A Vote For Lust: A Bad Boy Political Romance

by Natasha Tanner

  “You don’t look like Rachel Weisz to me. At all,” Ace replies finally. “But it’s weird that you say that. The first time I saw you, I thought you looked like Rhonda, but Jack Starr said that you looked like someone he once knew. An old girlfriend.”

  “So I am the woman with many faces?” I chuckle. But he is serious, staring at me as if he was having a deep epiphany.

  “It’s your eyes,” he says, finally. “You don’t actually, physically look like other women. It’s only that for everyone else, looking into your eyes makes us...”

  “Mistake me for another?”

  “... happy.”

  A warm, fuzzy feeling in my stomach. He can be so sweet... I’d fuck him right now.

  And why not? We are lying on the bed, after all.

  “I can make you happier,” I declare, rolling on my side to climb upon him. He seems fond of the idea.

  “Do you think I deserve it?”

  “I don’t know, but I do deserve it.” I explore his body with mine until his rapidly growing mound and my eager cavity, both still trapped under our underwear, interlock in a sweet embrace. I start rubbing myself back and forth, closing my eyes and concentrating on the awesome sensations. Soon I am moaning like I was impaled in his big cock, but I have my panties still on, and his boxer shorts are still covering his manly marvel.

  “Oh, Van,” he sighs, grabbing my hips and biting his lip as if trying to control his strength to avoid breaking me in two. His hands climb up my torso, then cup my breasts, sending a hot tingling signal all over my body.

  “Does this make you happy?” I ask, biting my lip too, then grabbing one of his hands and putting his index finger in my mouth. With that finger inside, as I run my tongue all around it, I repeat the question, this time muffled: “Does this make you happy?”

  “It does,” he says, with his voice strong and weak at the same time. “It fucking does.”

  With my other hand, I set aside my panties so that I will be free to mount him properly. I fumble with his shorts, and after a while, I am able to liberate his cock as well. He laughs and sighs. I bite his finger playfully and sit on his member, aligning its wide, hard shaft with my soft, hungry slit. “Does this make you happy?”

  “It... it does,” he answers. He sits up to reach my breast that is free from his hand. I know what’s about to come. He reaches it with his mouth and encircles it softly with his lips, his stubble tickling the orb, his saliva covering the nipple in a warm bath. It goes erect instantly, and when he starts sucking, I have to bite his finger much harder in order to avoid screaming in pleasure.

  “Does this... does this m-make you—”

  “Happy?” he finishes, raising my body with one hand and thrusting his cock inside me. He lets go of me and lets gravity do its job. I slide over the huge, powerful thing and my whole body shakes in arousal. “You bet.”

  “Oooh,” I moan, as my warm, wet flesh closes around his, and prepare to initiate the motion, up-down, up-down, up-down, swallowing it like a machine of heavenly friction. “It does... aaah... it does make me h-h-happy too.” The last syllables come out as sighs, since I am out of breath already.

  Ace Hart lets go of my breast and applies his mouth to the other. Meanwhile, I move my body up and down, realizing what I had just anticipated. It’s delicious and so hot I think my pussy will melt around his dick.

  He starts pounding on me harder and faster, for what it seems like an hour. With each thrust, I feel all my being a bit closer to an incredible climax, but the climax is coming slowly, sweetly, aligning perfectly with my desire like a prophecy.

  As we both approached our release, his member pulsating inside me with every inch it advances and recedes, my flesh vibrating in unison, I keep biting his finger, and claw at his hairy chest with my long, sharp nails. The pain seems to make him even more excited, and in the end, he’s yelling with each thrust, just as I scream in indescribable pleasure. We both come at the same time, and keep moving and rubbing until the last waves of arousal give way to a delightful sopor.

  The last thing I think before falling asleep on him, with his manhood still inside me, is: Holy fuck, I love this man.

  * * *

  I like to run my fingers along the seemingly infinite bookshelves in the living room. I do it more or less at random, letting my finger rest on whatever book it wants, then picking it up and seeing what it is. I wonder how many of these books Ace has already read. I sit on the couch for hours, reading some novel or a collection of short stories. Today, as the sun sets outside, I let sheer chance guide my hand from spine to spine as Ace embraces me tenderly from behind. We’re both naked, enjoying each other’s company.

  “Anything interesting?” he asks, kissing my neck softly.

  “Let’s see,” I say, as my fingertips rest upon some book collection. I pick up one of the books. The cover is colorful and pulpy. The title...

  “Really?” I groan, rolling my eyes back.

  “Yeah, what about it?”

  I raise the book so that he can see the cover. It depicts some kind of voluptuous goddess in an alien landscape.

  “Sexaria, the planet of sex,” I say. I grab another volume. “Battle for the Kinky Throne.” I show him a different one: “Zombie queen vs the sexy robogirl. And they are all part of the SeXpotiX saga. SeXpotiX, for the love of god.”

  “Hey, you’re not the only one who likes books,” he says, squeezing my hips. when he kisses my neck again, I can feel the curve of his smile.

  “But these... these can barely be called books. This is porn,” I protest. “This is a filthy thing and it’s below you.”

  “You have a high opinion of me,” he replies, smiling charmingly, “and I’m not so sure it’s warranted.” He draws me closer and his exquisite perfume fills my nostrils. I want to stay this way forever. “Reading about filthy sex is not below me when I’m thinking about you and the things I’d do to you. I’d do all the things the SeXpotiX do. I’d employ every dirty trick; I’d explore every intimate place in your body. You’d be the queen in my sexy planet.”

  “Oh my. That’s weird,” I say, but I surrender to his scent, as I turn around and let the warmth of his breath blow on my face. I open my mouth, inviting his tongue inside. A marvelous sensation overcomes me when he stands true to his word and starts exploring all the fleshy mounds and crevices.

  It all happens again, on the couch, this time faster and harder. We are both panting from the start, and his cock finds its way into my pussy without any pesky smallclothes getting in the way. We are hot and sweaty and tingly and hard and soft and wet, and we moan into each other’s mouths, sharing our arousal as a mutual gift. We come hard, and then we come again.

  Just a month ago, I lived in despair, thinking that I had been just one in the long line of girls Ace used as entertainment. Now I trust him completely. He is a bad boy with lots of secrets, and I love his enigmatic side, but when it comes to me, his love is as transparent as a summer day.

  “I haven’t actually read any of those books,” he whispers quietly as he falls asleep. “I won the publishing rights in a poker game, and I published them. I believe in new authors.”

  I feel so safe in his arms that I want to make them my home. We cuddle for a long while, as sleep covers him like a loving mother.

  After making sure that he’s completely asleep, I slip out of the bed and go to the bookshelf. I grab the first volume in the SeXpotiX saga and start reading. I really really wanted to dislike it, but to my amazement, it turns out to be pretty good, so I grab the second.

  When the sun comes up to find me still reading, however, its blessed rays fall down upon a page by good old Dostoevsky.

  SECRETS

  VAN

  Ace is working out in the gym, and I’m making omelets, when she appears. We’ve come to Tribeca a couple of weeks ago, so that Ace can work more closely with Jack and Harlan and take care of things. I go out more often now, always in a car with darkened windows, with one of the guys at my si
de just in case. I’ve just bought these eggs, tomatoes and peppers, and it feels wonderful to take care of a whole meal from scratch for both of us: a milestone in our relationship. It’s the first time I can think of myself as a housewife. Ace likes to cook too, but these days he’s too busy and I’ve taken possession of the kitchen.

  I’ve just flipped the first omelet and turned around to grab a paper napkin when I see her, standing in the middle of the kitchen. I suppress a scream as I barely avoid dropping the pan on the floor.

  “Veronica,” I say, as I try to decipher her expression.

  “You don’t know him.” There is a hard edge to her voice, as if she had chiseled it to use it like a weapon.

  “Oh, I do,” I reply. “Look, I’m sorry that you—”

  “You don’t know the first thing about him, stupid bitch,” she cuts me off. “I’ve been at his side for years. You don’t understand him at all.”

  I leave the pan on the stove and give her hands a quick glance. She’s not holding any kind of weapon, thankfully. “What makes you think—”

  “SHUT UP, WHORE,” she spits, her hands turning into fists and shaking visibly as her eyes become foggy. “I’ve kept secrets for him. Things even he didn’t know.” She looks around as if she were seeing the kitchen for the first time. “You’ll never be in the same place.”

  “Well, I’m here now, and I can kick you out anytime.” I don’t want to be harsh, but I’m not sure that she’s in her right mind at this moment. She could turn dangerous.

  “Well, that’s funny,” she fires back. “There is someone I could send back to Russia in an hour. It only takes a phone call.”

  A snarky reply comes to my lips before I could help it: “As funny as...” I start, but then I change my mind. I now see Veronica Redd as the wretched girl she really is. I’ve been in her place not long ago. What I utter next are not my words, but Gogol’s. I read Gogol as a teenager and I still remember the best lines as one remembers the touches of a loving hand. The longer and more carefully we look at a funny story, the sadder it becomes.

  “There’s not much difference between funny and sad,” I say in the end. Yes, I paraphrased a bit. Maybe simplified the meaning. You can sue me.

  Veronica snorts. “You will be sad, I promise you,” she says.

  “I know about your secret,” I tell her quietly. “You should have told him about Rhonda. Why keep it to yourself?”

  She says nothing at first. A tear escapes the prison of her pretty eye, running down her smooth cheek and reaching the corner of her perfect mouth. Pretty, smooth, perfect, and so broken, and so sad.

  “Because it would have broken him. Ace is not as tough as he seems. He’s vulnerable. He must be protected.”

  I try to be firm and soft at the same time. I don’t know if I can. I pity her, but I want to defend what I have with Ace, too.

  “I think you give him too little credit.”

  She breaks down now. Tears run down her face as she leans against the wall. “Why did he have to fire me?”

  “Because he couldn’t trust you. You kept the secret from him for years. What were you thinking?”

  She keeps sobbing, her arms lying at her sides, as if she’d been drained of all her energy.

  “I don’t know,” she says. “I love him. That’s what I was thinking. I didn’t want him to get hurt because I love him.”

  ESCAPE TO ROULETTENBERG

  VAN

  Three weeks later

  “OK, this is the big one,” Ace says, stepping into the pool completely naked and holding two beers. I grab one and look at him appreciatively. His body is so perfect that I have a hard time concentrating in what he is telling me.

  “The big one?”

  He comes to me, half floating and half waddling on the bottom. When he reaches me, he plants a kiss in my lips. The water is a little cold, and I welcome his warmth.

  “Monte Carlo,” he says. “We’ve set up a private room there, for some international players. It’s the first time we do it. Little Vegas meets Monaco. Do you like it? It will be fun.”

  “I bet,” I say, and then I laugh when I realize that I’ve made an involuntary pun. “I mean I don’t. I won’t play for you this time. But it will be pretty cool. Who came up with the idea?”

  “Pip did. Actually, it was your friend, Vassily Zhurov, when he lamented that he wouldn’t feel the same thrill in Monte Carlo as he felt in Frisco when he almost lost everything but ended up winning half a billion. So Pip thought we could take Little Vegas to Monte Carlo so he would be happy.”

  “Huh, that was smart,” I whisper in his ear, and take a small bite, then chug some beer. “I hope you’ll pluck him whole.”

  “Do you think I should play against him?” Ace asks, cupping my breast in his hand. His cock strikes my navel underwater like a torpedo.

  “Most definitely,” I answer, articulating the words with my lips barely a quarter inch from his. I leave the beer bottle on the border of the pool, lean against the wall, let my elbows rest on the rugged tiles, and push myself up. He comes closer so that I can lower myself on his hard dick. When I do, my flesh welcomes his with a quiver.

  “You’ll need a name,” Ace says, pushing himself upwards gently, almost tenderly. His member fills me and brings a warmth to my whole body that puts goose pimples all over my skin, in a delightful contrast with the relatively cold water. My nipples harden and my lips feel the hunger of his mouth.

  “A name? Oooh.”

  “For a passport,” he says. “So that you can fly.”

  “Oh, that.” I put my arms around him, letting his prodigious body sustain my weight, lessened by the water. I close my eyes to concentrate on the pleasure. I am trying to think and feel at the same time, and it’s kind of hard. Speaking of hard... I feel him so stiff and strong inside me... but I need to think of a name. A name. A name, oh for fuck’s sake!

  “OK. You’ll be Polina,” he says when I start panting instead of providing a name. “Any preference for the lastname?”

  Polina, like the female character in Dostoevsky’s The Gambler. How appropriate. Vanina in Monte Carlo like Polina in Roulettenberg, the fictional gambling paradise where the novel takes place. I think about it for a few seconds. Polina Alexandrovna, like in the book? Polina Chekhov? Polina Tolstoy? Polina Turguenev? Polina Karamazov? No, those are silly choices. Any immigration officer with two ounces of brain would see through it, like that idiot who had a fake ID printed under the name MacLovin in that juvenile American movie. It’s difficult to come up with a good idea when you’re being pounded on so sweetly.

  “Uh... oh... a l-lastname... l-let me th-th-think,” I sigh, wobbling my head around as he thrusts a bit faster.

  Then it comes to me: Polina Igrok. Not many people know that Igrok is the novel’s original title in Russian, and among those who know, a lastname simply meaning gambler wouldn’t be likely to raise suspicions. The full name has a nice ring to it, and so I decide that I’ll be Polina Igrok during my trip.

  “Well...?”

  “Well? Aaah!”

  “Have you thought of a lastname?” Ace asks, smiling wickedly as he covers me with kisses and redoubles his underwater attack.

  “Igrok! Igrok! Igrok! Igrok! Igrok! IGROK!” I exclaim, clawing at his mighty back as a series of spasms make my body shake and tremble. My lips close around his chin, his nose, his mouth, his eye, in a frantic attempt to cover him whole, to swallow him just like my legs and the kraken in between are swallowing him down below.

  Then comes what the French call the little death, and then the release, the languor, the happiness, and the beer warming on the tiles.

  WRITTEN IN THE CARDS

  VAN

  Exactly the same as two years ago, but in reverse: the United States becoming smaller and smaller, then turning into a carnival of light as the plane rises, drilling into the frozen air of the night, and points its nose at Europe. Something is different this time, though. I’m not alone. Ace Hart rests in his
seat beside me, holding my hand between his. He fell asleep as soon as we took off. I don’t know how he does it.

  I’ve never been to Monaco, just as I’ve never been almost anywhere else. But I’m not thinking about wonderful beaches or high hills or luxurious hotels or boats or roulette tables. I’m thinking about healing.

  It’s curious, the way healing works. You never forget the person and you never forget the pain or the fury, but you see it all in an irrevocably different light, in a way it can’t cause you any harm anymore.

  I had been driven to a deep pit of sorrow and despair when Theo Lambert got rid of me. But now, I don’t miss him the tiniest bit. I’ll never forget him, but I have forgiven him already. So this is how it works: you let go of your old love when a new love comes. But no love ever really leaves you if it was true. It becomes part of you, enriching your life. When you look at the dried up tears, you notice that the stain has become a shape that is part of your own shape. That’s when the healing comes.

  And you get hurt again and you become wary, and every time you fall, it hurts a bit more. When I thought Ace Hart was just like Theo, I fell into a still deeper pit. I bypassed the tears and the desire of revenge, and became a woman who lost her soul, like a zombie roaming the streets half alive and half dead.

  I brought my old copy of Anna Karenina in my handbag. I turn the pages slowly, feeling the intensity of the words as my fingers pass blindly over the worn, crinkled pages I know so well. I find the quote almost before I look for it.

  I think ... if there are as many minds as there are men, then there are as many kinds of love as there are hearts.

  But if your heart changes and grows, the love changes and grows as well. The remnants of my old loves have become part of something greater and more intense, I realize. I now love Ace in a way I couldn’t have hoped to love before.

  What if I fail again? What if it ends in a week, a month, a year?

  I’m afraid of the mere idea. You may know the feeling I have right now: This is the one. This is the man I want to spend my life with. A terrible, dark man, hard as iron on the outside, with a loving, tender core that you must find yourself, with time and work.