by R. C. Martin
“Have. Dinner. With. Me.”
His insistence almost makes me moan, and I can no longer pretend to deny him. “When?” I murmur, taking a step closer to him.
I can now feel the warmth of his chest, and his grip in my hair tightens a little as his eyes dance around my face.
“Saturday,” he replies. “Guard and Grace. I’ll get us a private table. Eight o’clock.”
My stomach clenches again as I pull my bottom lip between my teeth. Even though I usually have every Saturday off, it’s not unusual for me to pick up some extra hours or trade my bi-monthly Sunday shift with someone. My mind all cloudy and distracted, it takes me longer than it should to remember that I’m free Saturday night. When I offer him another nod, I’m sure that I’ve never felt this giddy and this guilty all at once.
“Michael?”
He’s just getting ready to respond when the phone on his desk starts ringing behind him. We break apart immediately, and he doesn’t waste a moment before reaching for the receiver.
“Cavanaugh,” he answers. He pauses a beat and then replies, “I’m finishing up now. Thank you.” After he hangs up, he runs a hand down his face and lets out a heavy sigh. I can feel a blush heating my cheeks when our gazes align, but he doesn’t falter. “Clay will escort you out,” he informs me, giving name to his guard.
“Okay,” I nod, turning to take my leave.
I barely make it two steps before I feel his hand pressed lightly against the small of my back. When we reach the door, he grasps the handle, pausing long enough to earn my attention.
“Saturday. Eight o’clock.”
“Guard and Grace,” I whisper.
Finally opening the door, he allows me to cross over the threshold as he calls out, “It was a pleasure visiting with you, Miss Foster.”
Miss Foster. Until today, he’s never addressed me so formally. Fifteen minutes ago, I would say that he was simply addressing me in a respectful manner, given where we are and who he is. But now? Now it feels bigger than that. It feels like a secret. It feels like he’s playing a game.
Wishing him to understand that I want to play, too, I reply, “Goodbye, Governor Cavanaugh.”
Michael
THE LOOK IN her eyes when she says goodbye stirs a desire inside of me that I didn’t know I had. Forcing myself to let her go, I shift my attention to Clay and nod. He interprets the silent command accurately, standing to escort Blaine back through security.
Spotting my Lieutenant Governor waiting patiently, I smooth a hand over the front of my jacket and extend another for him to join me. “George,” I greet before returning to my office.
It isn’t until I reach my desk that I remember the jar of snack mix that Blaine brought me. Picking it up, my mind yanks me back to a few minutes ago. Instead of the cool glass in my hand, I feel the warmth of her breath against my thumb when I grazed it across her lip. I feel the silky texture of her hair when I cradled her head, bringing her closer to me. I feel my heart racing even now, remembering how our close proximity made me want to forget everything but her.
What was I thinking, asking her to dinner? God—what am I doing?
As soon as I ask myself the question, I realize that I don’t want the answers. The longing that fills my chest, knowing that I won’t see her again for another five days, is stronger than my doubt. I can’t explain it anymore than I can deny it. The way I am drawn to her creates an unyielding pull that lets me know—no matter how wrong this might be, I’m going to Guard and Grace Saturday night. It’s already done. I won’t stand her up.
“Governor? Are you all right?”
I pull in a deep breath through my nose and look beside me. George is now standing in the place where Blaine just left, and I shake my head clear.
“My apologies.” I walk around to the opposite side of my desk, stowing the full jar in my bottom left drawer, next to the bottle of unopened bourbon. “Please, have a seat,” I instruct, taking a seat myself. “Let’s get started.”
Michael
IT’S BEEN AN excruciatingly long week. If I wasn’t arguing over budgets at work, I was tiptoeing around my wife at home. She’s still pretending as though she’s fine, even when I know that she’s not. I haven’t attempted to broach the topic of my sister’s pregnancy, of Veronica’s feeling on the subject—or mine, for that matter—since our initial argument. Undoubtedly, it would only stir up another one. As the days drag on, my patience grows thin. I’m not sure that I could keep an even temper like I did last week.
Then there’s Blaine.
My week has been so full and exhausting, by the time I’ve donned my suit, I barely have a moment to spare a single, fanciful thought for the rest of the day. Yet, in the morning, before the dawn, when the air is still cool and the roads are quiet—when all I hear is the sound of mine and Clay’s feet hitting the pavement, our breaths coming in rapid succession—that’s when I get lost, counting down the moments until I’ll see her again; wondering why her? I don’t know what it is about her that makes me curious. Makes me reckless. Makes me dare to be…unfaithful.
Unfaithful.
It’s a disgusting word, one I never thought I’d fear. Now, I’d be lying if I said that I wasn’t afraid. Only, it’s not Veronica that frightens me. It’s not even Blaine. It’s myself.
I fear the man who closes his eyes while he’s in the shower and finds himself thinking of another woman. The man who imagines what it might be like to sit across from her, not because he’s a paying customer, but because he’s intentionally getting to know the woman behind that gorgeous smile and her angelic laugh. I’m afraid of the man whose appetite is changing—who hungers for something more than what he’s been consuming for the past two decades.
I’m frightened of what he’s capable of.
What I’m capable of.
It’s not just lust that I feel. While it’s been nearly two weeks since I’ve seen to my wife intimately, that’s not what makes me stubbornly adamant about seeing Blaine again. No matter what excuses my common sense manages to come up with, there’s a part of me that will not be denied. A part of me that needs the exposure to whatever it is that Blaine posses. It’s not simply carnal. It’s—ironically—more innocent than that.
“Mike?” Veronica calls out to me as she enters the bathroom, effectively shifting the direction of my thoughts. “I won’t have time to stop at the cleaners this afternoon,” she goes on to say, speaking loudly enough that I can hear her over the water pouring down on my head. “I put the dry cleaning ticket in your wallet. Please make sure you stop and pick up your tux—or send someone after it, if you must.”
I stop soaping down my body as I try and make sense of her request. “Why was my tuxedo taken to the cleaners? What use do I have of it today?”
“Sweetie, neither of us has time to argue about what you’ll be wearing tomorrow night. I’d like you in the tuxedo. I already told you that; and we won’t have time to drop by the cleaner’s tomorrow. We have the birthday party at your sister’s. I imagine we’ll have to leave early in order to come back and get ready for the gala, so it needs to be picked up today.”
“The gala?” I mutter, frantically searching my memory for any sort of remembrance as to what she’s talking about.
“Mike, please tell me you’re joking,” she huffs. “Have you been listening to a thing I’ve said to you at all this week?”
Turning off the shower, I ignore the suds of soap that still cling to my chest as I step out of the stall and grab my towel. Wrapping it about my waist, I frown at Veronica and explain, “I have plans Saturday night.”
“Yes. I know,” she states, propping her fists against her hips. “You have plans with me. The gala, at the Civic Center—I’m giving a speech!”
I cough out a sigh as I look away from her, at a loss for words. If I’m attending this gala tomorrow night, that means I won’t be going to dinner with Blaine. I only have a moment to be disappointed—certain that the last thing I want to do with m
y weekend is attend another public event where I’m expected to be the governor for my wife. Before that reality even settles, I realize that I don’t have Blaine’s phone number. We didn’t exchange them during our short encounter. We were interrupted prior to the thought even crossing my mind.
“Michael!”
My head snaps up, and I don’t attempt to mask my scowl—unappreciative of her tone. Reading my face accurately, she drops her hands away from her hips and breathes in deeply before she speaks.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to raise my voice. I’m under a lot of stress—which I know is not a valid excuse. Nevertheless, right now, I’d really appreciate it if you would listen to me so that I’m sure that we’re on the same page for the rest of our weekend.”
As I stare at her, I try and think back over the last few evenings. I can admit that with the unspoken tension that exists between us as of late, and the long days that have had my mind occupied, I didn’t bother to dig deeper into what’s been going on with her. I know how she gets when she’s in charge of a major event. My negligence has led to forgetfulness, and I’m man enough to own that. How I’ll get word to Blaine that I’m no longer available tomorrow night is something I’ll have to figure out this evening. For now, I have to see to other obligations.
“My tuxedo is at the dry cleaners. I’ll arrange for someone to pick it up this afternoon. We’ll leave Elliana’s party early to attend your gala. I’ve got it.”
“Thank you,” she breathes, as if relieved. “In the morning, I’ll be out early, seeing to last minute details. I’ll be back in plenty of time to get ready to leave for your sister’s with you.”
“Okay.”
She offers me a small smile as she closes the distance between us. Wrapping her hand around my wrist, she pushes up onto her tiptoes and kisses my cheek. “I know you have to be off soon. I’ll leave you to it.” Turning to leave, she looks back over her shoulder and informs me, “You forgot to shave.”
Running a hand over my scruffy jaw, I mutter a curse before stepping back into the shower.
Blaine
“YO, B—YOU ON tomorrow?” asks Dodger as I wipe down the bar one last time.
My mind fills with memories of Michael—honing in on the ones where he’s touching me—and my stomach clenches in excitement. I have to clear my throat and shake my head, scattering my thoughts before I reply, “No. I have the weekend off.”
“What are you getting into?”
Finished with the counter, I turn to see him closing the recently emptied glass washer before pulling his black shirt from out of his pants. While he unbuttons the front, as if he can’t stand to be in the garment a second longer, I shrug and tell him, “Hanging out. What about you? You working?”
I don’t know why I feel so relieved when he takes the bait, allowing the conversation to shift in his direction. He doesn’t know that I’m hiding anything from him. Nobody knows that I’ve spent the last week constantly thinking about a man who isn’t my boyfriend. Nobody knows that I’ve seen Michael outside of the Lounge. Nobody knows that I’m carrying a secret that’s both terrifying and thrilling.
Nobody knows—which means that nobody is suspicious; which means, I shouldn’t be surprised when Dodger believes me when I tell him I haven’t got anything special going on with my weekend. The fact that I am is only proof that I harbor a sense of guilt that I can’t seem to ignore. Nevertheless, I have every intention of being at that restaurant tomorrow night. I’ve been looking forward to it since before I agreed to go. Even if I wasn’t, even if I changed my mind, I don’t have any way of getting in touch with Michael. My meeting him on Monday happened by chance. The likelihood of that happening again is slim to none. I’ve already come to the conclusion that no matter how you look at it, I have to show up. It would be rude not to.
“Blaine,” Dodger calls out, yanking me from out of my head. Quirking an amused eyebrow at me, he asks, “You comin’ or what?”
“Yeah. Shit, yeah,” I mutter, exiting the bar in haste. “I just need to grab my purse.”
“I’ll wait.”
It only takes me a minute to run to the back employee room and get my bag from out of my small locker. Like he so often does, Dodger follows me out, escorting me to my car.
“See you Monday night,” he says, walking backwards in the direction of his own vehicle as he gives me a salute goodbye.
“Bye,” I reply with a wave. “Tell Hope I said hey.”
“You got it, B.”
Glancing at the clock on my dashboard, I see that it’s a quarter after two. It’s Saturday, the day I’ve been looking forward to all week. I haven’t mentioned to Mateo that I have plans tonight. I figured I’d bring it up if he brought it up. As of now, our weekend seems as though it’s going to be a quiet one, which doesn’t exactly surprise me. He finished his commission piece early yesterday afternoon—but he’s been so focused all week, working long hours trying to create his latest masterpiece, that he’s been cool with laying low recently. The last few nights, he hasn’t waited up for me, and he’s long gone by the time I wake up. I can’t say that I mind. It’s been kind of nice, each of us consumed in our own routine.
It doesn’t take me longer than ten minutes to get home. When I enter the loft, the only light on is the one Mateo leaves lit for me above the stove. I quietly go about readying myself for bed, hoping that I won’t have any trouble falling asleep. As the week has worn on, I’ve been growing more and more anxious. Sometimes the thought of going to dinner with Michael Cavanaugh seems unreal. Not because he’s the governor or because he’s married—not for any of the reasons that make what we’re doing wrong. No, it’s a lot simpler than that.
Michael Cavanaugh is a gorgeous man with a brilliant mind, and it gives me butterflies remembering the way he looks at me—like he wants me. All that he is, all that he’s accomplished, and an evening in my company is a crazy risk he’s willing to take.
It seriously blows my mind.
After I shut out the light in the kitchen, I tiptoe my way to the spiral staircase that takes me up to bed. Quietly as possible, I ease my way between the sheets. Just as I start to close my eyes, Mateo shifts behind me. With a low, sleepy groan, he gathers me into his arms, pulling me back against his front. My eyes now wide open, I stare into the darkness, trying to decipher if he’s asleep or awake—the erection I feel against my ass leaving me unsure.
He doesn’t move right away. I think I’m in the clear until he slides a hand underneath my tank top and palms my naked breast. Not exactly in the mood, I try and protest.
“Mateo—I’m really—”
“I’ll be quick, baby,” he assures me as he starts to pull down my panties. “Haven’t felt you all week. Need to dip my dick.” As he says the words, he rolls me onto my stomach, his fingers grazing over my entrance from behind.
My body doesn’t take long to respond to his touch, and my heart wrenches. Awash with guilt, I let him touch me—my self-reproach tugging me further from my reality and deeper into my sinful truth. With my cheek pressed against the pillow and my eyes sealed closed tight, I let him fuck me. Yet, like so many other moments this week, I’m not thinking about Mateo. As I grow slick with arousal, it’s not Mateo I see in my mind’s eye. And when I come, milking him dry, I wonder if I’ll ever know the weight of Michael on my back.
Michael
I FEEL SICK. As I stare out the window of the town car, watching as the sun begins to set on the city, I know that Blaine is on her way to the Guard and Grace. I know that she will approach the hostess, who will in turn tell her that I will not be joining her this evening. I wonder if she’ll stay. I wonder if she’ll accept my apology or my offer to cover her check should she decide to dine. I know that I am an asshole for not offering her more—but that’s all I could manage.
I started to call the Prohibition Lounge a half a dozen times yesterday; but, as if the world was against me, I was interrupted at every attempt. When I called this afternoon, I was in
formed that she was not on the schedule. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised. Nevertheless, the rising sense of regret and panic had me pacing the floor, trying to think of what I could do. Phoning the restaurant where she was to meet me seemed like my best option at the time—but now I feel sick.
I think about how disappointed I am. Instead of sitting across the table from a beautiful, engaging woman that sends a forgotten thrill through me, I’ll be attending yet another function. Anymore, they often times all feel the same. Tonight, however, will be different. Worse. Tonight, I’ll have an angel on my mind.
I imagine the look that will cross her face when my vague message is delivered. I regret that I won’t get so much as a glimpse of her—of what she’s wearing, or what she did with her hair. I won’t get to touch her; and after tonight, I may have ruined my chances completely.
While I should feel relieved, as if this is an opportunity to do the right thing—I’m anything but relieved.
“Mike?” I only hear Veronica after she takes my hand and gives my fingers a squeeze. “We’re here, sweetie. Are you okay?”
I nod my head curtly as I reply, “I’m fine. Let’s go.”
Blaine
I DON’T KNOW what it says about me and my lying skills that I managed to leave the loft, looking like I do, after only claiming an impromptu girl’s night with Irene. Mateo simply eyed me down, told me I looked hot, and then turned his attention back to the television. Much like the rest of the week, we didn’t do much today. He stayed in bed with me until I was ready to get up, and then we hung around the loft all afternoon. I’m not exactly sure what I imagined his response would be after I finished getting ready, but I thought I’d have to try a lot harder to convince him of my plans. I think I may have even hoped he was a little jealous.