“I don’t lecture people about politics.”
“I follow you on Twitter. Don’t lie to me.”
I haul her close and kiss her. “I want to go back to being the stranger seducing you into a one-night stand. He’s not grumpy about politics or music.”
“Ah,” she whispers. “But I didn’t want to have dirty sex with him in my hotel room. Only you.”
“Dirty?”
“Filthy.”
“Tell me more.”
4
Adrienne
Stew has my jeans unbuttoned before we get into the hotel room. The short hallway is empty, but I’m still burning up with mortification as he strokes the bare skin of my belly above my panties. “Baby, I can’t get the room key to work if you’re undressing me.”
He nuzzles the back of my neck. “Let me try it.”
I spin around and press the card into his hand, then I return the grope, finding and cupping his erection through his jeans.
He can’t get it to work, either.
“Fuck,” he growls, and he cups the back of my neck, holding me still for a kiss before trying again. “Okay. Hands off for a second.”
“That’s what I said to you,” I point out.
“You’re irresistible. Not my fault.”
My cheeks are going to hurt tomorrow from smiling so much. He finally gets the door open, and we stumble inside. He presses me back against the door—the private side, now—and runs his hands over the as-requested tight t-shirt. “This looks so good on you.”
“Thank you.”
“Now take it off.” He helps, sort of, and pretty soon the t-shirt, my jeans, my heeled boots, and most of his clothes, too, are scattered around us.
“This is what that young kid wanted to do with you,” he murmurs as he trails his fingers across my swollen, aching breasts. “He wanted to strip you down and touch you all over.”
My husband is officially crazy. And adorable. I kiss the side of his jaw. “He was not seriously trying to pick me up. He was just being nice.”
“I watched him. In his metrosexual shoes and his pretty-boy haircut. I watched him leer at my wife.”
I laugh gently and pull him closer, happy for an excuse to run my hands over Stew’s solid abs. “He was a hipster, not a metrosexual.”
“How am I supposed to know the difference? Suddenly the music I listen to is retro. What the fuck?”
I laugh harder. “You're like the opposite of a metrosexual. You’re a retrosexual.”
He gives me a stern look that makes me shiver. “You’re mocking me for being old.”
“Noooo,” I say in a bad attempt at solemn, inviting more stern looks. I duck under his arm and start to move across the room, tripping over his jeans.
“You’re the same age as me.”
“Not really.” I giggle, and that pulls him up short.
His expression shifts from stern to confused. “How old are you?”
That sends me into peels of laughter. He growls as he chases me across the bed. “That was a serious question. I can't remember.”
“I know, baby. I know. I'm two years younger than you.”
He pins me to the bed, looming above me. “You look ten years younger.”
I wiggle my wrist free so I can slide my palm over his very firm ass. “Not at all.”
“Don't distract me with compliments about my butt. You called me old.”
“Technically the teenagers at the concert called your music retro, which you interpreted as meaning old, and I just turned it into a thing. Hashtag retrosexual. Hashtag DILFs of Ottawa. Hashtag…”
“What’s a dilf?”
“I’m really not telling you.”
He wraps his hand around my upper arm. “I’ll spank you.”
“Promises, promises.”
He rolls over and pulls me into his lap. He lazily swats at my bottom.
“Oh come on, put more into it than—ah!”
The sting of a proper spank always gets me wet. It also effectively ends all teasing, because he alternates each strike with a lazy, commanding stroke between my legs. After three swats, he pulls off my panties with rough efficiency, and continues to spank my bare flesh until I’m swollen and shamelessly grinding my mound against his thigh.
“What does dilf mean?” he asks again, his voice rough now.
“Dad I’d Like to Fuck. D-I-L-F,” I spell out breathlessly.
His palm slows to a stop. “Do you have a list of them?”
“Just one name on it.” I twist around and climb up so I’m kneeling, straddling his lap. “Stewart.”
He groans as I trace a finger down his happy trail.
When I reach his boxer briefs, I slip my fingers into the waistband. He falls backward, bracing himself on his elbows, and I whisper for him to lift his hips before I slide the boxers part-way down his thighs.
Crawling back up his body, I pin his wrists to the bed, then lean down and kiss him. I rock my hips as I hover over him, my clit gliding over the tip of his erection, barely touching it.
He arches up, but not fast enough. I swallow his moans as I rise with him, never losing contact, but also never giving him the pressure he craves.
It’s a heady feeling having the nation’s most powerful DILF at my mercy.
But I want him inside me. Torturing him is torturing myself, and that wasn’t on the menu for this weekend. I press down a little and slide up and down his cock for a few strokes, to sate my appetite, then I’m back to skimming it with my clit.
He grunts in protest, and as he pushes up again, I move with him, breaking the kiss as I do.
“You’re only making this harder on yourself,” I tease.
“I’m sure I’d have a witty comeback for you if my dick had left me any blood for brain-function.”
“Don’t worry,” I say sweetly. “It’s not your brain I need functional right now.”
I nip his earlobe…his neck…his shoulder.
The tendons in his wrists flex as his hands clench into fists, and he moans as he makes a half-hearted attempt to break free.
I know he’s bumping up against the limit of his self-control because I am, too. Yet he doesn’t try to take charge.
This is my Stewart—putting my wants and needs ahead of his own when he can. Because more often than he’d like, he has to put the needs of the prime minster, and by extension, the country ahead of all else.
Taking pity on both of us, I ease all the way down on him, increasing the pressure as I glide back and forth from root to tip.
I have the urge to work my way down his body and take him into my mouth, taste myself on him, and swallow him whole.
But I’m not that benevolent.
Not tonight.
Tonight, I want feel him deep inside my body.
I slide back up his cock, and this time I cant my hips until the tip of him is at my entrance.
I grin at him as I sink all the way down and grind my hips a little.
On the upstroke, I lean forward and kiss him, then pump my hips in short, fast thrusts over the head of his cock. When his fists clench and his wrists strain against my grasp, I plunge down, taking him as deep as I can.
I’m close and I want him to be inside me when I come.
As I bottom out, I grind my clit back and forth against him. Up, down, grind, grind. Stew pushes up against me, adding more delicious pressure exactly where I need it most. My control of the sex slips as he moves even more, driving into me now. We’re both so close.
Then his hips jerk up and he pushes hard against me, the first pulses of his orgasm triggering my own.
And I’m lost.
Releasing his wrists, I collapse on his chest.
His heart beats fast and strong beneath my ear as he wraps me in his arms and kisses the top of my head.
I couldn’t ask for a more perfect night. Or a more perfect husband.
5
Stew
I wake before dawn. Adrienne is curled up against me, h
er flesh warm and gloriously naked next to mine.
Not having any kids about to barge in is a good thing.
Being up at the ass-crack of the day is not.
I throw my forearm over my eyes, wishing it wasn't in my nature now to wake up so early. Then I hear my phone. Fucking hell. I hadn't just woken up as a matter of routine.
Cursing under my breath, I slide out of bed, tucking the blankets back around my wife to keep her warm as I dig for the offending device under a trail of discarded clothes.
When I find it, my stomach sinks. It's the prime minister. It's six in the morning here, but he's flown to his home riding in Vancouver for the weekend. It's only three there.
“You should be asleep,” I say when I answer.
“Yeah. Can't. So I was thinking.” Famous last words. “How do you feel about…”
I grind the heel of my hand into my eye socket and reach for the notepad and pen on the bedside table.
Slim, lovely fingers slide them into my grasp. I twist around and see that Adrienne is up. She gives me a little shrug and a rueful smile. What can you do, her expression says. I'll make coffee, she mouths, pointing to the machine in the corner.
I turn my attention to the PM and the initiative he wants to task to two of his cabinet ministers.
By the time I've made the three follow-up calls necessitated by Gavin’s idea, Adrienne is on her second cup. But she's still naked, so I'm calling this a win. “Have you had too much coffee to go back to sleep?” I ask as I rejoin her on the bed.
“Probably yes.” She smiles at me. “How long do I have you for?”
“All weekend. I’m taking the train back with you tomorrow.”
She doesn’t look like she believes me.
I wince as I point to the phone. “No promises that won’t ring repeatedly, but I don’t need to be back in Ottawa.”
Still not convinced.
Fair enough. I hook my hand around the back of her calf, right below her knee, and tug. “How about we just see how the day goes? I’m not busy right this second, for example.” I press her leg out to the side and slide my palm up her thigh. “And I’m starving.”
After I go down on Adrienne, we stumble into the shower, and she returns the treat.
Then we put on clothes and go outside. Adrienne insists on it, foolish girl. I’m pretty sure romance can be completely recaptured in bed, but this is her weekend in the big city.
She has an entire day planned, and despite my base desires to take advantage of our kid and work-free time, I also want her to do exactly what she wanted to do before I showed up.
We start with breakfast at a cafe a few blocks away. It looks like exactly the type of place where Adrienne’s admirer from the night before would hang out, and I tell her that as we peruse the menu.
The waitress swings by quickly with coffee then returns to tell us the specials. She gives us a few minutes, then returns once we’ve stacked our menus at the edge of the table.
“You guys know what you want?” she asks with a warm smile.
I order eggs Benedict and Adrienne gets the frittata of the day.
“Are you visiting for the weekend?” the waitress asks as she scribbles our order on her notepad.
“Something like that,” Adrienne says.
I grin at her.
The waitress twirls her pen at me. “You’re…oh, God, this is embarrassing. Like, I recognize you, but I’ve forgotten your name. But you work for the prime minister, right?”
Surprised, I lean back in my chair. “That’s right.”
She blushes. “I follow you on Twitter.”
“Right. Cool.” I’m not sure what else to say. This is the first time I’ve been recognized outside of a political convention or the immediate six blocks around Parliament Hill. I clear my throat and reach across the table to take Adrienne’s hand. “This is my wife, Adrienne. And I’m Stew Rochard, by the way. That’s my name.”
The waitress groans and nods. “Okay. Very nice to meet you, and I apologize for blanking on that.” She waves her order pad in the air. “I’ll just get your order going and bring your coffee right over.”
We watch her go, then Adrienne taps her foot against mine under the table. “Now who’s being hit on?” she teases, smiling at me.
“What? No.”
“Yes. That was a nerdy political version of what happened last night.”
I give my a wife a long, disbelieving look, and she tips her head back and laughs. My phone vibrates, and I pull it out. It’s an email I can reply to after I eat, so I put it away.
“At least with Gavin out west, I get you mostly to myself for breakfast,” she says lightly.
I grunt. I don’t like his unexpected trip. I don’t like what I suspect is the reason behind it.
Adrienne doesn’t miss any of my reaction, and her expression slides into serious concern. “Anything you can talk about?”
“Not really.”
“Boo.” She winks at me. She knows exactly how it is, and really doesn’t mind. But at some point when we’re alone I’m going to tell her that I worry the prime minister is falling head-over-heels in lust with the new intern, and there’s no way that ends well.
“You make me extraordinarily happy, you know that?” I bracket her legs with mine under the table. “And at times like this, I’m grateful for what we have. I promise I know how much you’ve been carrying our family.”
“So serious over breakfast,” she murmurs, but she doesn’t look away.
“I’m always serious about you. Have been since the first moment I laid eyes on you.” She’d been a first year university student. I was an upper-year and tried to show off. Big man on campus. Hard to do with my tongue hanging out of my mouth.
She’d had my number from the start. “I remember.”
I like the way her eyes go soft. “Good.”
Our food arrives then, and we take our time, having a second cup of coffee before we finally settle the bill and head out on foot.
I swear Adrienne’s disappointed that the waitress doesn’t try to slip me her number when we leave. I take her hand. “What’s next?”
We go to the Royal Ontario Museum for a temporary exhibit about tattoos from around the world. Tattoos: Ritual. Identity. Obsession. Art the brochure says. We wander through the quiet exhibit hall for an hour, sometimes together and sometimes drifting apart. She takes my hand as we head upstairs to see dinosaur bones and leans in. “Remember when you wanted to get a tattoo?”
“Back in university?”
She winks at me. “Yeah.”
It’s at this point I realize two important things. First, my wife was long overdue for a weekend away, just the two of us. And second, deep down she’s still that angsty rocker girl I fell in love with. Not so hidden at the moment.
She was more Guns N’ Roses to my extensive Queen collection. I fell in love with her plaid shirts and Doc Martens, and kept that secret to myself until after I’d gone crazy for her clever mind and sexy mouth, too.
“I’m pretty sure I just said that to impress you.” I curl a strand of her hair around my finger. “What did I want to get?”
“I don’t remember. Probably something you’d hate now.”
“We’ve changed a lot from back then, but…” I tug her close. “This is the same. This will always be the same.”
Halfway up the wide, sweeping stairs of the Royal Ontario Museum, I kiss my wife, and it’s not quick or discreet or polite. Life is too short for that. I make her breathless and I make her blush.
And that’s exactly the same as it used to be, too.
6
Adrienne
Our check-out time at the hotel is noon. At ten minutes to, we’re making out like teenagers in a fogged-up car, knowing curfew is about to crash down hard on us.
Hard being the operative word.
“What time is our train?” Stew asks, his voice rough as he slides his thigh between mine. His hands are everywhere, making me warm and distract
ed and trembly in the best way.
“In an hour. And I think the maid’s going to come in here and start cleaning around us if we don’t leave…” But I don’t push him away. I want to soak up every last moment of privacy, too.
We spent most of yesterday outside, doing grown-up explore-the-city type things. We came back to the room for a sex-filled nap attempt before dinner, then headed out again. His phone rang three times, and he had a bunch of quick email breaks. But for the most part, work was out of sight and out of mind. And when he wasn’t being dragged into urgent problems, I was the centre of his day and the object of all his attention.
It definitely refilled my well in more ways than one. Emotionally, sexually, adventurously…
And now we need to go home, because we have jobs and kids and a life. But we’re going home together, and that’s a gift, too.
“I had an amazing weekend,” I whisper, brushing my lips along his jaw.
“I want to make rash promises about doing this again.” Stew strokes my cheek, then lifts my chin with his knuckle so he can kiss me.
I open for him, curling my tongue against his, meeting him hungry stroke for hungry stroke. It’s going to be ages until we can do this again. But that’s on me as much as him. “Next time, I’ll invite you along,” I murmur. “And maybe we can do it in Ottawa, too.”
He presses his erection into me. “Oh, we’re doing it in Ottawa. Tonight.”
“Not it. Well, yes, it. But this, I mean. We can get a room at the Chateau Laurier. You can stumble over to Zoe’s Lounge after work and pick up the sexy mom in the hoodie at the bar.”
“Tight t-shirt and Doc Martens.”
“Or that.”
“I love you in whatever you wear, and wherever you are.”
I burrow close and breath in the scent of his skin. “I love you, too.”
“I hate you.”
Stew grins at me as the train rattles towards Kingston. “What?”
I swallow hard and try to ignore his questing fingers along my thigh. “This is torture.”
Retrosexual (Frisky Beavers Book 0) Page 3