s hope so,” Jake says. “For now, I think you should lie low for a few days. Come back Thursday, and we’ll see where we’re at.”

  “Okay,” I say quietly. I can’t help but feel like I’m a disappointment. If I were better at my job, I wouldn’t be in this pickle to begin with.

  “It’ll all be okay, Jules,” Jake says, and I just nod and stand up, but I’m not so sure if I agree with him.

  I walk out of the Oval Office and back through the halls to my own little office. I shut down my computer and grab my bag. I make my way through the building, climb into my car, and head home. Fortunately, when I get there, my street is empty. I pull my car into the garage and lock it up so no one can tell whether I’m home or not.

  And then I go inside to try to figure out where I went wrong in my life. Also unfortunately, I have no answers.

  • • •

  The feel of the sheets slithering down my body wakes me from a sleep that was less than restful, and I know instantly that I’m not alone.

  Ryan cups the back of my head as I turn from my belly to my side and presses his mouth to mine. I gasp against the hard pressure of his lips, and he licks inside my mouth. He rolls me to my back and whisks the tank I wore to bed up and over my head before he licks at the seam of my lips again, and again I let him inside.

  I’d like to say it’s because I was asleep, that I was drowsy and didn’t know what I was doing, but the second Ryan touches me, he and I both know I want nothing else but him inside me. I wrap my arms around his shoulders and try to pull him toward me. I want him to hurry, I need him so much, but he won’t give in.

  He lets me go, and I flop to my back on the bed. I watch as he does that sexy thing men do when they reach behind their shoulders and grab their tee with one hand and haul it over their heads. I stare at the muscles of his chest and shoulders flex and his firm belly, and I lick my lips as I watch him trail his hands down his abs to the fly of his jeans and pull, popping open half the buttons at once. I have to roll my bottom lip into my mouth to keep from moaning out loud when he tucks his fingers into the waistband and pushes both his jeans and his underwear to the floor, letting his long, hard cock spring free and bob below his navel.

  And then he climbs to the foot of the bed between my legs, grabs the cotton sleep shorts I’m wearing and my panties, and tears them down my legs. With his hands to my inner thighs, Ryan firmly pushes my legs to fall open, exposing me to him, and the look in his eyes when he looks at all of me sets me on fire.

  He wraps his fist around the base of his erection and grips it tight before stroking himself once… and then twice… all while he looks at me. There’s something highly erotic about your lover touching themselves while they’re with you.

  “I think tonight I wanna watch you,” he says, and his slow, southern drawl is deepened by lust.

  “W-w-what?” I stammer as all the oxygen rushes out of my lungs.

  “Touch yourself,” he commands as he trails a fingertip from my clavicle to my breast and down around my nipple, making it bud under his attention. His eyes watch as he swirls the digit in question around and around and then snap up to lock on mine. “I want to see how you touch yourself, and then I want to watch you make yourself come while my cock is deep inside you.”

  I don’t know why I do it. I shouldn’t do it. I shouldn’t want to do it. But his words have me so hot and bothered. He’s so turned on wanting to watch me that I’m turned on. He sits back on his heels when I place my palm on my belly and slowly move it down, down, down, until it’s between my thighs and I can feel my own wetness.

  I trace my opening with a fingertip and watch his heavy lids lower as he watches me. My breath catches when I brush my clit, and he bites his lip and strokes his cock in his fist. I could watch him like this all day.

  I press my finger inside me and pump twice before I circle my clit over and over. My legs press farther open, and I rock my hips into my hand.

  I tip my head back and close my eyes as the tension radiating out from my center travels up through my body, and I know I’m close.

  “Look at me,” Ryan says, and his voice is rough with need—his need for me—and my eyes instantly pop open. “Look at me when you take yourself there.”

  “Yes,” I whisper.

  And then he’s there. I feel the very tip of him press into me. He grips my thighs in his hands and leans forward as he drives into me.

  I can feel where he and I join as he brushes against my fingers, and I revel in it. I come alive under his touch.

  “Don’t stop,” he growls as he drives deep only to slowly slide out and drive back in, over and over. “Make yourself come.”

  I had stopped to just feel. To feel where our bodies come together. To feel how he overwhelms me in the best of ways.

  But now it’s time to move.

  I stroke my clit again, circling my fingers around and around while Ryan plunges faster and faster.

  He pins me to the mattress by my thighs, holding me open so he can pump in and out of me again and again. He moves faster and faster as I move my hand, driving us both closer and closer to the edge.

  “Give it to me,” he growls. “It has to be now.”

  And I know he’s walking the knife’s edge just as I am, and knowing I’ve brought him there, that I do that to him, throws me off the cliff.

  “Ryan,” I whisper, and then I tip my head back and come.

  “Yes,” he groans as he drives deeper, harder, faster again and again, and then his fingers tighten almost painfully on my thighs as he plants himself deep one more time and follows me over the edge, taking me with him yet again.

  I lie there with my eyes closed for who knows how long. He sits there on his knees, touching me everywhere. He skates his hands down my legs and up my arms, just touching me wherever he can with no pattern at all.

  My eyes pop open when he gently brushes a lock of my hair back from my face and then brushes the backs of his fingers down my temple.

  “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

  I don’t know what to say to that, so I don’t say anything at all. He watches me for a minute as if I should say or do something, even though I don’t know what, and then he pulls out and curls to his side. He pulls my back to his front and settles the blanket over us.

  I think he might be settling in to stay, and I let all the muscles in my body relax one by one, and I let out a deep breath.

  It’s then he rolls me to my back and makes love to me. It’s slow and it’s sweet and it’s tender. So much so that it brings tears to my eyes. There’s so much emotion welling up inside me, and I realize I have feelings for Ryan. That somewhere along the way, he wormed his way into my heart, and I think maybe I wasn’t wrong for letting him in my bed all this time.

  And then when it’s over, he places one last kiss to my lips and pulls out. And keeps on rolling out of the bed. I watch in horror, like one might watch a terrible car wreck on the interstate, as he steps into hi
s underwear and jeans and then pulls his shirt over his head. He steps into a pair of Sperry’s, and then he’s gone without a backward glance.

  Too bad the jerk stepped on my heart on his way to the door.

  “Funeral of Late Socialite was Who’s Who of Politics”

  Chapter 13

  Ashes to ashes

  “In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till thou return unto the ground; for out of it wast thou taken: for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return,” the Pastor reads from his Bible.

  It’s an unseasonably cold spring day as we stand in the crowd of mourners as Ashley Jeffries, New York socialite, former girlfriend of the President of the United States, and all-around rotten bitch from hell is laid to rest.

  I know we shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but I’m also not entirely sure she hadn’t risen from hell instead of being born from her mother like other mammals.

  Really, I would be more considerate if she deserved it at all. Instead, she perpetrated one heinous act against my friends after another.

  “Can you believe it?” someone whispers to another. “A car accident?”

  “More like a Cara accident,” I mumble under my breath to Grace, who has to bite her lip to keep from laughing. It wouldn’t do at all for the First Lady of the United States to be caught laughing at the graveside service of her husband’s former lover. Even if the comment is more than accurate. After all, she did try to kill my Cara after she kidnapped her daughter. Not to mention, she shot Ryan. And in an effort to escape, Cara hit her in the head with a metal folding chair, breaking her neck.

  But that’s need-to-know information. Somehow, the Jeffries family spun her death as a tragic car accident instead of justifiable homicide. No one is sure how that happened. And we’ve been looking into it.

  By all accounts, Ashley Jeffries was nothing more than an empty-headed socialite intent on marrying into the highest echelon of political power and causing hate and discontent, no doubt. I’ve known her for years. We grew up in the same social circles, after all. In fact, I would swear she was just the kind of woman my parents would be hellbent on marrying to my brother, Gil.