American Prince

by Sierra Simone

  Ash stood. “This conversation isn’t done,” he told me, and left.

  I went to sleep almost hoping it wasn’t.

  A few days passed. There was a lull in activity that matched the weather—not really sunny and not really stormy, not really cold and not really hot—a cool gray womb devoid of anything interesting or noteworthy. For some it was a welcome break. For others, after the intense highs of incessant combat, it was unbearable boredom.

  So when Ash asked me out to walk along the valley, I assumed he was bored and desperate to be outdoors and not bent over maps and emails in his office.

  We went, taking our weapons with us as a precaution. The fog had already lifted for the day, beaten down by the waves of summer rain that drifted down from the heavy clouds overhead. The occasional shaft of sunshine pierced those clouds, sending shots of gold across the deeply green valley, making the clouds seem darker in comparison. Despite everything, my heart hummed at the sight, a combination of the Olympics and the stark beauty of the Scottish Highlands.

  “It always seems different up here,” I said, staring out over the valley. “Not like there’s no war, but that war is such a small part of the world. Such a small part of living. Like there’s going to be a time later in my life where I’m just happy.”

  I didn’t notice what he was doing until I stopped talking to glance over at him—a smile on my face acknowledging how absurdly I was talking—and then I stopped.

  I could feel the smile slide off my face, feel my heart rise right into my throat.

  Ash knelt beside me, facing me, a small black box in his hand.

  No, I thought wildly, desperately.

  “No,” I said, just as wildly, just as desperately.

  “Embry, I’ve been in love with you for seven years. I’m never going to stop being in love with you.”

  Don’t make me do this, I wanted to beg. Don’t make me have to say no.

  “No,” I said.

  “I’m a better man with you and because of you. I want to be the only one who gets to squeeze and bruise you. I want to be the only one to hear you sigh in your sleep. I want mine to be the face you see when you wake up.”

  Tears burned, something balled in my throat and made it impossible to swallow or speak, but I still croaked out a weak, “No.”

  “Stop saying no and listen to me,” he said with a smile. “Who cares about our careers? We’ll find new ones. If we have to live in Canada to adopt children, then we’ll move to Canada. I’ll do anything to be with you, give up anything.”

  I hated him in that moment. Hated him for being so beautiful and pretty, so noble looking in that ancient valley. Hated how selfless he was, how much he loved me, how little he cared about his own future. It made it so much harder to say no. Because my very blood sang at the idea of saying yes.

  “Ash, you can’t give up these things. Your career. You just can’t.”

  He looked up at me. He was a painting on his knee like that, a storybook prince, aside from the assault rifle slung over his shoulder. “How many times have I risked my life to save yours? How many times have I proven that I would sacrifice anything for you? Sacrifice everything? What’s a job when I have you? What’s a place to live? If I have you, I have everything I need.”

  That one word. Sacrifice. It stuck in my head, spinning madly around like a record, his voice, Merlin’s voice, my voice. Sacrifice, sacrifice, sacrifice.

  I could say yes. I could let him put a ring on my finger and then we could fuck up here with the valley below us and the clouds above. We could finish this war and then find a place where it was legal to marry and do it. Build a life for ourselves, a gorgeous, wicked life of green eyes and whispered curses into the dark night air.

  I could say yes.

  I wanted to say yes.

  I wanted to tell Ash that loving him was like a scar, like a disease, it would always be there, I’d never be cured of it, and I didn’t want to be. I wanted to tell him that I’d never met someone as courageous or as smart or as compassionate or as deliciously, dangerously red-blooded as him, and that I never would and that I never wanted to try.

  I wanted to tell him I’d be his. I’d belong to him. His possession, for as long as he’d have me.

  Sacrifice.

  I didn’t tell him any of those things, though.

  Instead, I told him one word.

  “No.”

  21

  Greer

  after

  The first day at home is long.

  The second day is even longer. That’s the day I finally force myself to meet with my chief of staff—a fierce brunette named Linette—and attend to the rest of my things being moved from the townhouse to the White House. I walk through the townhouse one last time, my home for only a year, and then I call Grandpa Leo while the Secret Service agents wait outside.

  “I’ll mail you the key,” I tell him after I inform him all my things are gone.

  “You don’t sound like a girl who just got home from her honeymoon,” Grandpa says gently. “Are you that sad to leave the townhouse?”

  No, Grandpa, I was kidnapped and nearly raped last week, and I think your other granddaughter might be responsible, I want to tell him, but it would only bring him unnecessary pain. There’s nothing he can say that will undo what Melwas has done and there’s no comfort he can give me that would be any more perfect than what Embry and Ash have given me. And I still haven’t found the courage to talk to Abilene since I got home, so I can’t say with certainty that it was her who betrayed me.

  So instead I say to my grandfather, “Just adjusting is all. I’m not teaching any classes this summer and I’m still settling into the First Lady stuff. It’s a new life. I’m not sure how I fit into it yet.”

  “I can’t turn on the news or pull up the Internet without seeing how much this country is obsessed with you, so I’d say you’re doing just fine, sweetheart.”

  “Thanks, Grandpa.”

  “You know, I remember when Luther and I were first elected, I felt the same way. Like everyone was watching and I didn’t know what to do with myself. But then there was that nastiness with the Iranians and I had no choice but to step up. Before you know it, you’ll be pressed into real service and you won’t have the luxury of stage fright.”

  I sigh quietly. He has no idea, but I love him and I know he’s just trying to make me feel better. “That’s encouraging to hear, Grandpa.”

  “And I’ll be coming to visit next month. Maybe you’ll spruce up the Residence a bit, hmm? President Colchester’s taste is, well, a little spare for my liking.”

  I do smile at that, thinking of Ash’s clean, minimalist bedroom.

  A bedroom that’s mine now too.

  We say goodbye, and I head back to the Residence, stopping by my office in the East Wing to say hello to the staff that now reports to me—the social secretary and my personal press secretary and my senior advisor. Tomorrow we will meet to talk more about my chosen initiative as First Lady (sexual assault prevention, something I chose months ago and I now get clammy even thinking about), and to work on the White House’s social agenda for the next year. And then I shoot Belvedere a text, asking him if Ash is busy.

  Just looking over some things for tomorrow, Belvedere texts back.

  And so I go to see my husband at his office.

  It’s not the first time I’ve been in the Oval Office, not even since Ash and I started dating, but something about it feels different today. It’s the first time I’m walking into this room as his wife, as the First Lady, and even Ash seems to feel it, looking up from his desk as I walk in.

  “Little princess,” he says huskily, his eyes following the lines of my sundress as it hugs my chest and waist. Belvedere makes a discreet exit back to his desk, closing the door as he goes, and we’re alone in the room. Ash spins in his chair and pats his thigh.

  “Come here, angel,” he says.

  I glance at the windows where I can Secret Service stationed outside, f
acing out toward the Rose Garden.

  “They won’t look,” Ash assures me. “And if they do, all they’re going to see is the President holding his new wife. Taking a quick break to shower his new bride with kisses.”

  I straddle his lap and sit, noticing how Ash spreads out my skirt as I sit. “And is that all that you’ll be doing? Showering me with kisses?”

  “Not even close,” my husband says calmly, reaching down under my skirt to unbuckle his belt and pull out his cock. His other hand tugs my thong to the side, probes my hole to make sure I’m wet enough for what he wants, and then I’m nudged up to sink back down onto him. My nipples harden, goose bumps erupt everywhere, and I feel his thick cock pushing up, up, up. He coaxes me back down so that I’m sitting again, his cock pressing against my deepest parts. I shudder and feel my cheeks and chest flush with heat as he wraps his arms around my waist and grinds me down against him.

  “I’ve had a long day,” Ash says, still calm, as if he’s not affected in the least by our covert fucking in front of these huge windows. “And I need to come inside of you. And what will you say when I do that?”

  I struggle to find the words, all the air being driven out of my chest by the deep, subtle thrusts of his cock. “I’ll say…ah…I’ll say thank you.”

  “Not good enough.” He punctuates this with a sharp thrust upward and I nearly cry out, stifling the urge just in time.

  I know what he wants. “I’ll say thank you, Mr. President.”

  “That’ll do nicely.” And then with infinite control, he shoves up and holds himself there, leaning in to kiss me as he fills me with his orgasm. He holds my hips down as he pumps into me, finishes, and then lifts me off of him. Like he was merely relieving a physical need, like he was taking a drink of water or stretching a sore neck, and once done, he’s back to business. Indeed, I’m still smoothing my skirt down as he turns back to his desk and picks up the paper he’d been reading.

  “Thank you, Mr. President,” I say, feeling a little confused and not a little hot between the legs at the idea of being used like this. It’s unbearably arousing, even as it adds to the lonely sense of displacement I’ve felt all day. Is this what married life will be like?

  “Thank you, Mrs. Colchester,” he replies. “I’ll see you at seven o’clock sharp.”

  “Yes, Sir.” I turn to go, but then his words make me pause.

  “You will be naked and on your knees, arms in the box position. Knees spread so I can see your pussy. I expect you to be wet.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “And Mrs. Colchester?”

  I look up and there’s the hint of a smile on his stern face. “Having you here was the best part of my day.”

  I flush, happy, and leave him to his work.

  There are already a handful of emails waiting from Linette when I get upstairs, and I have a moment of panic when I think about juggling my duties as First Lady and my duties to Georgetown this fall, but I push that to the side. Ash is coming soon and he will banish all the doubts and all the worry to a place where they can’t bother me any longer.

  I’m as he requested when I hear him come into the sitting room outside our bedroom, kneeling with my arms folded elegantly behind me and my legs spread wide enough that my cunt is available for inspection. But even though I’m doing as I’m told, the minute his frame fills the doorway, I realize something is wrong.

  I don’t dare to look up to his face, but I don’t have to. It rolls off of him—anger or turmoil or frustration—and I can feel the heat of it as he stalks past me to the dresser. I hear the fabric of his suit jacket rustling, the clink of cufflinks in the dresser drawer, the silk slide of a tie being unknotted. He doesn’t speak, and when he walks in front of me, I see he’s barefoot and his shirtsleeves are rolled up. For some reason those bare feet send alarm bells ringing in my mind.

  My mind races back to the Oval Office. Did I upset him somehow? Did something happen related to work? What could have happened in the last hour to make him like this?

  His hand fists my hair and my head snaps back. “Say it,” he bites out. “Say it so I know that you know how to stop me.”

  Never have I seen him like this—angry and wild. It’s genuinely frightening. It’s also exhilarating. My pulse pounds everywhere, my cunt throbs, my skin aches for his touch.

  “Maxen,” I whisper. “That’s how I stop you.”

  And then I’m being dragged by the hair to the closet, my knees burning against the carpet as I scramble-crawl to escape the pain in my scalp. Ash lets go of my hair and crosses over to his shoe rack, which he presses open to reveal a hidden cabinet of ropes and toys and sundry other items designed to dominate, exploit, and please.

  I’m no stranger to this cabinet, but I am a stranger to the cabinet in this mood.

  I shiver. “Are you…displeased with me, Sir?”

  He gives me a sharp look. “I didn’t give you permission to speak.”

  “Sir, please?”

  Impatient with my talk, he grabs a riding crop and gestures to a low bench in the middle of the floor, designed for a gentleman to lace up his shoes more easily.

  “Over the bench, ass up, mouth closed. Got it?”

  I search his face, looking for any trace of my Ash, the warm man I love. I find nothing but raw anger. And pain. Shaking, I drape myself over the bench the way he asked, and before I even get settled, the crop bites into my ass.

  I yelp, unprepared, and the crop comes again. It’s not the leather keeper on the end striking me, but the corded shaft, and it’s welting me from the curve of my ass down to my exposed thighs. The blows are fast and merciless, and I’m crying out with each one now, kicking my feet pointlessly against the floor, tears spilling over to run hot tracks down my face.

  Fuck, it hurts. It hurts so much I can’t breathe. It hurts so much that it drives out everything else, everything but the pain. It’s never been like this, even with the belt, I’ve never felt the full force of his emotions, the real tumult he keeps locked up inside himself at all times.

  But never do I come close to saying my safe word. I know he’d stop if I said it, I know it the way I know the sky is blue and the sun will rise, and I don’t want him to stop. I want to be able to absorb this from him, take whatever it is off his shoulders for however short a time. And I want him to relieve my mind of these lonely, nervous thoughts that have been plaguing me since the honeymoon.

  The crop stills and is tossed on the floor next to my face.

  “I want you to run,” he says, and I realize he’s out of breath, that he’s beaten me so hard and fast that it’s actually exerted him.

  I crane my head to look up at him, dazed from pain and endorphins. “Run?”

  “I didn’t tell you to look at me.”

  I drop my gaze, and he continues. “You’re going to run and I’m going to catch you. You’re going to fight me and I’m going to win. And then I’m going to mount you. Got it?”

  “Yes, Sir,” I whisper, my heart thumping against my chest. This is so messed up. So why am I fighting back a smile?

  “Go.”

  I go. I bolt to my feet and dart out of the closet, and he gives me a moment’s head start, and then I hear him pounding after me. The bare feet make sense now—it’s hard to run in dress shoes.

  I push out of the bedroom and through the sitting room, running into the Yellow Oval Room. He’s right behind me, his legs longer, his steps surer, and I skid into the hallway and fling myself into the next room, hoping against hope it leads somewhere else, but I realize too late it’s the Lincoln Bedroom and I’m trapped.

  I spin to face him as he lunges for me, and then we’re both tumbling down to the floor, hard enough to knock the air from my lungs. But I fight, pushing his hands away and trying to roll. He stops me with a knee and then a cruel hand in my hair, and then his other knee is wedged in between my thighs, driving them apart. The brutality of that knee and the weave of the antique carpet beneath my bare ass is enough to remind my
body of the furious cropping I just endured. His hand leaves my hair to palm my cunt, and I can hear and smell it. Wet. Needy.

  His eyes flare in the dark.

  I’m flipped onto my stomach, and my wrists are gathered and pinned above my head. I can’t tell if I’m still squirming to keep up the pretense of fighting or if I’m squirming to feel the carpet rough against my nipples, to grind my glowing red ass against Ash’s erection.

  Whatever the reason, it earns me a smack on the ass so hard I cry out, and then the blunt head of him is shoving into me. He feels huge like this, bigger than I’ve ever felt, and when I dare a peek behind me, his body is sleekly powerful in the moonlight, all muscles and sweat. A nocturnal predator.

  I’m being devoured by him, his cock eating me up from the inside out, burning the fear right out of me and sowing pleasure amidst the flames, and have I ever been able to breathe? I’ve forgotten what breathing is, what existing is, what everything other than being fucked like a rebellious slut on the floor of the Lincoln Bedroom feels like.

  I’m going to come, it’s like barbed wire in my pelvis, dragged up from the pain in my ass and the adrenaline from the fight, but Ash beats me to it. He pulls out and tosses me onto my back once again, and then he’s straddling me with his knees on either side of my shoulders and fucking his fist with short, angry breaths.

  “Your body belongs to me,” he says fiercely, the muscles in his shoulder and arm thick and bunching as he works himself at a furious pace. “And your gold hair and your face and your heart. Say it. Say it.”

  “It’s yours,” I say, mesmerized by his power, his anger, his cock. “All of me belongs to you.”

  He lets out a hissing breath and then it comes, long white stripes across my face, spattering into my hair, lacing my eyelashes and dripping into my mouth. So much of it, so much pent-up lust, and when he’s drained himself of every last drop, he stands up.