Filthy Series

by Bliss, Chelle

  “This is about us. About pleasure. About nothing more than a husband and wife. There’s nothing but this moment. This room. The feeling of your skin against mine. No sounds other than moans of pleasure.”

  Her lips are parted as she listens to me speak, but she nods, understanding every bit of what I mean. This is how I unwind, how I close myself away and forget that I’m anything more than a hungry man in love with my wife.

  I move my hands away from her face, showing her the room with the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the town in the swankiest hotel money could buy in this part of Illinois.

  She looks around, her eyes moving from the windows to the hundreds of flickering candles around the room. “It’s beautiful,” she whispers as I stroke the soft skin on her bare shoulders.

  “No one can find us. I made sure of it,” I tell her, slowly easing down the straps of her dress.

  The material falls away, pooling on the carpet around her feet. I run my fingers up her arms, causing goose bumps to break out across her flesh.

  “Tonight’s mine, Reagan. You’re mine. I want to lose myself in you.” I press my lips to her neck, placing them over her pulse. “Use you every way I can until my body and yours can’t take any more.”

  17

  Reagan

  Tonight, there are no worries about the accusations against my husband. I’m not thinking about the loss of my job or Andrea’s offer.

  There’s nothing on my mind right now but pleasure. Jude’s mouth is making its second pass up and down my legs, a nip on my inner thigh causing me to moan in response.

  We haven’t spoken since falling into this bed together. Unless my fragmented cries of pleasure count, that is. Jude spent at least thirty minutes bringing me to the edge of release with his mouth between my legs, deliberately slowing when I was almost there.

  When he finally let me come, tears pricked at the corners of my eyes from the intensity.

  He only gave me a minute to recover before he pinned my hands to the mattress over my head, one of his hands easily trapping both of mine. He cupped my ass and fucked me fast and hard, his groan vibrating against my skin as he came.

  We lay with our legs wrapped around each other for a while after that, just tracing invisible lines on each other’s sweaty skin, basking in the quiet and calm.

  Jude and I get very little peaceful time together. Our schedules are usually frenzied, and lately, we’ve both been exhausted as soon as it’s time to sleep.

  Tonight is reminding me what matters most in my life—not politics or parties, not jobs or poll numbers—my husband.

  We never got a blissful, storybook beginning to our marriage. With Jude being a senator, we only took enough time to get married and escape for a quick honeymoon.

  After that, we both got to work proving to voters and supporters that we weren’t crazy for falling in love. We felt an obligation to prove ourselves, and I don’t know that we’ve ever really stopped.

  “Mmm, I don’t think I can handle any more of that,” I murmur as Jude’s warm breath brushes across the apex of my thighs.

  He lets out a deep note of amusement before running the tip of his tongue between my lips, opening them just enough to elicit a ragged moan from me.

  “Sure you can,” he says, his dark eyes meeting mine.

  The sight of him staring intensely at me from between my thighs sends a tingle of arousal from the top to the base of my spine.

  “Um…maybe,” I manage.

  Jude bites the sensitive skin of my inner thigh gently. “I’ll hold you down if I have to, Mrs. Titan.”

  His tongue delves deeper, and I sigh with pleasure as he explores every spot still sensitive from the last freight train orgasm he gave me.

  This night is turning out to be everything I didn’t even know I needed. Jude knew, though. It’s heaven having a man who sometimes knows me better than I know myself.

  * * *

  A couple hours later, we slip out of bed to order room service. While we’re waiting, Jude cracks open the curtains, and we look out over the small city, many of the night lights already dark.

  I slip on a white silk robe and wrap my arms around his waist, closing my eyes as I soak in his warm, solid presence.

  “I love you,” I say, pressing a soft kiss to his chest.

  “I love you too.” He wraps his arms around me. “Thanks for being my rock through all of this.”

  “Anytime. For better or worse, right?”

  He kisses the top of my head. “You really think it’s all gonna be worth it? All the time apart? Not having a regular life in our home? That’s all I ever wanted when I was in the service, you know. A person and a place to be my home.”

  “Well, you have the person.” I kiss his chest again. “And we have the place. We’re just away from it right now.”

  “Yeah, but…” He sighs softly. “If I win, we’ll have to move in to the governor’s mansion. Chicago’s our home, though.”

  “We’ll split our time.”

  He leans back and looks down into my eyes.

  “Tell me you’ll be content being a governor’s wife. Is that enough for you?”

  “Who says that’s all I’ll be? I’ve got options.”

  “I know, babe, but having you gone all the time…” He turns to look out the window. “I just wonder if it’s the right thing for us. I don’t want to keep moving in to a bigger and better office if it costs us our life together. If our kids will be splitting time between homes and not having the life we want for them. Always under scrutiny like we are.”

  “You get used to it,” I say softly. “I did.”

  “Do you ever wish we had a…simpler life? Where we could just go have a drink or dinner without photographers chasing us?”

  “Sure,” I admit. “But with great privilege comes great responsibility.”

  I follow Jude’s gaze out to the few twinkling lights left. We stay like that, lost in our own thoughts, until the room service knock sounds on the door.

  And as we eat, sadness about the night ending sets in. After this, we’ll go back to bed, and I’ll be asleep soon. Then when we wake up, it’ll be back to the campaign trail grind.

  I needed this night to remind me what matters most. And I wish we could have more nights like this. But for now, it’s a luxury.

  * * *

  The next afternoon, I’m finishing up lunch with a member of the Chicago Tribune’s editorial board when my phone rings.

  “Talk soon,” Elaine Hammond says, hugging me quickly and excusing herself so I can take the call.

  I slide my finger across the screen to answer. “Hey, Mom. How are you?”

  “Oh, I’m okay. How’s campaign life?”

  “Oh, you know. Busy.”

  There’s an awkward pause, because she does know. My mom spent more than thirty years as the dutiful, smiling wife of a senator before being crushed by news of my father’s affair and secret family.

  “You’re doing okay with it, though, right?” she asks.

  “Oh, yeah.” I look from side to side, weighing whether it’s safe to speak frankly in a restaurant full of people, and think better of it. “I just finished a lunch, so I’m at a restaurant.”

  “Ah. I understand.”

  I get up and sling my bag over my shoulder, heading for the restaurant’s entrance. “Mom, are you okay? You sound nasal, like you’ve been crying.”

  I furrow my brow with concern. My mom and I are always open with each other, and I can tell she’s not okay.

  “What’s going on? Tell me.”

  She sighs heavily. “You know, it’s probably nothing.”

  “What’s probably nothing?”

  “I had my routine mammogram, and I had to go back for a follow-up. They want to do a biopsy of a lump in my breast.”

  I reach out for something to stabilize myself as light-headedness sets in. My hand lands on the rim of a huge indoor planter inside the restaurant’s lobby.

  “A lump? T
here’s for sure a lump?”

  “Yes. I thought about waiting to tell you until the results are in, but—”

  “Mom, no. Why didn’t you tell me when you had to go back for a second scan?”

  “It may be nothing, Reagan. The doctor will know more after the biopsy.”

  I can’t cry, though it’s all I want to do right now. I’ve never even considered anything bad happening to my mom. The poor woman’s been through so much already thanks to my father.

  “I want to be there with you.” I sink down onto the wooden bench next to the plant, swallowing against the knot in my throat.

  “Honey, I’m okay. You and Jude have your hands full right now.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” My tone is outraged because I can’t give in to what I’m really feeling, or I’ll burst into tears. “Who’s there with you? Is Abby there?”

  “Your sister is still on assignment in Europe. I don’t need anyone here with me.”

  “Well, I’m coming anyway. When is the biopsy?”

  After a pause, she says, “Wednesday.”

  Two days away. I close my eyes and steady myself.

  “I’m booking the soonest flight out. I’ll text you my landing time. Can you pick me up?”

  “Of course.”

  “I love you, Mom. I’ll be there soon.”

  “I love you too, you headstrong girl.”

  I end the call and log on to a travel site, finding a flight that leaves in two hours. It’s nonstop to Miami, where my mom lives by herself in a modest beach house.

  As soon as my travel is booked, I text Jude, telling him I’m going. I don’t really even have time to go back to the campaign bus and pack a bag. I can borrow clothes from my mom or pick a few things up when I get there, though.

  All I care about right now is getting to my mom as soon as possible. I walk outside and hail a cab, steeling myself.

  I can’t fall apart. My mom needs me.

  Jude texts back.

  Jude: Babe, I’m so sorry. What can I do?

  Me: I don’t think there’s anything, but thanks for offering. I don’t know when I’ll be back. I won’t be able to do that luncheon thing Thursday.

  Jude: Don’t worry about anything, I’ll have staffers cancel your stuff. Do you need me to come with you? I will.

  Me: I know. Thanks. I’ll be okay.

  Jude: Let me know when you land, okay?

  Me: Okay.

  Jude: Love you more than anything.

  Me: You too.

  I slide into the waiting cab and ask the driver to take me to O’Hare. On the drive, I open a browser on my phone to check my Google alerts for anything on Jude’s campaign.

  The headline I see stops me cold: Secret Titan Tryst?

  Oh, hell no. This is the last thing we need right now. I click on the link, my heart pounding uncontrollably as the page loads.

  My gaze goes right to the photo. It’s Jude, his face partially covered but recognizable between two long curtains in front of a floor-to-ceiling window. His arms are wrapped around the waist of a woman whose dark hair conceals her face.

  I can’t help but laugh, because it’s me. Jude’s “tryst” was our night at the hotel the other evening. The photo looks like it was shot from a building across from us as we waited for our room service to arrive.

  For fuck’s sake. Those reporters need to find some actual stories to work on.

  18

  Jude

  Tyson’s about to fucking combust. Right here in front of me, I swear the guy’s gonna just burst into flames.

  “How can they not do any follow-up whatsoever? This is complete bullshit. They owe us a retraction on the same page they ran that phony story.”

  I shrug. “I guess, in their minds, they weren’t wrong. I was having a tryst. It was just with my wife.”

  He shakes his head vehemently. “Men don’t have trysts with their wives. The word implies something illicit and clandestine.”

  I push a few buttons on my phone screen. “Tryst—a private, romantic rendezvous between lovers. Yeah, that’s what it was.”

  Filthy sex is romantic, right? I smile to myself as I remember the night spent between my wife’s thighs.

  “Why are you so cool about this?” Tyson demands. “On the heels of the Culbertson accusation, this could be the one-two punch that ends this campaign.”

  I shrug. “I’ll own up to a tryst with my wife any day of the week. There’s a right-wing talk show host who called me earlier and asked to interview me about it.”

  “Don’t do it.” Tyson’s eyes widen. “He’ll question you about the Culbertson thing, too.”

  “I hope he does. I have nothing to hide because I did nothing wrong.” I clap him on the shoulder. “Relax, Tyson. This shit’s a marathon, not a sprint. The talk show host is a good friend of the Branch brothers. This is gonna be a softball interview.”

  He exhales deeply. Poor Tyson. His clothes are wrinkled, and his hair is getting grayer by the day.

  “You need a day off, man,” I tell him.

  “A day off? Are you kidding me? In the middle of all this?”

  I nod. “It’s nothing the rest of us can’t handle for a day.”

  “Glad to know I’m needed,” he grumbles.

  “You are needed. That’s why I want you to take a day to recharge. Have some fun. Eat some food you don’t have to shovel into your mouth in five minutes or less on the bus. Put on some clean clothes, maybe.”

  He glances down at his shirt. “My clothes look dirty?”

  I shrug a shoulder. “A little wrinkled, maybe.”

  “I slept in these clothes last night,” he admits.

  “You slept in those clothes the night before last, too.”

  “Oh, shit. Did I really?”

  “Tyson, if I see your face in the next twenty-four hours, you’re fired.”

  His lips quirk in a smile, followed quickly by a skeptical expression. “Really?”

  I nod. “Get your ass out of here, man. I’ve got this.”

  He takes out his phone and looks at the screen. “Oh, shit. Maybe another day.”

  “What is it?”

  He turns the screen to face me. There’s a posed photo of me smiling with one man and three women. Looks like it was taken at a recent rally. I arch my brows at Tyson in question.

  “The woman to your immediate left is Jessica Culbertson,” he says. “Looks like a blogger located it before the people I hired could.”

  “So, this proves…what? Just that she met me at a rally. In public.”

  Tyson turns back toward the screen and scrolls. “She says you grabbed her ass as this photo was being taken.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “I know.”

  I look over his shoulder, narrowing my eyes to try to see the photo better. “Can you see where my hands are? I always have them at my sides or on people’s upper backs for photos.”

  Tyson squints. “I don’t think so. Everyone’s standing so close.”

  I push the home button on his phone, making the image disappear. “Take the day off, Tyson.”

  “With this breaking?”

  “Yep. In this line of work, there’s always something. You have to learn to just turn it off sometimes.”

  “I don’t know how I can possibly do that,” he mutters.

  I head for the door to step off the campaign bus. “Go have a tryst, Tyson. It’ll do you a world of good.”

  I walk down the bus stairs into the midmorning sunshine. Despite the shitty press coverage I’m getting right now, I’m feeling good. Chill. Having Reagan here for a few days relaxed me in every way.

  A selfish part of me wishes she were still here, but I know she needs to be with her mom right now. Her mom hasn’t dated since getting screwed over by her douche ex-husband, Stan Preston. She bought a quiet little beach house, and she says she’s happy alone there. Reagan worries about her, though.

  I’m too distracted by my hunger to focus on much else, so
I walk over to a local diner on the main drag of the small northern Illinois town we’re in.

  As soon as I walk in, the smells of cooking bacon and syrup make my stomach rumble. The stools at the counter are lined with older men in worn ball caps, and others are holding court at tables in the restaurant.

  I lean against the counter until a waitress meets my gaze and asks, “What can I getcha, hon?”

  “I’m starving. What do you recommend?”

  “The farmer’s breakfast is popular. Three strips of bacon, three eggs, two sausage links, and two pieces of toast.”

  “Perfect. With coffee, please.”

  “How you want those eggs?”

  “Over medium.”

  “Toast?”

  “Wheat, please.”

  She scrawls the order onto her pad, and I tell her I’ll find a seat in a little bit. I can’t pass up a chance to meet some voters while I wait.

  I gravitate toward a table full of guys waiting on their orders, because one of them is wearing a hat that says “Vietnam Veteran.” There’s a tug at my heart as I wonder what he saw and did back then.

  “Sir?” I approach him as he sits in silence.

  “Yeah?”

  I offer him my hand to shake. “I just wanted to say thank you for your service.”

  His brown eyes warm as he shakes my hand. “It was my honor.” He eyes the ink on my forearms. “Did you serve?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m a Marine.”

  He nods. “You look familiar, son. But you’re not from around here.”

  “You’re running for governor!” One of his friends points at me from across the table. “Against that lady who wants to spend us into the poorhouse.”

  There’s a series of groans and muttered comments around the table. I can’t help smiling. Someday, I’ll be just like these guys, drinking coffee with my old-timer friends and ruminating on how good things used to be.

  “Sit down, Governor,” one of the men says, gesturing to an open chair.

  “I haven’t won yet,” I remind them as I sit down on the black vinyl-covered seat.