Indiscretion (Inequitable Trilogy Book 1)

by Lesli Richardson

  And because, as messy as this thing is between us, I need him, too.

  * * * *

  This is far from the first time Elliot’s “borrowed” the president’s body man. His staff knows he’s got a few “quirks” and that I am the “Elliot Whisperer.”

  It’s also an unspoken given among all of them that, should Elliot run for POTUS—meaning, of course, when—I will be his body man.

  In my absence, any number of aides, or his chief of staff, or his admin assistant, fills in. But they all know that, when I am present, they defer to me as more a supervisor with equal power to Elliot’s chief of staff.

  I’m not a fucking gopher for them. I’m not some intern, or an assistant to a deputy assistant undersecretary, or some bullshit like that.

  I’m Elliot Woodley’s body man, even if, officially, I’m Shae’s.

  They know my bona fides. They also know Elliot and I are best friends. They likely think we bonded over common experiences—sort of true, just not the complete truth.

  Not their business anyway.

  But fifteen minutes after I’ve locked Elliot’s office door behind me, I unlock it, open it, and the vice president of the United States looks like he’s ready to take on a grizzly with his bare hands.

  He doesn’t need me for a few minutes, so I excuse myself and head over to the other side of the West Wing to see if Shae’s out of her PDB yet.

  She is, and I find her and Kev in her private study.

  “Good morning, Madam President,” I say in greeting.

  She sits back, smiling as she indicates for me to step inside and close the door behind me.

  Once we’re in private, she speaks. “Not mad at me for the schedule change, I hope? You’re almost as much of a control freak as this one is.” She hooks a thumb at Kev and blows him a kiss, which he returns.

  I force a smile. “No, ma’am. Thank you. I appreciate the consideration.”

  She shrugs. “I’m sure our vice president also appreciates the…company.”

  I nod. “I’m sure he does, ma’am.”

  “I had a few meetings get shifted on me this week,” Kev volunteers. “So Chris and I offered to fill in as her body men.” Where he’s sitting on the sofa, he grins and then laces his hands behind his head and leans back.

  He looks damned proud of himself.

  He should be. His pet is a fan-fucking-tastic president, and he’s well surpassed anyone’s expectations for him as her chief of staff.

  “I appreciate that, sir. The change of scenery is not unwelcome.”

  His smile widens as he nods.

  We all understand this code, this dance we’re doing.

  “You ever want to borrow the Tallahassee house to have a weekend visit there, just ask,” Shae says. “We haven’t put it on the market yet, and it’s furnished.”

  I swallow hard at the mental record screech that blasts through my brain. “I appreciate that, too, ma’am. I’ll keep it in mind.” I know she means well, but…

  Yeah.

  Not a conversation I want to have with her, either. Especially not right now. And definitely not around Elliot. I haven’t told him all the details, and every time he’s tried to ask, I shut him down.

  I literally cannot talk about it right now. It hurts too damn much.

  Instead, I review her day’s schedule with them, in case anything changed from the one I saw earlier this morning. There really isn’t much for me to do here at the White House right now, since I’ve been passed off to Elliot for the day.

  Once I take my leave of them, I step out of her study and instead of going to my desk just outside the Oval Office, I find myself a quiet corner in the Cabinet Room to think for a couple of minutes while I pull up a to-do list on my phone and figure out what I’ll need for Elliot. Knowing him, there’s probably stuff he forgot to pack.

  Or his bags are packed like crap.

  What am I saying? I know his bags are packed like crap.

  His luggage is still at his residence, the plan being to swing by there first so he can take a shower and change before heading to Andrews for the flight.

  Since I’m on the clock, I can request a ride to Elliot’s with Secret Service. I stop by his office again to confirm we’re still on schedule, ask him if there’s anything he wants me to pack for him, and then run upstairs and retrieve my bags from my office. From there, a Secret Service agent I didn’t serve with drives me to Elliot’s.

  Now that I know Elliot’s schedule, and his activities, I know what to pack for him. I’m sure I’ll find that he’s done a shitty job of packing for himself. I mean, to be fair, he is the vice president and a very busy man, but this isn’t a new problem for him.

  Once I’m inside his house, I can think. I’m alone, because the housekeepers have already finished their daily work and have departed. They’ll return for a more thorough cleaning and to take care of any needed maintenance once Elliot’s left town this afternoon. They work around his schedule, not the other way around.

  Again, this is nothing new, and is written off as one of Elliot’s reasonably mild “quirks.” Elliot prefers minimum staff presence, and rarely asks them for anything. I overheard one of the housekeeping supervisors saying that Elliot’s the most low-maintenance VP he could ever remember, and this was the man’s fourth administration he’d served with.

  I head upstairs and into the master bedroom, where his bags are on the floor at the end of his bed, and I start unpacking them.

  That’s when I feel my personal phone vibrate.

  I pull it out, my heart racing, only to find a text from Mom.

  Just wanted to make sure you’re still alive. Haven’t heard from you in a couple of weeks.

  Fuck.

  My mom has this spooky way of texting me when I’m thinking about her, or even if I’m not but it’s a weird coincidence that someone’s recently mentioned her or Dad. No, I’ve never told her about it, because I’ll never hear the end of it if I do.

  I opt to reply.

  I’m fine. Funny you should say that. I’ll be out there this week. Work, but might be able to fit dinner in. I’ll have a better idea later. Flying out with VPOTUS.

  I set my phone aside as I continue unpacking—the man cannot pack a suitcase to save his life. I don’t know why he doesn’t ask his valet to do it for him but there you have it. He might be my pet, yet he is, in his own ways, a control freak. Had I left it like this, every damn thing would have been wrinkled as hell, meaning extra work for him—now meaning me—ironing stuff before he can wear it. Even the suits in the garment bag are all rumpled, which takes a special talent to achieve that level of crappy packing.

  Once I’ve finished that chore and have everything laid out on the bed to verify what’s going and what’s missing—a lot—I see I have a response from Mom.

  Oh, good! We’re looking forward to it. Will Jordan be with you?

  For the second time this morning, I feel like I’ve been gut-punched. Work has been an escape, because no one outside the “trust box” really knew that we were a couple, or that we were anything other than good friends and roommates.

  My family is among the very few people who not only knew Jordan and I were an item, but also got to meet him in that capacity. We flew out there a few times for visits, or stopped by when we were already out there for work, when Shae could spare me and Chris could spare Jordan. Or I arranged for my family to meet us at whatever hotel we were at so we could have dinner.

  Of course my family doesn’t know what happened yet, because I haven’t told them.

  I don’t relish telling them, either. Mom and Dad—and even Kayley—loved Jordan. Hell, they were more than hinting around last Christmas, wanting to know when we were going to get married.

  Reasonable assumption, considering we lived together for over six years.

  I sink onto Elliot’s bed. While I’m struggling to figure out how the hell I’m supposed to break this news to Mom, my phone vibrates in my hand from an incoming text. I
start crying when I read who it’s from.

  Jordan.

  It feels like I’m gasping for air as I tap our ongoing text thread, which I could never bring myself to delete, and it opens.

  It’s a picture of what appears to be a very tiny and bare-looking studio apartment. The bed isn’t even on a frame; the mattress is on the floor. A few moving boxes sit tucked in one corner.

  Home sweet home. Work’s okay, trying to get used to how they do things now. Same department head, most of the faculty the same. Lots of new admin faces, though. Making less than in DC but it’ll work out okay.

  My heart’s pounding, throbbing.

  Agony.

  It feels like I’m bleeding out from what might as well be real stab wounds piercing me there and slicing through my soul.

  I’ll never tell Jordan how much I’m struggling, because the burdens I’ve asked him to shoulder these past six-plus years are far more than what should ever be expected of any one human.

  Just like I’ll never admit to Elliot how much I’m hurting in the wake of Jordan leaving. I’m that man’s rock and strength, and the last thing he needs to see is me fall apart.

  Elliot needs me.

  I sit there as the minutes tick past and I stare at the picture of the bed I’ll never lie in, in an apartment I’ll never set foot in.

  My boy.

  My sweet, handsome, desperately beautiful, talented, brilliant boy.

  I don’t know what to say to him.

  I love you.

  I miss you.

  This is killing me.

  Please come back.

  Please ask me to come to you.

  My thumbs are hovering over the keyboard to reply when the phone vibrates again.

  Mom.

  I ignore her message and focus on Jordan’s. I can feel him sitting there, awaiting my reply.

  I despise myself for my cowardice and the message I finally settle on and send before I lose my nerve.

  Lots of potential. How close is it to campus?

  I already know, of course, because he sent me the address when he signed the lease. He used me as a reference. I mapped exactly where it is and already have it memorized. He took over the lease from a professor at the university, who moved and needed out of their lease early.

  Something else we had in common from the start—Jordan didn’t have a car, even though he has a driver’s license. He walked everywhere, or biked, or took public transportation.

  My mom asked me several times when we were getting married, because she told me I’d likely never find someone else who’d tolerate being a car-free household.

  My mom, of course, has no clue about me and Elliot, except that we’re good friends.

  Exactly four living people, besides me and Elliot, know the truth about us.

  And one of them now lives in Tallahassee.

  The other three live and work in the White House.

  Jordan replies.

  Easy walk and on a bus line. Little more than I was hoping to pay but utilities included and free Wi-Fi, so I’ll be okay.

  He should have no other worries than finishing his degree.

  I’m already mentally calculating when and how to contact the apartment manager, so I can start paying Jordan’s rent for him, when he replies again.

  And no, I don’t need a handout. ;) I’ll be fine. Plenty in savings, long as I’m careful.

  I can see him winking at me, his playful smirk, those sweet hazel eyes of his looking a little more green than brown right now behind his glasses.

  He would pay me every month, even though I tried to not let him. He’d buy groceries, slip cash into my wallet—I wanted to take care of him in every way possible, and yet despite living with me he still asserted his independence like that.

  It’s not fair. He’s had a shitty life and he deserves to have someone who will take care of him.

  I can’t help it.

  If you ever hit a hard spot, please tell me. Reach out to me.

  At some point, I flopped over onto my side on the bed without even realizing it, with my head on Elliot’s pillow. I’m staring at my phone in my hands and crying and waiting for Jordan to reply.

  Which he does.

  I will.

  I gasp again, because air’s just not getting into my lungs. I feel like I’m absolutely dying right now.

  I have to say it.

  Love you. Please be safe.

  The few minutes feel like forever before he replies. I want to believe it’s because, like me, he’s staring at his phone and missing me and maybe even regretting leaving DC. Maybe he’s planning on asking to come back.

  Maybe, maybe, maybe.

  I will. You, too.

  I close my eyes and sob into Elliot’s pillow.

  Chapter Nine

  Then

  It’s indescribable, the feel of Elliot’s hands roaming my body. The eager air of wonder enveloping him right now makes my cock throb. I encourage him to explore and tease and to have fun.

  Because if we’re not having fun? Honestly? Why are we even doing it in the first place?

  Before the water can start going cold, I have him turn and brace himself on the side of the tub. I keep a bottle of lube in the shower—shut up, you damn well know why—and I lube a finger so I can play with him.

  Grabbing his cock with my other hand, I slowly work my finger into his rim. With my face close to his I’m watching him, trying to make sure I don’t go too far this time, or that I’m causing him the bad kind of pain.

  He turns his face toward me and kisses me.

  Definitely a good sign.

  Another good sign is how he starts rocking his hips, back and forth, fucking himself between my hands while we kiss.

  He’s mine. All mine. Whatever I have to do to keep him, I’ll do it.

  I spend several minutes edging him like that while working him up to three fingers and adding plenty of lube, so I don’t have to waste time doing that once I get him into my bed. He’s trembling now, to the point I’m almost afraid he’ll lose his balance, so I withdraw my fingers.

  He gasps as I do and tries to follow me with his hips, which makes me laugh.

  “Hang on, pet. Change of venue, that’s all.” I wash my hands and shut off the water. After we’re both dried off and return to my bed, with him on his back and towels under us, I’m ready to really blow his mind.

  Among other things.

  I climb on top of him, straddling his hips and with my arms caging his head. “Not tonight,” I tell him, “but at some future point, I am going to fuck you raw and make you mine.”

  An eager nod greets that proclamation. “Yes, Sir. Please.”

  Leaning in for another kiss, I stop just short and he lifts his head to meet me there.

  More eagerness on his part.

  “Tell me about some of your fantasies, pet.” I brace myself on my left arm. With my right hand, I lightly tease and play with him. Nipples, cock, cupping his balls, stroking his flesh, getting him used to my touch.

  Associating everything good and pleasurable with what we’re doing now, building it up in his mind as a positive thing. Will I try to drag him kicking and screaming out of his closet?

  Absolutely not.

  I will do everything in my power to show him I am a safe space for him, where he can always retreat to, and I will give him whatever cover he needs.

  As he talks, I stare into his eyes, nuzzle his nose with mine, nibble gentle kisses along his jaw, nip the shell of his ear and let him hear me breathing. My new pet has many dark and dirty fantasies, of being taken and used and broken, helpless to resist despite trying.

  I also sense a hidden thread of shame over these fantasies woven into the fabric of his spirit, lying just below the surface.

  I suspect his family is likely very conservative and wouldn’t be supportive if he comes out. It’ll be something I explore with him over the course of our relationship.

  He’s so adorably, beautifully innocent in s
ome ways, having no real-world experience in rough trade, only knowing what speaks to his secret fantasies.

  I’m also left wondering if he’s got untreated PTSD. A few times, he unconsciously flinches when we hear a noise somewhere else in the building or from outside. My bedroom’s on an outer corner, so little chance of us being overheard by my neighbors, but this is something beyond mere nerves on his part.

  I finally kick the psychologist out of the bedroom and slant my lips over his again. My fingers close around his cock and gently squeeze, pulling a soft moan from him. He’s spilling pre-cum all over himself and my hand and I am sure when I watch him come for the first time that it’ll be glorious and a moment for me to always remember.

  Which is why I prolong it as long as possible.

  Being able to trust and let go is a heady aphrodisiac I want him fully addicted to before I allow him out of my bed Monday morning. I need him wanting more.

  I need him wanting me.

  It’s no small thing to me that I’m the first person he’s ever confided in like this.

  Rising onto my arms again, I stare down into his eyes. “Ask me, pet,” I whisper. “Ask me for it. Right now. All you ever have to do is ask.”

  His throat works as he swallows. “Please fuck me, Sir.”

  I sit up, grab a condom, and sheath myself. A little lube slathered over my cock, and I’m quickly seating myself against him and carefully pressing forward.

  Elliot starts rocking his hips as I settle into position, my hands pinning his wrists above his head and his legs wrapped around my waist. I take my time, watching his face, easing my way inside him. I’m decent-sized but he doesn’t even own any toys, apparently.