by Chelle Bliss
We agreed this morning after the quickest quickie we’ve ever had that we have no regrets. Whether it’s from the governor’s mansion or our home in Chicago, we know life has good times in store for us.
Tyson approaches us, grinning. “Cook County came in. You’re still up enough that a recount’s off the table.”
Jude lets out a breath and pulls me close, kissing the top of my head. Then he rests a palm on my back, exposed by the low-back red sequined gown I’m wearing.
The moment he saw me walk out of the bathroom of our hotel room in this dress, he told me he couldn’t wait to get it off me.
People come up to Jude to offer congratulations, some taking selfies with him. I can read his expression—he’s not ready to celebrate until Tyson tells him he’s been called as the projected winner.
I pass Jude my champagne glass, and he takes a swig, wrinkling his nose.
“Too sweet.”
Tyson looks down at his phone screen and then back up at Jude.
“CNN’s projecting it.” He breaks into a grin. “Congratulations, Governor.”
Jude embraces Tyson in a back-patting man hug. I can’t help the tears that fall to my cheeks. It’s not just because Jude won, but because I know what he’s been through to get here.
My husband’s road to the governor’s mansion started in the Middle East, where he served with pride and resolved to help his fellow veterans. A woman who lost part of her leg in service came up to him outside our polling place this morning and shook his hand, tearfully wishing him well.
When he sweeps me into his arms and holds me tight, my feet leave the floor.
“We did it,” he says, his voice quaking with emotion as he buries his face in my shoulder.
“I love you.” I put my hands on his cheeks and kiss away the moisture on his cheek. “Congratulations, babe.”
He sets me down and takes a deep breath, steadying himself. “Should I call Gloria?”
“No, she’ll call you, remember?”
He grins sheepishly. “Right. I can’t even think straight right now. I can’t believe this.”
“Believe it, love. You have your speech, right?”
He pats the breast pocket of his suit. “Yeah. I want you up there with me.”
“I will be.” I finish the champagne and smile at him. “Probably a good time to call all the aides and interns together and thank them.”
“Right. I think Tyson got a room for us to meet in for that.”
Texts of congratulations start hitting my phone from family, friends, and colleagues. My mouth drops open in surprise when I see one come in from Andrea Matisse.
Andrea: Congratulations to your husband. Would love to discuss my job opportunity with you again.
Ha. I’m not even going to respond to her. Anyone who didn’t stand by us when the chips were down doesn’t deserve loyalty.
Besides, I don’t want to be a globe-trotter for Andrea’s foundation. As first lady of my state, I can choose my own advocacy projects.
If anyone had told me when I was in my early twenties that this daughter of a Democratic senator, who served as a Democratic state rep, would end up being the wife of a Republican governor and not wanting to hold a full-time job, I would have laughed hysterically.
Me? In love with a man of the opposing political party? Not blazing trails with an exhausting travel schedule, but wanting to be by my husband’s side instead?
Impossible, I would have thought.
But that’s the thing about women’s rights—I support women choosing their own path, free from judgment.
Stay-at-home mom, First Lady, physicist, mechanic—they’re all my people, and I hope to bring all women’s issues into the spotlight.
I stand in the back of the room as Jude addresses the group of people who worked on his campaign. Many of them are crying as he thanks them for their tireless work. Gratitude overwhelms me, and I’m near tears, too.
Tyson approaches and leans against the wall next to me.
“Congratulations,” I say, offering him my hand.
His handshake is weak, but his smile is broad. “Thanks. You too.”
“You’re coming to work for him now, right?”
He shrugs. “I will if he asks.”
“He’ll ask.”
Tyson’s smile fades. “I thought you might not want that.”
“I can’t think of anyone better. You’ve done a fantastic job. I mean, chief of staff’s a grind, but if you want it—”
“I do.”
I punch him playfully in the shoulder. “I’ll put in a good word.”
“Thanks, boss.”
“Seriously, Tyson, you came through in every way. I’m not sure he would have made it without you.”
Tyson’s cheeks redden. “Thanks.” After an awkward silence, he lowers his brows and says, “Are we gonna be friends now?”
I shrug. “I’m kinda used to our dynamic.”
“Me too.”
“Let’s keep ’em guessing.”
We share a brief laugh and then both focus on Jude.
“Reagan and I consider you more family than friends,” he says, his voice catching in his throat. “Thanks doesn’t seem like enough to say for all the months you guys devoted to the campaign. I’ll just say…” He clears his throat. “I promise I’ll do my best to make you proud.”
The interns in the front row start cheering, jumping up from their chairs and throwing their arms in the air. Jude’s gaze wanders across the crowd, and I know he’s looking for me.
I head for the front of the room, and as soon as Jude spots me, he opens his arms, wrapping one around me when I reach him.
“How ’bout an Al/Tipper kiss?” he asks in a low tone.
I laugh at his reference to the infamous, lengthy kiss from the 2000 presidential campaign, then nod. We’re not in front of the cameras here—it’s just our supporters.
He dips me like we’re dancing and then plants a long, deep kiss on my mouth, making everyone in the room hoot and holler.
When we stand up, he can’t seem to stop smiling at me. And I’m feeling the same way.
I never dreamed we’d end up here, but now, I can’t imagine being anywhere else.
28
Jude
The sunrise wakes me up, light streaming through the tiny cracks in our primitive beach hut.
I glance over at Reagan, who looks like an angel as she sleeps soundly, curled up on one side with her dark hair around her shoulders.
Brushing a stray lock away from her face, I study her. I don’t just see beauty. There’s grace. Strength. Humor. Compassion.
Somehow, I’m lucky enough to be living the life of my dreams. If and when we have children, I’ll have all I’ve ever wanted.
Reagan is right—we can’t let our marriage get lost in the mix. I’m going to show her I meant what I said about prioritizing us.
And if I’m a one-term governor, I’ll be good with it. I don’t want to go any further in politics than this. In fact, I didn’t even want to go this far, but the party leadership begged me due to a lack of other decent candidates.
When Reagan stirs, I slip my arm around her waist. A smile touches her lips, and she opens her eyes.
“Hey,” she says in a sleepy tone. “Good morning.”
“Morning, babe.” I kiss her lips lightly.
“No, I have morning breath.”
“For the eleven hundredth time, I don’t care.”
She cringes. “I care.”
I kiss her harder and she tries to shrink away, but I hold her in place.
“What are we doing today?” she asks, yawning.
Our beach hut is right in the crystal-clear water, with a wooden walkway to the beach in back and stairs into the water in front.
Yesterday was our first day here, and we spent it walking on the beach, swimming, and fucking our brains out. It was perfection.
“Want to go eat at that restaurant we heard about later?” I suggest.<
br />
“Yeah, let’s do dinner there.”
“And I’m thinking we can spend the rest of the day right here. Maybe take an occasional break to swim?”
She laughs and cups my cheek in her hand. “Babe, you’re insatiable.”
“Guilty.”
She reaches between my legs and palms my half-hard cock. I close my eyes and soak in the sensation of her stroking me.
So fucking good.
There’s no such thing as politics in this little hut. Just me and my dead sexy wife, spending the next ten days focused entirely on each other.
She kisses my chest and slides onto her knees, working her way down. I stretch out and groan as she gets to my cock, her hot breath on the tip a tease of what’s to come.
Her tongue toys with my head, circling and stroking until I don’t think I can take anymore. Then she sinks down and takes me as deep as she can, and I slide my hand into her hair, her name coming out of my mouth in a ragged tone.
We’ve been together so long that she knows exactly how to drive me wild. She reads my signals perfectly.
A buddy asked me before I got married if I was sure I only wanted one woman’s mouth on my dick for the rest of my life, and I told him that, without a doubt, I was.
Reagan doesn’t just give me head. Cheesy as it sounds, I feel like she’s loving my body at moments like this. Making my pleasure her only goal, just as I make hers mine.
I’ll never want another woman like this, and I’ll never love another woman like this. I hope Reagan and I get to be old and gray together, but if not, no other woman could ever take her place.
I could love again, sure, but not like this. It wouldn’t be love that seared me and lifted me at the same time. Reagan and I are two halves that make a whole.
She moves down to my balls, making me groan hard and fist the bedsheet. This is how she drives me to the brink.
Slowly. Carefully. Perfectly.
I’m breathing hard when she finally returns to my cock, her lips and tongue ravishing every nerve ending. My grunts and groans are running together as I race toward the point of no return.
When she looks up at me, her milk-chocolate eyes full of love, longing, and mischief as she sinks her mouth down onto my length, I come with a mighty roar.
Fuck, it’s good. I’m gonna make sure she has an orgasm that matches that one before we leave this hut.
After we clean up, we snuggle back under the sheet together, the muggy temperature already coating us both in a layer of sweat.
I kiss my wife, and she starts to doze back off to sleep. I’ll lie here and hold her until she wakes up.
I can’t wait for our future together. But I also vow to live our present to the fullest, because really, that’s what matters most.
Not then. Not the maybes. Not the what-ifs. Not tomorrow.
Now. And our now is everything I’ve ever wanted.
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ABOUT BRENDA ROTHERT
Brenda Rothert is an Illinois native who was a print journalist for nine years. She made the jump from fact to fiction in 2013 and never looked back. From new adult to steamy contemporary romance, Brenda creates fresh characters in every story she tells. She’s a lover of Diet Coke, chocolate, lazy weekends and happily ever afters.
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ABOUT CHELLE BLISS
Chelle Bliss is the USA Today bestselling author of the Men of Inked and ALFA P.I. series. She hails from the Midwest but currently lives near the beach even though she hates sand. She's a full-time writer, time-waster extraordinaire, social media addict, coffee fiend, and ex-high school history teacher. She loves spending time with her two cats, alpha boyfriend, and chatting with readers. To learn more about Chelle, please visit her website.
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