“Next one up, I think.”
I push up on my toes, because I’m short and Stew is not. Yeah, I can’t reach.
“Here,” Gavin says, and he’s right behind me now. My pulse is jackhammering away in my neck. I can hear it in my ears. Can he hear it? It’s loudly pronouncing my lascivious thoughts. The arm of his suit jacket brushes my bare skin as his hand reaches easily past mine and grabs the stack of nearly identical confidential reports.
How many of those does my boss get in a week? I only have the one to read. Suddenly my whining about my workload seems to lack perspective.
I turn and press my back against the bookshelf as he flips through the stack, finding the one I need.
“Here you go.” He hands it over, and I press it to my chest as he leans over me to put the rest of the stack away again.
He’s taller up close. I have to tip my head back to look up at him. Of course, I usually wear heels, and the canvas slip-ons I wear to yoga have zero lift.
“Thank you,” I breathe, about to add sir when I catch myself. He laughs as he watches me form the start of the word, then press my lips together.
“Gavin. You can call me Gavin.”
“I’m pretty sure I can’t,” I laugh, turning my head to the side in embarrassment.
“You need to, because this sir thing is killing us both and it’s only been a week.” He steps back and taps his index finger to his bottom lip. “Let’s practise.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. Try… ‘Hey, Gavin, how’s your weekend going?’”
“Hey…Gavin.” That feels weird. And nice, kind of, but mostly weird and possibly dangerous because his eyes are extra blue right now.
He laughs, his shoulders shaking silently at what I can only assume is the dorkiest look on my face, but it breaks the ice. I square my shoulders and give him a stern look. He cocks one eyebrow and sobers his mouth. “Keep going.”
“How’s your weekend going?”
“Ah, you know. Had to work on Saturday.”
“Me too.” This is actually working. It’s fun to talk to him like he’s a regular person and not someone who overwhelms me at every turn. “Well, part of it, anyway. I tried to go to yoga.”
His eyes twinkle as he follows my lead. “What happened?”
“Got stuck at the office.”
“Bummer.”
“It was okay. I almost got a mini nap on my boss’s desk. But then I got busted by his boss, which was awkward.”
“Sounds awful.”
I grin. “Not so bad, actually.”
“Phew.”
I wiggle the report in the air between us. “Thank you, again. And I’m going to get out of your hair now, so you can get on with that mythical weekend thing.”
He gestures his hand gallantly toward the door. “After you.”
He’s standing in front of my yoga mat. I point to it. “I just need…”
Instead of moving, he reaches down and grabs it. When he hands it over, his fingers brush mine, and I’m reminded again why everyone and their brother falls in love with this man.
There’s definitely something about him, a heat that’s impossible to resist, but safe at the same time. It’s super sexy, and my breath stutters on the inhale.
His gaze drops to my mouth, and when he looks back up at my eyes, the heat’s gone, like he’s purposefully made himself cold inside toward me, and after the stupid teasing conversation about names, I’ve gotta say it’s unexpected.
It reminds me that I’m underdressed and overexposed, especially when it comes to my reactions to him.
He doesn’t want me perving on him.
Nobody would. It’s not professional. But before I can apologize, he’s muttering a goodbye and on his way down the hall.
I follow slowly, pausing at the door, my hand on the light switch. I thunk my head against the wood paneling.
New girl made an impression all right.
I’m just not sure it was the right one.
6
Gavin
My gut twists as I make my way back to my office. The sight of her bent over Stew’s desk in those yoga pants made me hard, and then our conversation made me even harder. Who am I kidding? Her being in the same fucking building makes me hard.
I don't have a masochistic bone in my body, but there was something twisted about leaning over her and helping her get that report.
I know fucking better. I'm completely aware it was inappropriate and self-punishing, since I couldn't do anything else once I had her pressed against the bookshelf.
But her hair smells like lavender and her breathy little exhale is too addictive not to tease out of her.
I’m out of control and there’s only one person I can turn to.
I check my watch and subtract three hours. Lunchtime on the west coast, so Max should be free. And if he’s not, who cares? I’m the effing PM and for the first time in our adult life, I pull rank on him. If I need to get one of Vancouver's most renowned physicians out of bed or off the hospital ward to deal with a personal crisis, I damn well will.
I pull out the burner phone I keep just for occasions such as this and scroll to the entry labeled only, Hawkeye. I close my eyes and picture Max looking at his call display on the other side of the country. I’m BJ. The M*A*S*H references for our secret handles sums up our relationship pretty succinctly. I’m sure he’s rolling his eyes as he picks up on the third ring, knowing that if I'm calling under the radar, this isn't just a social call.
“It’s about time you called me," he says lazily. "I was beginning to think you’d found a newer, shinier best friend.”
I wince. “You know what it’s like when you start a new job. It takes a while to get up to speed.”
"What can I do?" That's my best friend right there in a single question. He's a self-absorbed, narcissistic, egotistical bastard, but he's always got my back, no questions asked.
The vision of Ellie’s perfectly spankable ass bent over Stew’s desk slides back to the front of my mind and I rethink my decision to discuss my problem with Max on the phone. I need space. The better part of five provinces kind of space.
“Listen, I’m heading home in a couple of hours." And now I have to make that true. "I was hoping we could get together tonight.”
I hate myself a little for being impulsively frivolous with the jet, but I justify my actions. It’s not like I’m taking a taxpayer-funded holiday to the Bahamas. I’m flying to my riding where I have obligations outside those of PM. And if I can score some action to get my mind off Ellie and her all-too-tempting ass, even better.
“You bet. Anything special I should arrange?” Typical Max. He knows me even better than Stew does. I want to say yes, so badly, but even though I’m on a burner phone, and we’re both very careful to avoid saying anything overtly recognisable, I’m still taking a risk.
“I’ll give you a call once I get home so you can swing by.”
“Sounds good.”
I slip the burner phone into my briefcase and use my office phone to call Lachlan Ross, the RCMP officer in charge of my security.
If he’s surprised by my sudden decision to go home, he doesn’t let on, and he doesn’t question it. Ever the professional.
Seven hours later, I hear a car pull up and park in the driveway of my Vancouver home. The band of stress squeezing my chest loosens a little.
It doesn’t take long for Max to clear through my security detail. He’s one of the few people in the city who can get to me with nothing more than photo ID.
He’s got a big grin on his face as I open the door, and I suspect he’s arranged something special anyway.
I close the door and turn to him. “What have you done?”
“Relax. You tell me what’s eating at you and then we’ll talk about what I may or may not have done.”
My heart speeds up and I feel a little sick. It’s hard enough acknowledging to myself all the inappropriate feelings and urges I have towards Ellie. Bu
t confessing them to another human being, even if that person is my best friend in the world, makes it way too real. But I need help, and coming clean to Max is my only option.
I lead the way into the kitchen and grab us both a beer from the fridge.
“There’s this girl,” I begin.
“Well, duh.” I open one and turn to hand it to him. His expression softens. “Sorry. There’s this girl…”
I open the other beer and take a long swig. “Yeah. She’s an intern.”
Max’s eyes go wide. “Good God, man. Did Bill Clinton not teach you anything?”
“I haven’t touched her. Not outside of my very vivid fantasies, anyway.”
Max nods. “But you’re finding it harder and harder to keep your hands to yourself.” Not a question. As a doctor and long-time Dom, Max is a master at reading people. Add best friend to the mix and yeah, he’s got my number. And my back.
“Yeah,” I confess. “It’s not just her looks, although she does have an ass that is just begging to be spanked. She’s got brains and spunk. Seriously smart and deliciously sassy, and I love that.” I take another swallow of beer. “But over and above the inappropriate workplace boss-subordinate romance thing, she’s too young. I should not be perving over a woman that young who exists in my real life.”
“So, you ran away.”
“Yes, I fucking ran away. It’s been too long since I’ve been laid, and I’m so wound up, I’m worried I might make a mistake I can’t recover from. She’s a scandal I just can’t afford.”
“And getting your kinky itch scratched in Vancouver is?”
“Dammit, Max, you’re supposed to be helping me, not making me feel worse.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I don’t know. Find me a way to let off some steam?”
"I thought you might be angling for something like that."
"I'm not angling for anything. I'm flat out telling you I need help."
"It's not like I can take you to the club and find you a willing sub for the night."
This is the bullshit that nobody tells you you'll have to put up with when you go into politics. Not if you want to stay out of blackmail range, anyway. But Max has a glint in his eye. And he seems to manage to find himself plenty of discreet, willing company.
"What are you suggesting?" Honestly, I'm game for anything. I trust him with my life. And my kink is nearly as precious. He knows that better than I do. He was the one who introduced me to it in the first place, when I stumbled into BDSM in college and freaked myself the fuck out.
His gaze darkens, like he's trying to warn me off. "I've got options, of course. I'll have to pay handsomely for them. Are you…"
"Anything, Max."
"Then yes. I've got an idea. But it'll take a few days."
We spend the rest of the evening drinking too much beer and catching up. Max takes me up on my offer of the spare room instead of taking a cab home.
I spend the next four days keeping my mind off my needs by throwing myself full-throttle into work at my constituency office, but issues are piling up in Ottawa and I’m running out of time and patience.
Stew has been on my ass at least twice a day wanting to know when, exactly, I plan to return. And every day it gets harder to put him off.
I’m just about to eat supper when the phone rings. I check the caller ID. Finally.
“Max. What’s up?” I try to hide my excitement. This is why I can't have nice things. I'm like a kid in a candy store, except I'm a grown man and my best friend is hooking me up… Definitely not the public man that everyone is looking to for a fresh new direction for our country.
Doesn't stop me from having the conversation I'm about to have. Just means I co-opt my best friend into playing spy talk as we do it. Lesson number one the RCMP taught me after I was elected: you never know who’s listening.
Max has no guilt about subterfuge. He sounds totally relaxed, like this is the kind of bromance conversation we'd ordinarily have. “Just wondering if you’re free to come over to my place tomorrow night?”
“Sure. What time?”
“Seven.”
“Great. I’ll see you then.”
Thank fuck the wait is over. Now I can get Stew off my back and, after tomorrow, I’ll be able to get Ellie’s delectable body out of my fantasies. I pull out my laptop and start preparations for my return to Ottawa.
In the morning, I’m exhausted. I had a hard time getting to sleep. Too excited about what tonight has in store. Too busy wondering what she’ll look like. How she’ll react. How rosy her ass will get after my hand has warmed it up. Will she gag, or swallow me down like a porn star?
I spend the rest of the day in meetings and clearing up loose ends at the office, thoughts of the evening ahead never far from my mind.
Months without sex, and even longer without any kind of power exchange has been rough on my mental and physical well-being. If I have any chance of remaining sane, I’m going to have to find myself a regular sub in Ottawa—soon. Not exactly sure how I’m going to swing that miracle.
I used to have a regular thing with my friend Andrea here in Vancouver. Neither of us were romantically involved, so we were always each other’s plus one with vanilla sex on the side. It worked well for us. Then things started looking shaky for the government and for a bunch of reasons, I pulled away from her.
She was fun to go to functions with and really good in the sack, but she wasn’t wife material. Not my wife material, anyway.
I couldn’t afford for the public and the media to get too attached to her. Better to be single and lose the election than run the risk of people thinking I’m using her for political gain.
If or when I get involved in another relationship, it'll be the real deal. Like what Stew has with his wife. A partnership that works on every level. And since I've never come close to that in thirty-nine years, I'm not holding my breath. Better that the country accept me as the bachelor leader I'll probably be for the entirety of my term.
It’s nearly six by the time I get home, barely enough time to choke down some food, shower, and dress before I need to leave for Max’s place.
There’s leftover pizza in the fridge, and I grab a slice to eat while I grab clean clothes. I open my dresser and pull out my favourite jeans.
I wear a suit every day. When I'm going to do a scene, I prefer fabric I can move in, but that still carries a certain image. These are soft and faded from years of wear and washing. I doubt I’ll be in them all that long, but I need to be comfortable. I open the next drawer down and root around until I find the right t-shirt. Black cotton, and just tight enough that my chest and biceps push at the fabric but not so tight I look like a juicer.
I pop the last of the pizza into my mouth and check the time on my way to the shower. Fuck, I have just over half an hour to be at Max’s and the drive will take at least fifteen. I could do it in less, but it’s probably better the PM doesn’t get pulled over for a traffic violation on his way to a bit of spanky-panky with an escort sourced by his Dom best friend.
I’m out of the shower and dressed with five minutes to spare. I throw on a jacket and grab the keys to my Tesla on my way out the door. I considered taking my toy bag with me, but decided that was also an unnecessary risk. Max would have a few extra goodies at his place I could use if I wanted.
I close the door behind me and turn to the officer who’s been assigned to me for this shift. “Come on, Tim, I’ll drive.”
7
Ellie
The second week of my job proves both easier and harder than the first.
Easier, because the PM is gone for the first part of the week.
Harder, because he’s on the west coast and all of our work days just got longer.
Easier, because I don’t have to deal with the fact that I can still feel the brush of his hand against mine as he reached past me to grab the report.
Harder, because I find myself looking for him constantly.
I
go to yoga every single night, the extra-long class.
I ignore the dreams that wake me up in the middle of night. Gavin holding me against the bookshelf and kissing me. Touching me.
By Friday, I’ve made zero progress on not fantasizing about him, but fantastic progress on laying the groundwork for Gavin to make a significant statement about corporate giving at the fundraiser planned for the middle of July.
It’s a little awkward, because Stew doesn’t want me to loop in the event organizers, who are political party activists. But I did get the green light to work with the PM’s speechwriter, Dave, who comes over from the office block across the street bearing gifts of coffee when we meet, and Stew pops in and out over the course of the week.
We map out a communications strategy that softens the landscape in a subtle way. I’m so stoked about it, and when Stew tells me on Friday that Gavin likes the plan, I grin like an idiot all the way home.
Sasha is on the couch when I walk in. She does a double take. “Did you get fired?”
I laugh. “No.”
“But it’s only six.”
“It’s the end of the week, and the PM is currently flying back from Vancouver. I got an unexpected night off.”
She snorted. “How long is this internship?”
Three painfully short months. “Until the end of the summer.”
“Phew. Because you seriously can’t work at a job forever and ever where Friday evenings aren’t de facto nights off.” She leaps up and claps her hands. “Come on. You look happy. And awake. Let’s celebrate that with a drink.”
I quickly get changed, then we walk down the street to the gastropub that serves warm pretzels and a to-die-for ham and salami tray with pickles.
We’re nearly to the end of our first round of drinks and the food has just arrived when my phone vibrates. It’s an email from Gavin’s assistant, to the entire PMO group, advising us that they’ve arrived back in the city on time, but he’s cleared his schedule for the weekend and would be taking work up to Harrington Lake, the summer residence north of the city.
Prime Minister (Frisky Beavers #1) Page 3