All I know is that in the few minutes out there in the hallway, the girl I saw – the one who stood with her hands on her waist, glaring at me with her nostrils flared – had some fire in her veins. She didn't seem like the kind of girl to hang back and smile demurely while deferring to anyone, which is exactly what she's standing there doing right now.
I shake off those thoughts, because it's none of my damn business. After the speech, I head right for the door because I'm tired of rich people and I’m pretty sure the longer I stay here, the greater the chance there is of me doing something that's not good for my image. I'm going to sneak out quietly - or at least as quietly as a guy my size can.
Until she catches me. I know it's Grace’s hand on my arm before I even turn around to look. "Mr. Ashby."
"Ms. Sullivan." When I face her, I’m looking down into those striking green eyes. Hell, everything about this woman is striking.
She pauses for a moment, her lips parted just slightly. She's wearing this lipstick, fire engine red, that perfectly matches the color of her dress, and I can't stop staring at it. In that moment, the image of her on her knees, those bright red painted lips wrapped around my cock, flashes into my head. My dick twitches just thinking about it.
Getting a hard-on in this setting is the last thing I need. I clear my throat and try to push that thought out of my head before she decides I'm some kind of pervert.
Then Grace leans close to me, her lips turned up at the edges in a playful smile. "I think, since we've been to second base already, you can call me by my first name."
Well, maybe Little Miss Perfect has a sense of humor after all. "Okay. Grace, then."
She pulls the corner of her lower lip into her mouth and I think I hear her inhale sharply. She's standing so close to me that I can smell her perfume, light and airy and not at all what I'd imagine someone like her – cool, calm, and professional – would wear. "Noah," she says, her voice soft.
The second the word leaves her lips, I picture her calling out my name, her head against the pillow, her face upturned toward mine as I drive into her. Noah… Noah.
Just standing near this girl is killing me.
"Grace!" a woman's voice interrupts, and whatever moment passed between us is immediately broken as Grace turns to smile politely and answer a few questions. I could easily take the opportunity to leave, and that’s what I should do, except that I find myself not wanting to go.
Grace breaks off the conversation quickly, gesturing at me to follow her as she weaves through the crowd. She smiles graciously at people, but her security detail does a good job of subtly whisking her out of the room. They open a door manned by a Secret Service agent, and I follow Grace down a hallway and into a private room as one of the women in her security detail clears the room perfunctorily and then walks wordlessly outside.
I wait until the agent is gone to speak. "If you wanted to get to second base again, all you had to do was say so," I say, regretting my words nearly the second they leave my mouth. Yeah, that’s fucking classy, Noah.
A look of confusion passes over her face. "I didn't want to – you think I brought you back here so I could… so we could –?"
"First you put your tits in my hands, and now you're dragging me to a back room." I don’t know why I say it, except for wishful thinking on my part. There’s just something about this girl who got so riled up in the hallway earlier, with her cheeks flushed pink and her green eyes flashing, that brings out some juvenile part of me. I just want to get her riled up again.
She’s so damn hot when she’s angry.
She narrows her eyes. "I did not put my tits in your hands," she says. "And I certainly did not drag you back here so I could do… whatever with you."
She actually looks offended - offended and pissed off. I'm not going to lie, though, pissed off is a damn good look on her.
"No?"
She hesitates. "No.”
“Well, that’s disappointing.”
She blushes. A faint pink tinge colors her cheeks and I’m unnaturally pleased with myself for causing that blush. I know I shouldn’t be hitting on her – this is a bad idea on so many levels – but somehow I can't seem to help myself.
"Did you get the… you know? The photos?"
"They're gone. Erased."
Her eyebrows go up. "You got them?"
"The photos aren't going anywhere." I leave out how much I agreed to pay the guy to delete the pictures. I thought about keeping one just to show Aiden – and maybe to print out and frame because he’d never believe what happened otherwise - but I didn’t. I deleted all of them because of the principle of the thing.
Sometimes having principles is a real drag.
"Is the photographer…alive?" she asks.
"No, I killed him and left his body outside in the middle of the street with a sign that says, ‘This is what happens when you take photos of the President’s daughter.’”
She narrows her eyes. "There's no need for sarcasm. You're… large and a football player. It's not an entirely unreasonable question."
I choke back a laugh. "Because I'm a football player, you think that I pummeled some reporter into the ground over a few photos?"
"Isn't that what you do for a job?" she asks. At first, I think she's joking, but she looks at me blankly. It makes me irritated, the way she asks it, like I'm some kind of hired thug.
"I play football. I don't break people's legs for a living."
She shrugs, but her cheeks are pink again, embarrassment coloring her face. "I don't really watch the game."
"Of course you don't."
"What's that supposed to mean?" she asks, her voice tight, obviously bristling at my statement.
"Girls like you don't watch football."
"Girls like me?" She draws herself up straighter, standing closer to me, her hand on her hip.
"You're not a drink-beer-and-watch-football kind of girl. Let me guess. You have season tickets to the opera?"
"You don't know anything about me."
"I know your tits aren't fake."
Her face colors. "You're a pig."
I think I must be a pig, because hours after touching this girl, I can still feel her skin under my hands, smooth and soft and silky. Now I want more. In fact, I’ve never wanted to tear a dress off a woman as much as I want to destroy the silky little red number that Grace is wearing right now.
"Why did you really bring me back here?" I ask, stepping closer to her. I shouldn’t be stepping closer to a girl like this. I should be backing off, walking the hell away from her. I half-expect her to push me away – or hell, call for her security – but she doesn't. She doesn’t move an inch.
"To ask you about the pictures," she says, her jaw set but her voice falters.
"To ask me about the pictures," I repeat. "The ones with my hands on your breasts."
She swallows hard. "That's right."
I can’t help doing what I do next, even though it’s the last thing I should be doing. I touch my fingertips to her arm, running my fingers over her skin until I reach her shoulder. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away a bit when I touch her. Instead, she makes a little whimpering sound.
Oh, hell.
That sound makes me hard as a rock. My cock immediately springs to attention under my tuxedo, and I slide my hand to the nape of her neck, pulling her hair as I turn her face toward mine. I’m very nearly about to crush her lips under mine, when there's a knock on the door.
Fuck. I think I groan the word aloud.
"Ma'am, the President and –"
The Secret Service agent barely finishes what she's saying before a woman pushes her way inside the door. "Grace, your Mom and Dad are –"
Grace jumps away from me like she's been shocked by electricity, clearing her throat loudly. "Vi, this is Noah Ashby. Noah Ashby, this is Vi Scott."
"Oh," Vi says, smiling as she looks between us. She makes no attempt to hide it when she checks me out, her arms crossed over her chest as her
eyes trail down the length of my body. When her gaze reaches my pants, tented by my obvious erection, she raises her eyebrows and grins. "Ohhh."
"Vi, this is not what it looks like –" Grace starts.
"Oh, please. I hope this is exactly what it looks like,” Vi says, rolling her eyes. “You – Boob Guy. Good work with that. She hasn’t gotten to second base in a long time. She’s practically a nun.”
“Vi!” Grace exclaims.
“Oh, yeah, one other thing. Your parents are right behind me, Grace.”
"Gracie, your mother and I are –" the President's voice booms as he enters the room, and it's a good thing Grace's friend barged in just a second before, causing my boner to rapidly deflate, because meeting the President of the United States while sporting a hard-on isn't one of the things on my bucket list. "Noah Ashby."
"Mr. President." Fucking hell, the President of the United States knows my name? I might not like the guy – he’s always had kind of a smarmy, self-important air about him, with all his preaching about family values – but I’ll admit that I’m a little star-struck right now.
He looks back and forth between me and his daughter, his brow furrowing for only a second before his face brightens in an affable smile. "That was a hell of a game you played at the end of last season.”
"Thank you, sir." I think I remember hearing that the President was a big football fan, but it’s a completely different experience hearing the President congratulate you personally.
"Shame about the last quarter.”
“Yes it was, Mr. President.”
“You’re working with Grace’s foundation, isn’t that right?” he asks. Beside him, the First Lady gives me a cool stare.
“I’ve donated my ranch for one of the summer programs.”
“That’s fantastic. I’m always impressed when athletes are willing to get personally involved in charities, especially when they’re such good ones.” The way he says it, I’m not sure he even knows what the cause is. “I’m sure the kids are going to be thrilled to have you working with them one on one.”
One on one? That’s a big assumption. Kids and I don’t exactly get along. “Oh, I don’t -”
“He’s donated his ranch,” Grace says. “I'm sure Mr. Ashby doesn't have the time to be personally involved in the actual session at the ranch, especially since it’s two weeks away.”
The First Lady puts her hand on the President’s arm. “Just because our daughter insists on camping with children every summer doesn’t mean that everyone has the inclination to do the same. I’m sure you have plenty of summer training to do, don’t you, Mr. Ashby?”
She smiles at me, but her voice is unmistakably chilly. I get the distinct impression that she’s doesn’t like the fact that she and the President walked in on her daughter and I in this room alone, and it irritates me.
That’s the only possible explanation I have for why I say what I say next. I’ve never taken kindly to people telling me what I should and shouldn’t do, and the fact that this woman seems bent on discouraging me from being near her daughter only makes me want to do it more - even if she's the First Lady.
“Actually, I've been looking for opportunities to be more directly involved in charitable organizations," I say, my voice even. "In fact, I really enjoy being hands-on."
Grace’s friend Vi hides a smile behind her hand even as Grace's face pales.
10
Grace
"Noah Ashby would be a good celebrity endorsement," my father notes not less than a minute after Noah walks out of the room. My cheeks still feel like they're on fire after the lingering glance Noah gave me before he left - the look I hope my parents didn’t catch. Of course, Vi did, which is why she’s giving me a wide-eyed meaningful stare from across the room. I know that expression – that's Vi's "we so need to talk about this right away" look.
"He would," Vi says, raising her eyebrows as she looks at me again. "You should talk to him about that, Grace."
"Me?" I squeak. "I don't think that –"
"I’m sure you’ll be working with him closely, since he’s involved with the charity,” my father says.
“Very closely,” Vi says, and I give her my best glare of fury.
My mother narrows her eyes at us, but my father is completely oblivious, preoccupied with the campaign. “Endorsements from professional athletes play well with a younger crowd."
"But you already have the Colorado vote sewn up," I protest. "You won the primary by a landslide. You don’t need a celebrity endorsement. Besides, you don't even know his political affiliation. He might not be a Sullivan supporter.”
"More votes never hurt," my father reminds me. "His political affiliation is irrelevant. You know as well as I do that endorsements are purchased. Everyone has a price, and I want to know his.”
As soon as my father speaks the words, I know he’s made up his mind. He’s already decided that Noah Ashby is going to be at the ranch, and there’s no changing my father’s mind once he’s made a decision.
My mother purses her lips. "I don't think she'll necessarily be working with him that closely with the charity," she interrupts. "And he'd need to be vetted before an endorsement, of course. If any sort of scandal is attached to his name…"
Vi snorts. "You're joking, right?"
"Pardon?" my mother asks, her lips pursed again, her tone practically saturated in disdain. She's never liked Vi, not even when Vi's father and mine worked together in Colorado. Vi is well aware of that, which is why she enjoys pushing my mother's buttons.
"If there's a scandal attached to his name?" Vi asks, clearly determined to get under my mother’s skin by pointing out how my father has already decided that I’m going to be working with someone who’s the exact opposite of the kind of man my mother wants me to date. "Noah Ashby isn't exactly a choirboy."
"See? Scandal. He's out," my mother tells my father. "Your entire platform is based on old-fashioned family values. Any whiff of a scandal would taint the campaign."
"What kind of scandal?" I ask before I even realize I'm speaking, my curiosity immediately overruling any common sense I have. I shouldn’t care about Noah Ashby’s scandals, I tell myself. I don’t care, because I’m not the least little bit interested in the professional football player.
Not at all.
Besides, I’m sure he hasn’t done anything as scandalous as my neighbor Aiden and his public nudity. That makes two men I’ve met recently who are definitely not choirboys.
Two men who make my heart race.
Two men I shouldn’t be the least bit interested in.
"Nothing terrible," Vi says. "No drugs or anything like that."
"Domestic violence?" my mother asks.
"No. Adolescent male behavior. Streaking, boozing, that kind of thing."
"So that's adolescent male behavior now?" Despite the seriousness of the conversation, I can’t refrain from teasing Vi, who was infamous for leading our high school senior class in streaking through the library.
Always the mature adult, Vi sticks her tongue out at me.
"We'll vet him first," my father decides, dismissing everyone's concerns with a quick wave of his hand. "Isn't he up for contract renewal?"
My father asks the question casually, as if he doesn't know the answer. It’s one of my father’s tricks – the casual question. In reality, my father never asks a question he doesn’t already know the answer to. He’s an avid football fan. He clearly already knows everything about Noah Ashby without any of us telling him a thing.
"What does that matter?" presses my mother.
"If he's up for renewal, he has to play it straight. Everyone loves a redemption story. Grace will be working with him. Run it by him, will you, Grace?"
It's not a suggestion or a question. It's a direct order from the Commander in Chief. I clear my throat. "Yes, Dad.”
Working closely with Noah Ashby? I don’t know whether to be excited or terrified.
"Speaking of redemption stories," m
y mother interrupts, “you really need to be seen with someone appropriate during the campaign season, Grace. People are starting to wonder if you're a lesbian, and a lesbian daughter doesn’t poll well with voters.”
“You took polls on my sexuality?” I ask, utterly appalled. I don’t know why I’m surprised in the least. Nothing my parents do when it comes to campaigning should surprise me anymore.
"Well, there was that time in boarding school…" Vi jokes. I throw her an icy look.
"What people are wondering this?" I ask, my voice frosty. "I don't see why I need to date someone because of the campaign. I didn't date anyone during the first one."
"You're older now, dear. I have a few candidates. I'll leave their files with Brooks. And be nice when they call you."
"Mom," I start. "Mother. I am not dating someone just because –"
"Gracie, we need to run," my father interrupts, looking at his Blackberry. He steps close to me and kisses my cheek. "Humor your mother, okay? She’s really asking out of concern for you. She just doesn't want you to die alone."
"Thanks a lot, Dad," I mutter. "I'm sure that's the reason."
"Don't be caustic, Grace," my mother says. "It doesn’t suit you.”
When my parents have left the room, Vi waits approximately two seconds to turn to me, her eyes wide. "So… Noah Ashby."
I shrug and muster the most innocent-looking expression I can. "What about him?"
"Oh, please. Don't play coy. I know you. You have the same look on your face right now that you had when you crushed on Jared Caulder in tenth grade."
"I do not!"
"You do, and you're just as defensive as you were then. Grace and Noah, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S—"
"Oh, shut it, Vi. You're as bad as my mom."
"Mother," Vi corrects, laughing. "Don't ever call her Mom."
"I sometimes forget how insufferable she is since I don't see her that often anymore."
"I can't believe you just compared me to her."
"You're right. I feel like a bad person."
"You're a terrible person," Vi agrees. "But look at you, you big hussy.”
Double Team: A Menage Romance Page 6