Caught in the Storm

by Brownell, Rachael

  She snuggles her cheek against my hand and closes her eyes. I hoping that means she feels the same about the first night we spent together.

  "Stay with me. Give it at least a week. Let me show you that my life is not as crazy as it appears. Then, if you still want to leave, I'll drive you to the airport myself. Can you do that?"

  Her eyes slowly open and she stares at me for a long moment before she answers.

  "And what if I never want to leave?"

  There's a note of challenge in her voice.

  What if she stays? Would it be that bad? I mean, if the sex is still amazing after a week together, why not? As long as she follows the rules and doesn't step out of line. I've already dealt with that once. I don't think I'd be able to cover it up again.

  Gina's lecture rolls through my mind as I contemplate Amelia's question.

  My approval ratings are up. They like us together. They've stopped dredging up the accusations against me. The longer she stays, the better it might be for my campaign. I was hoping to send her packing in two weeks once the scandal was completely forgotten, but keeping her here could be a better option.

  "I guess that's something we can talk about when the time comes."

  Before I agree to let her stay, let's see how this goes. I want to talk to Gina, see if the trend continues in the right direction. For now, I'll keep turning on the charm and reaping the rewards of having her at my disposal whenever I want her.

  Like right now.

  "Why don't we get you something to eat," I say, taking her hand in mine and pulling her back into the bedroom. "You're going to need your energy for what I have planned tonight."

  Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as Amelia's eyes fall to the bed and a shiver runs up her spine.

  Yep. She knew exactly what I was referring to. It makes me wonder how receptive she might be to being tied up. Not tonight but soon. I'd like to ravish her body any way I want. To watch her as she pulls against her restraints as I tease her. I want her to beg me for more. Hearing her talk dirty is fucking amazing. I can only imagine how sexy she'll look tied to my bed posts, legs spread wide, withering against my silk sheets.

  The thought alone is arousing. My dick is pressing against my zipper, begging to be free.

  But not right now.

  First things first. She needs to be fed, that's what I've promised her. After that, I'll feed my own desires. Before Amelia, my appetite for pleasure wasn't easily appeased. With her around, I have a feeling my appetite will only grow.

  * * *

  Gloria is more than just my housekeeper. She's a life saver when it comes to all things food. I hate to cook for one, and I barely have the time. So once a week, she prepares my meals for the week. All I need to do is reheat them in the microwave and I'm eating healthy, substantial food in a matter of minutes. It keeps me from eating junk food or having to try and put something together at the last minute.

  With Amelia here this week, I asked her to prepare double the meals.

  "What would you prefer? We have grilled chicken with sweet potatoes and brussels sprouts or mahi-mahi with green beans and rice."

  "I’ve never tried Mahi Mahi before."

  "I think you’ll like it. A lot of people compare it to the flavor of chicken, but I don't taste chicken. It's flaky like salmon when it's cooked properly, and Gloria does an incredible job."

  "Salmon's kind of fishy."

  "Mahi is not. I promise. Would you like to try it, and if you don't like it, we can heat you up the chicken?"

  She nods apprehensively. She's going to love it, and she doesn't even know it yet. Gloria puts a lemon pepper seasoning on it that enhances the flavor of the fish, masking any 'fishy-ness' she might be concerned about.

  Slipping both containers in the microwave, I begin pulling out plates and wine glasses while Amelia takes a seat at the island. She offers to help, but I ensure her I can handle it. Pouring us each a glass of Sauvignon Blanc, she takes a sip before setting her glass in front of her.

  "Thank you." She looking down at her hands, giving me the impression she's ashamed of something.

  "For what?"

  "For dinner. For the wine. For inviting me into your life."

  The microwave beeps before I can reply, giving me a moment to compose my answer. After plating our meals, I set one in front of her and take the seat on her left.

  "Amelia, I invited you here because it's obvious we have chemistry. I enjoy being with you. You don't have to thank me for that. And this," I say, motioning with my fork to the food and wine, "I can't take credit for. Gloria takes great care of me."

  "I enjoy being with you too."

  "Good because after we eat, there are needs that we're going to attend to. Mine and yours."

  My voice dropped an octave, surprising both of us. My dick might not be straining against my zipper anymore, but I still want her. I'd take her right here, right now, if I didn't think it was inappropriate. Plus, the kitchen is one of those places that I prefer not to have sex. I've tried and failed. The counters are too high and the granite is too slick. One deep thrust, me on the tips of my toes, and she'd slide away from me, causing me to fall forward.

  That's not going to stop me from taking her on every other surface in this house. The tub, the shower. My bed. And maybe, once I lock things away, my desk in my office. I've never had sex in my office, but for Amelia, I'd break my own rules.

  Amelia slowly nods, tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, and picks up her fork, poking the Mahi a few times. It falls apart on her plate so she stabs a few flakes of fish and cautiously takes a bite.

  The way her lips wrap around the fork brings back fond memories of earlier today. My dick in her mouth, her bright pink lips stretching to accommodate me as I thrusted in and out.

  "I like it," she says, causing the vision to dissipate.

  "I'm glad," I reply, turning my attention to my own plate and stabbing a piece of fish with more force than necessary.

  We eat in silence, and once our plates are cleared, Amelia takes them, rinsing them in the sink and loading the dishwasher. I watch as she moves effortlessly around my kitchen, as if she's been here a million times before. She looks comfortable, and I realize I can see her in here, cooking for us. Making dinner, entertaining guests. Baking cookies and pies.

  Once she's finished, she reaches for her wine glass and proposes a toast.

  "To new adventures. May the next few weeks be filled with excitement as we get to know each other better."

  Amelia clinks her glass against mine, but I clear my throat before she takes a sip, catching her attention.

  "Did you want to add something?"

  Moving around the island so nothing is between us, I pull her body close to mine and whisper in her ear.

  "To the best sex either of us will ever have. Because if nothing else, Amelia, I will make sure you will never forget me if you decide to leave."

  It's more of a promise than a toast, but she gets the message loud and clear. One week, two, or more, if she leaves, I'll make sure she never forgets. The goal is to make her want to stay, to make her want more. To keep her here until the campaign is over, until I'm reelected.

  Fifteen

  Two Months Later

  Amelia

  "Have a good day," I call after Johnathan as he rushes out the front door. Our morning roll in the sheets lasted longer than usual, and he's going to be late for his first meeting of the day.

  Oops.

  I want to feel bad about it, but I can't. I'm still high from the sex. It was amazing. It's always amazing. He never disappoints.

  The first week I was here, most of our time was spent naked. He skipped work more than he should have, so we could stay in bed all day. Gina called him daily, cussing him out every morning. I tried to push him out the door a few times so he didn't get in trouble, but it never worked.

  And I reaped the rewards of him staying home.

  It wasn't until I met his parents the first weekend I was h
ere that I saw a slight change in him.

  His father pulled him aside. They were behind closed doors for almost an hour before reappearing, and his mood changed. He seems more focused since that night. When I asked him what his father wanted to talk to him about, he brushed me off, claiming it was about his campaign.

  I'm sure it was. His father more than likely also had a few opinions to share with him about me. About our situation and how quickly our relationship developed. It makes me wonder if his opinion resembles my parents’, whom I still haven't spoken to since our visit. Not for lack of trying either. I call them once a week. My mother will pick up the phone, warmly greet me and then as soon as she hears my voice the line goes dead. I sure hope Johnathan’s parents think more of me than mine do of him.

  Don't get me wrong. The Langs are wonderful people. His mother, Katherine, and I get along great. We've been shopping on multiple occasions. We have lunch once a week, and she's invited me to join her at some social gatherings, but after attending the first one, I’ve declined the rest. I'm still not comfortable with some of the women in this community. They all look at me like I'm a social pariah.

  Everyone seems to think I'm only after Johnathan's money. I can see why. I grew up on a farm in a tiny little town. I have nothing to my name. I'm living in his house, driving a car he bought for me. It's his credit card I swipe when I go shopping or out to lunch.

  What they don't know is that these are things I didn't ask for.

  Johnathan came home one day with the car and practically forced me to take it. He was adamant. The same happened with the credit card a few days later when I ran out of gas on my way to meet him for lunch one afternoon. It wasn't because I lacked the funds to fill the tank. I wasn't paying attention to the gas gauge. My music was blaring, and I was singing at the top of my lungs.

  Still, he insisted I have a copy of his credit card and that I use it as long as I stay with him. It's easier not to fight with him. I know he has my best interests at heart. He only wants to take care of me, and I appreciate that even though I can take care of myself. I've been doing it for years.

  So I try and take care of him in return.

  He let Gloria go once I officially moved in. I made him promise to keep her until she found a new job. Of course, he didn’t listen to me. He wrote her a considerably sized severance check and sent her packing. She was a nice woman. She taught me a lot in the few weeks we spent together. I'm a much better cook now, and instead of re-heatable meals, I cook for us every night. The laundry is always done, and I've finally stopped scorching Johnathan's shirts when I iron them. I had no idea it was even possible until the first time I left a mark on the back of one.

  My plan was to hide it from him so he wouldn't know. It was only one shirt, right? He'd never notice.

  I ended up burning four shirts that day before I gave up, one of them being his favorite. I called Gloria in a fit of tears, and she explained what I was doing wrong. I haven't burnt a shirt since then.

  In fact, life has been fairly smooth since I've learned how he likes things around here. It took a minute, but we've worked through all the kinks of moving in together. What we have found, though, is that opposites do attract. We are not as much alike as I originally thought, outside the bedroom, anyway.

  But that's okay. It works for us.

  As long as I follow the rules.

  Yes, there are rules. It's one of the first things I was told. Rules that needed to be obeyed, to be taken seriously. Rules that should be followed at all times.

  After a week of pissing Gina off, she showed up here one evening and turned my life upside down. Johnathan didn't help the situation. He was on her side. After all, he was running for reelection.

  It took all I had to not laugh in their faces. I probably would have, too, if Johnathan hadn't looked so serious. Or maybe it was the perturbed look on Gina's face that made me stand up a little straight and wipe the grin off my face.

  The fact is, he's a public figure in the middle of a political campaign. I need to tread carefully when we're in public because the slightest misstep could throw off his entire campaign. A campaign that began long before we met. An image he created for himself five years ago when he ran for election the first time. And now I'm part of that image.

  A senator's girlfriend.

  We live in the public eye. Everything I do is under careful observation. I could be scrutinized for the littlest things. Our relationship is a hot topic all the time. I can't even watch the news anymore without having to change the channel after a few minutes, my face flashing across the screen. I hate it, and I'm not a fan of the rules, but they'll keep me from attracting negative press.

  Rule number one: Always look presentable.

  It didn't sound hard at first. Then I realized that I was required to have my hair perfectly pinned back, away from my face, every day. My makeup had to be flawless. And don't even get me started on my outfits.

  Gina took me shopping again. It's become my least favorite activity. I'd rather swim in shark-infested waters while bleeding profusely. It sounds more appealing than spending even a moment alone with Gina. She’s made her distaste for me crystal clear.

  While we were gone, the majority of the possessions I brought with me were disposed of. My pink suitcases were sitting next to the trash bin when we pulled in the driveway. When I went to retrieve them, Gina stopped me and broke the news. It was all gone. Every stitch of clothing I brought. Everything except my favorite pair of cowboy boots, and that's because I was wearing them.

  Thank God. If those had been tossed I would have cried. Michael gave them to me. It’s the only thing left of our relationship at this point.

  Rule number two: Only speak when spoken to.

  Press conferences. Public appearances. Those things are for him, not me. Unless I'm asked a direct question, I'm not supposed to speak. I'm there to show my support. My opinions mean nothing.

  If someone attempts to direct a question to me, Gina or Johnathan answer it. I've been coached on how to answer certain inquiries, but I'm still not comfortable reciting the carefully calculated responses. It's best I avoid all questions for now. For my own sanity.

  Rule number three: Always smile.

  This one was the hardest for me. I have what my mom refers to as RBF. Resting bitch face. I might be happy, but if I'm not smiling, I look pissed off. Whenever we're in public, even if it's just at the grocery store, I have to force myself to smile. Too many people can misinterpret my facial expressions for unhappiness in our relationship.

  That would be bad for his campaign.

  Everything I do could be bad for his campaign.

  To the point I contemplated changing my mind and going back to Houston. Me and my pink bags. I was still paying half the rent at the apartment I shared with Beth. I haven't spoken to her in a while, but I'm sure she would take me back.

  In the beginning, I didn't realize it would be this hard. Johnathan is great. He treats me like a princess. I'll never have to want for anything for the rest of my life as long as he's by my side.

  His words, not mine.

  But loving him, being his girlfriend, is hard. Our relationship is not our own. We have no secrets. Nothing that is just ours that makes time with him special. Except what happens in our bedroom. That's the only time we can be alone it seems.

  So we make sure we have plenty of alone time.

  Every morning before he leaves for work and every night before we fall asleep, with me in his arms. If it's a really great day, we can have a quickie before dinner. He'll take me in the living room, bent over the arm of the couch or on the dining room table. Sometimes we'll jump in the tub and take our time. Explore each other’s bodies like it's the first time all over again. But it all depends on what time he gets home from work. With the election heating up, he's been getting home later and later.

  Last week he spent two days in Dallas and another two days in Houston.

  Trips that weren't on his calendar. Things cam
e up, he jumped on the plane, and off he went. He called me on his way to the airport. He wanted to stop and pick me up, take me with him so I wasn't home alone, but I was in the middle of a pedicure on the opposite side of town. His mother's treat for our weekly get-together.

  There wasn't time to swing and get me.

  So after spending almost every day of two straight months together, we spent our first nights apart. When I crawled in bed that night, I craved him. I wanted nothing more than to be wrapped in his arms. My need was strong. Thinking about him, our nightly ritual, got me hot and bothered, and he wasn't there to put out the fire.

  He must have felt my desire, because the moment I reached under the covers to take care of my own needs, he called. The ringing of my phone scared the shit out of me, causing me to swing my hand as I reached for it. But my hand got tangled in the covers, and I ended up punching myself in the cheek.

  If there's one thing I learned growing up in the country, it's how to throw a punch. I never thought I'd hit myself with that kind of strength, though. I definitely never thought I'd leave a bruise on my cheekbone dark enough that makeup refused to cover it.

  That was the longest four days of my life. I was afraid to leave the house for fear of public speculation, even though Johnathan wasn't in the same city when it happened. Now that he's back home and my bruise is barely visible, life has gone back to normal.

  And tonight we’re having dinner with his parents at the Country Club. It’s my least favorite place to dine on South Padre Island. Not because the people act superior to me, even though they do. I see the way they look at me. It bothers me when we walk in the room and conversations become hushed, gazes following us as we make our way to the table. They all think I'm using Johnathan for his money, and they are entitled to think whatever they want. I know the truth and so does he, that's all that matters.

  No, the real reason I hate the country club is the food. They don't serve anything normal. It all has to be extravagant and covered in glaze or sauce that I can't pronounce. Fancy food for fancy people. I'm not a fancy kind of girl.