Elite (Elite Doms of Washington Book 1)

by Elizabeth SaFleur

  Eyes fell on them as they walked by the main dining room. So much for keeping tonight hush-hush.

  On the drive home, neither of them said much, though he held her hand over his parking brake the entire way. Every time his thumb rubbed her hand, a little spark blotted out everything but imagining that hand between her legs. By the time they reached the final exit ramp, she worried she’d left a damp spot on his leather seat. Who cares that his proposal was vague? Whatever she’d agreed to over dinner, the arousal he called up by a single touch demanded she find out.

  The sight of the familiar arts and crafts houses in her neighborhood brought her back to reality in a crushing flood. Jonathan turned into her driveway. No lights were on inside the house, not even a flicker of a television set behind the closed curtains. Her father hadn’t come home yet. Thank God!

  Christiana inhaled deeply before getting out of Jonathan’s car. She hoped his musky, elegant scent would stay with her at least until she got inside.

  Jonathan scanned the empty neighborhood street before stepping from the car.

  At the door, she paused, uncertain, but lifted her chin anticipating—no, praying—he’d press his lips against hers, demand her mouth open to him.

  He took both her hands and brushed his lips over each knuckle. “Christiana, thank you for this evening. I look forward to more.” The last remnants of her brainpower vanished.

  Back inside, she stood at the front window watching him drive off. Her mind spun from the alcohol, his voice, their conversation, and his proposition. The man whose voice, tinged with sand and smoke, stroked between her legs every time he said her name, wanted her for a private, exclusive arrangement between us. Six words that promised an answer to a prayer—one she’d never voiced, but somehow he’d heard. To be someone’s, even if just for a summer.

  9

  A sliver of early morning light cut through an opening in the hotel curtains. Jonathan should have been more tired. He’d pounded into Yvette on and off all night. The temporary ownership of Yvette’s body should have propelled him to something more. Yet the nirvana he usually gained from being buried deep inside a woman still eluded him.

  Yvette writhed underneath him, grinding herself into his pelvis.

  “Be still, Yvette.”

  “I want to move.”

  “Don’t.”

  Twin tears trickled from her coffee-colored eyes. “Please.”

  The cruelty in having her hold back her orgasm for an hour was not lost on him. “Shhh. Hold on to the bed.”

  She grasped the brass rails, and he tied her wrists to the frame in half hitch knots. She squirmed, shifting her hips.

  He smacked the side of her thigh, hard. “Yvette. Should I tie your legs?”

  “No, I . . . .”

  “Say it.”

  “I should not move.”

  “Good. What else?”

  “I must not come until you say . . . sir.”

  He placed himself at her wet opening and thrust his cock in to the hilt.

  Her eyes flew open at the sudden invasion, but her lips curled into a smile. As always, her need to yield was as strong as his need to claim. He raked his hands up the back of her tanned legs and pushed her slim ankles over his shoulders. Her insides pulsed farther open, and his balls slapped her cheeks as he lunged into her hot passage.

  “Again,” he said.

  “Whenever. You say. Sir.” Her words hitched in time with his stabs.

  “Good girl.”

  “Yes. Yes, please . . . .”

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, sir, more.”

  He urged his own fire to build while she panted beneath him. He tried to feed off her appetite for him to open her, push her, and spear her deeper. A sheen of sweat broke out on his forehead.

  Not working.

  “You’re released,” he grated out between his teeth.

  Yvette arched her back and cried out. Her lips twitched as relief swept over her face. Her body racked with convulsions. He rode the little waves inside her slippery cunt as his own release matched her orgasm.

  When she stopped trembling, Jonathan let her legs fall to either side. Yvette exhaled deeply and he nestled his face in her neck. He inhaled her perfume, once sweet but now cloying. Something twisted in his gut.

  Achievement, satisfaction, relief—all should have filled his body. But none did. He floated inside a void.

  Damn, his concentration was off.

  On Sundays, his phone didn’t ring off the hook. He had planned to spend all day between Yvette’s silky thighs, hoping to slake the surprising level of lust Christiana had provoked in him during last night’s dinner conversation.

  Jesus, last night was a night of heroic self-control. The way Christiana pulled her fork through her lips, waited for him to refill her glass, her soft small hand quivering in his grasp, all signals he knew too well in a budding submissive.

  Jonathan unbound Yvette’s arms. She tried to pull him back down, but he wrested free from her clasp.

  “I’ve got to head out, Yvette.”

  “But you wanted—”

  “What can I say? You wore me out.” He wanted to be anywhere but there.

  “Not yet, please.”

  “Don’t you have a ladies’ lunch to attend?” Damn, he should have gone to Charlottesville for a day or two, to regain his civility. His well of diplomacy had run dry.

  She encircled his torso with her legs. Wetness smudged the small of his back. He rose, rubbing his forehead to ease the tension that spread across his skull, and turned to place a kiss on her forehead before heading to the bathroom.

  Jonathan stepped into the shower’s spray of hot water and leaned against the tiled wall to let the stream pound his back. He was grateful Yvette didn’t follow. He wanted no questions, no small talk, and no interruptions. He needed time to gather his thoughts. Unhappiness wasn’t his style, yet something inside twitched. Of late, his mind careened down paths he didn’t normally tread, and questions arose where decisions once lived.

  His shoulders relaxed under the hot water bathing his muscles in the heat but his cock lay heavy in his hand, slick with soap and hard. The shocking lack of discipline irritated him, his lust rising, no doubt, from his recent imaginings of a certain young woman.

  Control, Brond.

  Jonathan mentally called up his master plan, the exercise of running through his future steps akin to meditation. He continued to wrestle with one key decision. After another two years in the House, would it be better to go for a Senate seat or a gubernatorial position? Either job, held for a few years, would allow him to leave public life for good. He’d then find something in the private sector more suited to his interests and gifts, exit the spotlight and gain freedom for the personal life he craved.

  First he had to get the Brond reputation back on track. He couldn’t let his family’s legacy end on his father’s note—a messy divorce coupled with a shocking lack of interest in his constituents’ wishes. His father had let his own needs overtake his office. Jonathan would not do the same.

  Jesus, he could end up the same. Jonathan could easily bring yet another scandal down on the family if he wasn’t careful.

  A thousand images flashed before his eyes: television cameras capturing him and a certain blond through half-open curtains of his home; the House majority leader calling him into his office for the “sex lecture” delivered too often to his colleagues lately.

  What the hell had he been thinking, asking Christiana to go away with him, dallying with someone so young? If Peter Snow got wind of his intentions in regards to the man’s daughter, Jonathan’s reputation would be irretrievably lost. He’d arranged for Peter to be at another event when he picked her up last evening, to guarantee they wouldn’t cross paths. How could he cover up an entire weekend?

  He should cancel.

  He knew he wouldn’t.

  Christiana’s honesty and utter lack of agenda enticed him like no other womanly delight set before hi
m. She had no idea who he was or where he came from. No questions about his father arose, no support of some cause was requested, and none of his family’s connections were entreated. Every time he ran into her, her innocent eyes bathed him in undeserving, albeit welcomed, admiration, her face flushing a rainbow of pinks and corals. God, what she’d be like, once unbridled.

  He had to be careful with this woman. She could lead him speeding down a path he wasn’t ready to tread. She’d make him forget why he’d sold his life to the people of the United States.

  Was that so bad? Jonathan held his face up to the cascading water and steeled himself for a rare indulgence. He would permit—just this once—the romantic notion of following his heart instead of his plan. No one had to know. He’d ensure extreme caution this week, make everyone believe he was enthralled with work and not the image of soft white legs clutching his torso.

  His shoulders softened while his cock grew stiffer. He inhaled the thick, misty air and let an image of small hands running up his shoulders and milky white skin pressing against his legs step into the steam with him. Pink lips touching his chest. Soft sighs released into his mouth when he entered her lower lips. Sweet. Pure. Christiana.

  Christiana threw two dirty plates into the plastic bin, and barbeque sauce splattered onto her white button down shirt. “Shit.”

  “Wow. Chris can swear.” Henrick handed her a towel. “Working so many double shifts will do that to you.”

  She shrugged. “I’d rather earn money than sit around an empty house. Dad’s still on the road. Election year and all that.” Plus I’ll get my weekends free. She wouldn’t mention that last part in case he got the idea to ask her out.

  Brian clapped loudly and yelled for everyone to move faster—as if they could.

  The Oak Room burst at the seams with a larger than normal Wednesday lunch crowd, lured out of their fluorescent lit offices by the good weather. Even the dining room lighting, usually kept low and dark for gravitas, was augmented by the sunshine that poured in from the tall windows by the revolving door.

  Christiana wished her mood matched the sunbeams streaming inside.

  Sunday. Monday. Tuesday. Now, Wednesday, and Jonathan still hadn’t called. She had almost requested room service detail to see if he revisited the suite for a rendezvous with Mrs. DeCord. She wisely rethought the idea. What if he was there? Hey, you, hot Congressman, why haven’t you called me?

  He must have changed his mind. A memory of his hands holding hers, the promise of sliding his fingers between her thighs, asking her to part them, for him . . . for the summer. The fantasy disappeared as quickly as it bloomed. The tingling from his fingers as he played with her wrist became only the flow of barbecue sauce trickling into the bus tub.

  When the stain on her shirt reached an acceptably diluted level of orange, Christiana headed back to the floor to do what she knew she was good at—serving others.

  The hurried lunch crowd morphed into the demanding dinner crowd, which segued into the happier bar crowd. By eight o’clock, The Oak Room’s long mahogany bar teemed with laughter and backslapping,

  Christiana straightened silverware at an empty table for the next party. Loud giggling at the front entrance drew her focus. Avery swung through the revolving door, trailed by Jessica, a girl from high school whom Avery swore she hated, but then Avery had declared she wouldn’t be caught dead at The Oak Room.

  Avery tossed her long hair and settled onto a bar stool. The bartender, Josh, examined her driver’s license. Maybe Christiana should speak to him about the fake ID he’d been handed if she were willing to risk the wrath of Avery Churchill.

  Christiana steeled herself to walk past their laughter. Avery threw Christiana a practiced smile. “There she is, waitress extraordinaire. Really, Josh. You guys should give this girl a raise. All she does is work.”

  Josh poured red wine into a glass before Avery, who sipped her illegal beverage. “Have a drink with us, girlfriend. We’re celebrating our new freedom.”

  “I have to go back to work. Have fun.” Once through the doors, the whooshing of hot water from the hoses at the washing station drowned out the girl’s cackling. Could her day get any worse?

  Every few minutes, Christiana had to walk by them. With each pass, Avery’s laughter grew louder. By the third glass of wine, she began grazing Josh’s arm with her manicured fingers. He smiled. If he only knew the hundreds of men Avery had touched in the same way, payment for a free drink or advancing a place in a long-waiting, slow-moving line.

  On her break, Christiana stood out by the hostess stand to clear her aching head and watched customers shake out umbrellas as they stepped inside. The day’s sunshine had been swallowed by a summer shower and the fat, slow-moving raindrops of summer pelted the tall windows framing the door. So what if the famous, elegant, hot-as-hell congressman had forgotten her? She had the summer ahead to shift her world. Regardless of his empty offer, she’d move forward.

  Avery’s voice hit her from behind. “Come with me, Snow. We gotta talk.”

  “I can’t, Avery.” She tried to scoot around her friend, but Avery gripped her arm and led her toward the stairs.

  “You can take a minute,” she slurred.

  When they stepped inside the ladies’ room, Avery drew Christiana close, her breath reeking of red wine. “Working a lot lately? Or you just trying to avoid me?” Avery’s glazed, unhappy stare cut into Christiana’s heart.

  “No, Avery, I’m not—”

  “Cause you know friends aren’t easy to come by.” The corner of her mouth turned downward, and she swayed a little.

  “Neither is tuition.” Christiana regretted her tone immediately. Avery didn’t deserve hearing about the tension of her day even if Christiana didn’t deserve Avery’s drunken, self-absorbed drama, either.

  Avery turned to the sink and laid her hands on the marble counter. “So, who’ve you been hanging out with then? I know you’re not always here.”

  Shit. Avery’s mistrust was firing on all cylinders. Did she know about Christiana’s sudden social life? If so, she’d be pleased to hear it had ended before it ever began.

  “You mean besides the customers at The Oak?” Christiana’s laugh sounded fake. Like the friend I’ve become.

  “Well, you’ll never change your life by working all the time, Chris. Speaking of getting a life, I heard your dad met Congressman Brond at a reception last week.”

  For a brief second, Christiana felt the floor give way under her. Had someone mentioned her attendance at the event also? Death at nineteen at the hands of a socialite. What a plot for CSI. She should just confess. Her secret-keeping ability ranked alongside an ability to perform brain surgery.

  Avery re-applied her lipstick. “So, I need your help. I need one more run-in with Jonathan—”

  “Jonathan?” A colony of fire ants crawled under her skin at the sound of Avery slurring his name.

  “Yes, Jonathan. When your dad interviews him, you tell me when. And where.”

  “That’s not a good idea.”

  “How would you know? Jonathan would love to see me. Our families have been friends for years. I’m shocked we haven’t run into each other more. And don’t do that.” Avery pulled Christiana’s hand away from her scar. “You won’t catch any man by drawing their attention to that.”

  “I can’t ask my Dad—”

  “Yes, you can.” Avery gripped her arm. “Unless you aren’t my friend anymore.”

  “I am your friend, Avery. But—”

  “But, what?”

  So what if Jonathan hadn’t called. She wouldn’t let Avery use her to get closer to him.

  “Promise me you’ll do it. For me,” Avery said.

  “No.” Avery’s shocked face told Christiana she’d said the word out loud. She’d meant to delay Avery’s demands, not ratchet up the anger simmering under her friend’s skin.

  Avery’s eyes blazed. “So, that’s the kind of friend you are?”

  Christiana crossed
her arms and met her gape.

  Avery matched Christiana’s stance. “Wait, don’t tell me. Timid little rabbit afraid to ask her drunken father for some help?”

  Irritation warred with embarrassment. Shame won. Unable to marshal a counter defense, she turned on her heel and left Avery swaying by the sink. Aching feet always did prevent Christiana from conjuring up more patience.

  Christiana entered the kitchen, smoothing down the front of her apron. Before the door swung shut behind her, she glimpsed Avery stumbling out the front door of the restaurant into the street, Jessica jogging behind. Back to planning her perfect future as Mrs. Congressman Brond no doubt.

  But how was she any different? She’d spent days spinning fantasies on the strength of one dinner date with a man so far out of her reach, she was no more grounded in reality than Avery.

  Still, her heartbeat quickened as Jonathan’s face, certain and beautiful, rose up in her mind. Christiana would go to the grave keeping her dinner with Jonathan secret, a treasured moment in time tucked away, something just for her, something Avery could never touch.

  Christiana didn’t bother to turn on the lights when she entered the Cabinet Room. She let the dim, soft light from the opaque glass in the French doors submerge her in cool dark. Somehow the room made her feel both adventurous and safe.

  She often escaped here during her breaks. Her fellow workers called The Oak’s private dining room “the tomb,” given its windowless walls and soundproofing to screen the most secret meetings. Several of the wait staff held low-level security clearances to allow them to wait on these gatherings; Christiana wasn’t one of them. She felt if the Cabinet Room walls could talk, they’d erupt with CIA secrets and congressional deals and compromises that no one in Washington would admit to.

  She perched on the large mahogany dining table and dangled her legs over the edge. She needed a moment to regroup. She wasn’t quite ready to shelve the awkward conversation with Avery if you could even call it a conversation. More like yet another opportunity to be Avery’s wingwoman.