Christiana lifted her head from a thick, muggy cloud.
Avery shook a wet Diet Coke can over her torso. “Hey, wake up. He’s here.”
“What?”
“Shhh, not too loud. Over there. And for God’s sake, Chris, don’t stare!” Avery put on her straw hat and stretched into a pin-up pose. “He’s always been so elusive. But I hear he’s been coming to the club more often lately.”
Christiana scanned the table area. Her eyes found two tennis players, three older women playing cards, and him.
Congressman Brond sat under the diffused light of an umbrella with several men dressed far too formally for a summer poolside setting. Ties hung loosely around necks. Perspiration darkened khaki pants at the hips. Starched shirts wilted in the muggy summer heat. All sweat stained except the congressman, who sat silent and still in a crisp white shirt with aviator glasses masking his eyes.
Brond slapped both hands down on the table and stood. The other men rose hastily, scraping their chairs behind them and gathering papers. The congressman strode into the sunshine alone, his suit jacket hooked from a finger over his shoulder.
Christiana stared at his Roman profile as he slowly scanned the sunbathers around the pool.
“Man, he’s something,” Avery muttered. Of course she hadn’t taken her gaze off him, either.
Christiana squinched her eyes closed. While her mind refused to acknowledge he stood mere feet away, her body tuned into his presence with a vengeance. Moisture tickled down her spine as she concentrated on calming the hunger threatening possession of her senses. She flattened her back into the towel she’d draped over her chaise longue, but today even the expensive Egyptian cotton proved unable to hide her response to the heat—or Congressman Brond’s presence. She licked her lips and fought the restlessness in her legs, willing herself not to wriggle her bottom into the lounger seat. Breathe, Chris.
Jonathan stood on the blazing hot concrete longer than he cared to, but he needed to resolve the internal debate that had raged in his head since he sat down. The last person he expected to see here was Christiana Snow. Yet, there she sat, tempting him like a creamy delicacy.
A fall of blond hair cascaded over the back of the chaise and her long, elegant legs stretched out, glistening with sunscreen. Small breasts, barely covered in triangles of sapphire Lycra, rose and fell with her deep breaths. She looked more serene than he’d ever seen her, certainly more than when they plowed into one another at the Churchill fundraiser mere days ago.
Her rosebud lips parted on a sigh. His mind filled with visions of succulent kisses—and wet sucking sounds from her mouth encasing his cock. He hardened instantly.
Perhaps running into Christiana at the fundraiser—and now here—was fated. He didn’t believe in such nonsense, yet some kismet seemed at work.
The more voluptuous Avery Churchill perched beside Christiana. She wore the same expression he’d seen at the fundraiser. Ennui and entitlement. She irritated the fuck out of him.
It was strange seeing these women from two different worlds together, given what he knew of Christiana’s family history.
And, he was from yet a third universe.
He should walk away.
Christiana stretched like a warm kitten in a slat of sunshine.
She’s nineteen. Forget it. He had an election to win, a family legacy to restore, and a personal life that already skated the edge of respectability.
Walk. Away.
Her pink tongue swirled over her lips.
He turned toward them. Jonathan had an hour before he needed to be at the television station. He could at least say hello.
“Don’t. Say. Anything,” Avery hissed.
Christiana’s eyes popped open when a shadow replaced the sun’s warmth.
“Miss Churchill. Miss Snow.” Congressman Brond stood taller than Christiana remembered.
Avery beamed. “Why, Congressman, how nice to see you.”
“And you as well.”
Christiana nodded, entranced by her reflection in his aviators. Her mind had blanked.
“Are you enjoying your summer break?” he asked.
Avery grinned up at him. “Oh, yes. That’s what summer is for after working so hard, right?”
“I’m sure. Miss Snow, I trust you won’t let The Oak Room monopolize your time.”
“I’ll try. Um, I mean I’ll try not to.” Christiana jogged her mind for something—anything—to add to the small talk. Jonathan Brond’s shadow overlaying her legs did nothing to cool her overheated body. Instead a rush of blood flooded her core.
“It’s a good day for swimming,” he suggested.
“Oh, Chris doesn’t swim. She hates the water,” Avery cooed.
Ignoring Christiana’s frown, Avery continued her barrage of flirtation—of course.
“What about you, Congressman? What do you do for fun?”
“I’m afraid I won’t have much time for that this year. Election year.” He regarded Christiana. “But I’ll get away for a few weekends.”
“The beach?” Avery asked.
“I prefer the mountains. Quieter.”
“Too shady. I need sun.” Avery stretched her legs out and arched her back.
“And, you, Miss Snow?” the congressman asked.
Christiana had never thought about it before. “Both, I think.”
He laughed. “Spoken like a true politician. And I agree, if one can have it all, one should.”
“I suppose,” Avery scoffed.
The congressman turned to Avery as if he’d forgotten she was there. “Did you have a good turn-out for your family’s fundraiser, Miss Churchill?”
“Oh, yes. I’m sorry you never got a turn with me on the dance floor.” Avery dipped her eyes. She was one step away from waving a palm frond over the man’s body and feeding him grapes. Christiana could see why. A man like Jonathan Brond serviced a harem somewhere.
Jonathan smiled at Avery. “I’m afraid you’re too popular for me.” Christiana had no idea why, but she felt a little better at the congressman’s response to her friend.
As he squatted down on his heels, her whole body vibrated under his attention. He took off his sunglasses, and flecks of gold danced in his green eyes. Christiana could feel Avery’s cold gaze drench her in jealousy, but she couldn’t turn away from his face.
His lips twitched into a smile. “I understand your father wants to interview me.” His eyes whirled with amusement, or was that annoyance? Sarcasm or mockery definitely, but she wasn’t sure which. He rose and turned away before Christiana could absorb his words, much less respond. “Don’t forget your sunscreen, ladies,” he said over his shoulder.
“We promise!” Avery yodeled and leaned back.
He wove through the tables under the pergola. Stripes of sunshine lanced his broad back until he disappeared through the wide glass door.
“Oh. My. God.” Avery said. “He came over to talk to me! And your Dad’s going to interview him.” Avery’s voice dropped to a whisper. “He’s thirty, one of the youngest people ever elected to Congress, no wife. And I couldn’t find anything about a girlfriend, though there are enough pictures online with women. You wouldn’t believe what you can find on Google.”
Christiana took a lungful of stifling air. Shit, Dad. Your timing sucks. What if the congressman thought Christiana had blabbed every word about their meeting to her Dad? She hadn’t breathed another word about that dance to her father since she’d blurted it out on Sunday. She knew better than to elaborate. But Congressman Brond wouldn’t know that.
He’d think I was a little girl swooning. A wasps’ nest of nervousness settled in Christiana’s belly as if she’d been caught downloading porn. Well, lately her mind had resembled an X-rated film set. Oh, God. What he must think!
Avery’s chatter impinged on her awareness. “The Bronds were big into mining before his grandfather got into publishing. Congress was later. They’re like the Hearsts or something. His grandfather moved the who
le family to Rhode Island. Can you imagine? That tiny state? I’d kill myself.”
Her tidal wave of words only added to Christiana’s shame. Avery wouldn’t have smutty pictures floating in her brain. Avery wouldn’t have sat like a stone while a gorgeous man talked to her. Avery wouldn’t have her inner thighs catch fire every time his gaze landed on her face.
“Jesus, he’s so damn hot,” Avery swooned. “You don’t think he’s gay, do you? I wonder who I can ask. Not your Dad. Too obvious. What if he told him? Mortifying.”
Humiliation washed Christiana from head to toe at the thought her father might do just that.
“Maybe your Dad can get him somewhere, and we can just happen to run into them,” Avery said. “Wait!” She glared at Christiana, aghast. “What if your Dad writes something to scare him off?”
Yes, what if he does? Her father would jump at the chance to interview a congressman and produce a piece that’d be talked about from the Capitol steps to the Pacific Ocean. What if Congressman Brond thought she was her Dad’s accomplice?
“Avery, I have to get ready for work.” She lied. But she had to retreat to her room to regroup. To think.
“But it’s only one.”
“I promised I’d come in early to help set up.”
“Like I said, Chris. You work too much.” Avery pulled her towel from under her legs, brows knit in concentration. Probably planning her wedding to him. The Congressmen Bronds of the world ended up with women like Avery. Refined, sophisticated, experienced. Avery didn’t have an alcoholic father to compromise a man like Jonathan Brond. No, Avery would be the embodiment of grace and discretion.
6
Jonathan stepped into the late afternoon sunshine, provoked but containing his irritation. He’d spent thirty appalling minutes taping a segment for the evening news in a vain attempt to warn people how dangerous social media could be. The idiotic host, Collins, had no idea what he preached. People were sending other people over the edge with a touch of a button.
Fuck. Yes, he needed to fuck.
Jonathan had two hours before a mandatory reception. He couldn’t go with his cock on fire. Fingering his phone, he ran through a list of women he could call. He shouldn’t call any of them. Damn election.
Jesus, what he wouldn’t give to have an agreement with a certain young blond woman. Christiana Snow hadn’t been out of his thoughts since he ran into her for the second time in days—unheard of in Washington. But he must stop. He’d give an interview to Peter Snow and be done with it.
Jonathan pushed the image of her blue eyes and perfect round ass from his mind and dialed Christiana’s polar opposite. Someone whose need for discretion exceeded his own.
“Yvette.” She’d answered on the first ring. “Are you in your suite?”
“I’m having lunch with my friends.” Laughter rose in the background.
“Can you get away?”
“I thought you had fundraisers to attend.”
Ah, the brat he’d grown to expect. Well, he knew how to handle petulance. “I won’t ask again.”
“I can extract myself in another hour.”
“Thirty minutes. Your suite,” he directed.
“I’ll try.”
He steeled his voice. “Yvette.”
“Yes, sir. Thirty minutes.”
“Don’t keep me waiting.”
She would be late. She’d do it to force a spanking, her favorite punishment. Today, she’d learn attempting to top him would not result in anything she liked. God, he needed this. Someone who understood what he required and, in return, required what he could give.
Jonathan slipped behind the wheel of his convertible, heat seeping through his pants from the sun-warmed leather seat. If he hurried, he would beat Yvette to the Jefferson Suite and have time to prepare.
The light traffic allowed him to arrive at The Oak in twenty minutes. Rich hues of lush lawn and paler pastels of spring blooms colored the landscaping around the entranceway as he pulled up. The valet rushed to open his door.
Jonathan tossed his keys to the eager young man, who yelped, “Congressman.”
The Oak’s lobby didn’t teem with guests. A sliver of suspicion ran up his spine—an automatic reaction to significant environmental changes.
As he ascended in the antique elevator, he wondered if Christiana would work the restaurant later that night. Stop it, Jonathan.
Jonathan used his master key to enter the suite, a waft of lilac scent hitting him square in the face as the door opened. Yvette kept fresh flowers at all times. He smiled, knowing she likely had doubled her order this week. As long as Arniss DeCord dallied in their divorce settlement, she’d run up his tab. The worst thing she could do to the prick was spend his money.
Jonathan and Yvette had been friends since college. He’d warned her about marrying Arniss, and now his prediction had come true. The affairs aside, the man’s greatest cruelty lay in ignoring her needs. Jonathan would do no such thing, could not. Yvette deserved better. He hated seeing her suffer—seeing anyone suffer.
His steps echoed through the marble entrance of the vacant suite. He flipped the wall switch in the master bedroom and recessed lights’ soft illumination rose. His bag made a loud thump as he threw it on the bed. A quick glance at the clock soothed his earlier anxiety. Yvette had to arrive in the next ten minutes in order to avoid a punishment. She wouldn’t make it.
He pulled out a short bamboo switch from his bag, ran his fingers over its knobby surface. He laid it on the silk duvet where Yvette would see it immediately upon entering.
Jonathan loosened his tie and fell into the corner wingback chair, facing the French doors, which he’d left opened to the main room. He needed to see her enter. Yvette didn’t so much walk as sashay, hips rolling with each step. Her walk was his favorite part of the dark-haired beauty queen’s manner and physique.
Of course, Yvette’s brat nature wasn’t his ideal for a submissive. Her hot temper blazed too quickly. But she acquiesced often enough to keep his interest and keep him serving her need for domination.
Jonathan loved seducing a female submissive, teasing the consent from her willing body. He loved the feeling of absolute control—control he had nowhere else in his life. His political career provided power. But nothing compared to the rush from earning a submissive’s trust and consent. Dominating a willing woman provided him a unilateral authority. His will dictated every action without compromise—far removed from the fucking consensus that ruled his political life.
“Take off your clothes. Everything but the panties.” Those would be his only words.
She’d peel off her bra slowly, letting her full breasts with dark-berry nipples pop free. He grew stiff at the thought of capturing each bud in the little clamps he brought. Pinching the firm tips, one in each claw, would be his first action. Then, he would connect the clamps’ chain to a collar she’d wear.
He’d bend her over the dark-red leather bench at the base of the bed, ass displayed for his taking. The thin chain would pull each tip hard when he yanked her hair back—smooth, silky, dark locks that slide through his fingers and waterfall down her back.
Perhaps she’d earn that spanking then. He knew from experience her cunt soaked through lace in three slaps. A cane would brand her ass but draw out her orgasm. When her mewls stopped, she’d be ready. He would then take his time, lots and lots of time, to drive into her heated pussy, like plowing new earth with his rutting.
A snick sounded from the suite’s front door. Yvette’s high heels clicked on the hallway’s marble floor. She was late. Good.
Christiana dropped her pool bag just inside the marble entranceway of Avery’s home—if one could call the mansion a home. The echo of Avery’s steps on the stone chilled her skin.
“Well, don’t stand there like a servant in the entrance. Come in,” Avery beckoned her to follow her up the steps leading to the living room.
“Uh, thanks, Avery. I’ve got to head out.”
“Not e
ven a minute? We can Google him!” Avery’s eyes fired.
“No, I’ve got to—”
“I know, I know. Go to work.” Avery sighed and picked at her cuticles. Her manicures hadn’t lasted lately. “I just don’t like being here by myself.”
The Churchills had a live-in maid, cook and butler. It was unlikely Avery would ever be alone. Yet, Christiana understood. She supposed most people would find the Churchill home the epitome of success—a seven-bedroom Georgia mansion behind gates, a large C curled into the black ironwork. A long limestone drive led up to a white-columned portico, where an actual butler would emerge to see if you were friend or foe.
If someone made it through the house entryway, they learned Avery’s mother, Coco, was no art dilettante but a true patron. A rare oil of a maritime war scene by Jacques-Louis David, a hedonistic view of three frolicking women painted by Jean-Honoré Fragonard and several peaceful pastoral scenes by Thomas Gainsborough hung in large, gilded frames, lining the oval foyer. A large, brass sculpture of a young girl holding a basket held court on one side; its twin statue, a small boy holding out a bunch of wildflowers, faced her on the other side of the vestibule. More paintings, including oils of the family together and single portraits, led the eye deeper into the Churchill manor.
The famed J.R. Robichaud had captured Avery’s likeness. She hated the depiction, saying Picasso would have captured her more accurately. Christiana thought the portrait looked beautiful, albeit a little angry. Christiana often wished she felt like Avery looked in the painting—someone who didn’t take any crap.
Avery fluttered her hand, dismissively shooing Christiana away. “Well, go serve your crab cakes and sirloins to Washington’s elite. I’ll be Googling.” She winked, with a return to the old self-assured Avery.
She headed up the large staircase to the right to the family rooms, as Coco called them. The staircase on the left side of the entrance hall led to the guest quarters. Both sides looked the same to Christiana—straight out of Washington Home magazine—only nicer. Yet, despite Coco’s impeccable taste, Christiana had always thought the house resembled a museum except no one who lived there ever stopped to admire the artwork.
Elite (Elite Doms of Washington Book 1) Page 5