“That’s where you’re wrong,” he says.
“Let’s just agree to disagree on that.”
“We’re done talking.” Keir’s hands circle my waist and he pulls me against him. His navy suit pants are all that separate my body from the generous outline of his cock.
Running his hands down my outer thighs, he lifts me up and I point toward the hall on the left.
Pressing my mouth against his neck, I breathe in his intoxicating cedar cologne as I pepper a trail of kisses along his smooth skin. The feel of his thick erection against my pulsating pussy gives me half a mind to get this show on the road, but Keir seems intent to keep his word to make this the best night of my life, which explains why he’s taking his time and making this all about me.
Another thing I didn’t expect from a notorious playboy.
By the time we make it to my room, he lowers me onto my bed before reaching for his belt. The metal clangs in the dark, followed by a zip.
My skin is on fire, my body on edge. He isn’t even touching me right now yet I feel it all, little tingles, like live wire energy, and I can’t help but feel weightless in this moment.
When his last button is undone and his white dress shirt lies in a heap on my floor, he crawls next to me. In the dark, I sense him drinking me in, his eyes running the length of my body, stopping every so often to linger.
I can’t believe this is happening.
Keir drags a finger across my collarbone before running it between my breasts and down my stomach until it stops between my thighs. Slipping a finger between my folds, then another, he circles my clit with his thumb as he penetrates me with two unstinting fingers. The warmth of his mouth on my left breast follows, and I appreciate that he’s making this all about me, but I want to make him happy too.
I want to hear him gasp.
I want to see him smile.
I want him to remember this night just as much as I’m going to.
Gently pressing his body away, I wait until he’s lying on his back before I climb over him. My hips straddle his, my pussy grazing his cock.
He smiles.
I smile.
Our gazes are lit.
And then I move down, wrapping my palm around the base of his thick shaft, lowering my lips to the tip of his pulsing cock. Taking his length in my mouth, I pump the rest of him with my hand.
Keir’s breaths grow faster, harder with each swirl of my tongue, each stroke of my palm. If I could take his entirety in my mouth, I would, but there’s too much of him.
“Come here, Rowan.” He stops me after a while, pulling my body against his. We’re skin to skin and heart to heart. Without saying another word, he reaches to the floor and grabs his wallet, producing a shiny gold packet, which he promptly tears with his teeth before sheathing himself.
A moment later, he returns, guiding me to my side before pressing his body against my back. His right arm snakes under me, his hand wrapping beneath my jaw as he grazes his mouth against the side of my cheek, exhaling before breathing me in all over again.
With his left hand sliding down my hip, he drags his palm lower until it reaches the apex between my thighs. Rubbing my clit, he gives my pussy a final tease before guiding his length inside me, filling everything I have with everything he has.
I’m melting, pure liquid arousal from the inside out.
Keir’s fingers stroke and play while his cock impales me with steady, rhythmic plunges. We’ve only just begun and already I wish it wasn’t going to be our first and only time together.
God, he’s good at this.
His hand slides up my caved stomach, cupping my breast as his lips press against my neck.
“You’re so fucking tight, Rowan. And so wet for me,” he whispers. “I could stay inside you forever.”
My heart flutters at his words and how nice they feel, but only for a second.
“Shh …” I say, placing his hand on mine and pushing it lower. My hips buck against his, meeting the force of his thrusts, and I swear I feel his mouth curve against the back of my shoulder.
I think it’s safe to say he’s enjoying this just as much as I am.
When we’re finished, I climb out of bed and clean up, and when I return, he’s lying there, his hands resting under his head as he waits for me. As soon as he sees me, he pats the spot beside him.
“Please tell me you’re not a cuddler,” I say, hesitating before returning to bed.
“God no,” he says, brows furrowed. “I just want to lie here with you, just for a little while.”
“Don’t be weird about this.”
“How is that weird?” he sits up, resting on his elbow as I pull the sheets over my naked body.
“Don’t get all sentimental or philosophical or whatever. It was just sex. Really, really, really good sex, and the longest orgasm of my entire life.” I smirk before pointing at him. “But don’t let that go to your head. If it gets any bigger, it’ll probably explode.”
“Satisfied now?” he asks. “Now that you got what you wanted out of me?”
“You make it sound like I used you.” I pat his chest. “Don’t act like you didn’t enjoy it just as much as I did.”
Settling into my pillow, I rest my arms across my stomach and stare up at the ceiling, breathing in deep and letting it go. Little aftershocks tremble through my body, reverberations of the most massive orgasm I never knew I was capable of.
Keir moves closer to me, his hand reaching for my face. Before I realize what’s happening, he’s pulling the sheets off my body and lowering his mouth onto mine.
“Again?” I ask between kisses.
He nods, his body climbing on top of mine.
Our eyes lock, and the fact that I want this again so badly almost scares me.
But one more time couldn’t hurt, right?
Keir’s mouth dances with mine, our tongues swirling as my legs wrap around his sides.
If I’m not careful, this could easily become a thing. I could let myself enjoy this too much, tell myself one more time won’t hurt until one more time becomes two more times and two more times becomes three …
“Just this once,” I say, breathless as his mouth works down my jawline then between my swollen breasts. “Then never again.”
He glances up at me, our stares heavy and holding. “Just this once. And never again.”
“Promise?” I ask.
“Promise.”
Chapter Twelve
Keir
It hit me shortly after dinner last night. I’d been going about this Rowan thing all wrong when the signs had been there from the moment we first met.
She is me.
Rowan is the female version of me; content to do her own thing, not wanting to be tied down, not interested in being pursued.
But Rowan is also … a woman … which means they don’t always mean what they say or know what they really want half the time. There’s always a gray area, a need to read between the lines. One day their favorite color is magenta, the next day it’s shocking pink. Their minds are ever-changing, their hearts easily persuaded.
Women say men are the simple ones, but I beg to differ. Women—especially women like Rowan—can be boiled down, simplified, and made so malleable I’ll have her wrapped around my finger by the time I’m through with her.
Wearing a shit-eating smirk as I glance out the window from the back of my Cadillac, I nearly miss the buzz of my phone in my pocket as my driver heads down Pennsylvania Avenue.
“Connor,” I answer a moment later.
“You didn’t answer last night,” he says. “Just checking on you.”
“I believe I hired you to strategize my senate campaign, not babysit me.”
“When your client has a stubborn streak and unflattering history, babysitting becomes a necessity,” he says. “You think I’m doing this for my health?”
I clear my throat. “Anyway.”
“Where were you last night? Not painting the town, I hope.”
My response is met with silence at first, and then a bunch of muttered, nonsensical breathing.
“Why are you freaking out, Con?” I ask. “This is a good thing.”
“You slept with her.”
“So?”
“What happened to taking things slow? Forming an actual relationship? Getting to know her before jumping into bed?”
I chuckle. “I was simply giving her exactly what she asked for.”
“So she initiated it?” He doesn’t sound like he believes me.
“More or less.”
“Jesus, Keir.” His words are muffled, as if he’s dragging his hand over his mouth. “Please tell me it was consensual.”
Sitting up straight, I say, “God, yes. Connor. You think I’m that big of an imbecile?”
“I just know you drink sometimes … and you—”
“Stop.” I cut him off before he makes me fire him. “Rowan wanted a one-night stand. That’s why she didn’t want to date me. You already know all of that.”
“Right.”
“So I simply gave into what she wanted,” I continue. “And you should’ve seen the way she looked at me when we were done. Connor, I’ve got her. I’ve got her right where we need her. This isn’t a woman who needs candies and flowers and expensive dinners. She just wants … me. And she’s going to want me again. And again. And eventually, she’s going to want the rest of me. That’s how women work.”
He’s quiet, mulling over my words. “You better hope you’re right.”
“Trust me. She’s going to be calling me up by the end of the week, wanting just one more night …” My mouth pulls up at one side as I think about her soft skin, her sweet taste, and the tight clench of her pussy around my cock as I gave her the longest fucking orgasm of her entire life … her words, true story.
What woman wouldn’t want a reprise of that?
My car pulls up to the gated entrance behind 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, and my driver waits for clearance.
“I’m headed to brunch with Harris and Busy.” I pull the phone from my ear and check the time. My mother’s a stickler for punctuality and I’m not in the mood to deal with her wrath should I be five minutes tardy.
“You can’t call them that anymore,” Connor says.
“I’m sorry. POTUS and FLOTUS.”
He groans, and I’m sure he’s kicking himself for not demanding a higher consulting fee when he decided to take me on.
But that’s not my problem.
“I’ll let you know when Rowan calls me, begging for more,” I tell him. “If only because I want to rub your nose in the fact that you were wrong.”
“Sounds … great, Keir.” Connor ends the call before me, and I slide my phone in an interior pocket of my suit coat as one of my agents gets the door.
Years ago, when I’d make an entrance, the staff and groundskeepers would stare as I walked in. A man doesn’t sport an aristocratically American last name and bathe himself in confidence and not command the room everywhere he goes.
But that was then.
My father’s first term.
Things have changed.
The Montgomery name has lost its luster, all of us relegated to memes and clickbait headlines. Everyone paints my mother as this demonic control freak, my father as this senile space cadet, and me as some trust fund playboy with zero aspirations.
What a fucking joke.
And Ronan. He’s the “good” one. He’s the one who chose love over power, a woman over one of the most idolized thrones in the history of man. America idolizes him for reasons I can’t quite grasp.
But I’m about to change all of that.
I’ll take back our name, become the greatest Montgomery who ever led the most powerful country in the world, and all of this other nonsense will fade away.
“Keir!” My mother rises from her seat in the Sky Parlor the moment she sees me, her arms outstretched as she glides across the room in her navy-blue power suit. “You made it.”
I pretend not to notice when she checks her watch, and her mouth flickers into the subtlest smile when she sees I’m not only on time, but four minutes early.
“Your father is outside at the grill,” she says, as if we’re just some normal family having a good old-fashioned cookout.
One of my parents’ many advisers told them years ago that they needed to have traditions, things that could be written about in history books and shared with visitors during White House tours decades from now.
So my father decided Sunday brunch would be their thing, grilling breakfast sausages and potatoes while the kitchen staff whips up my mother’s blueberry muffin and buttermilk pancake recipes … never mind that we grew up never having to go without an executive chef.
“Should I help him?” I offer, as I always do. Glancing outside, I see him wearing his signature apron emblazoned with the presidential seal, while a group of Secret Service agents keep watch around him.
“Oh, sweetheart, he’s fine.” She waves her hand before slipping it in mine and leading me to a nearby sofa. I’m always “sweetheart” and “dear” when other people are around. “I actually wanted to talk to you for a moment before we ate.”
Taking the spot beside her, I straighten my lapel and give her my undivided attention. “Okay.”
“I just wanted to see how things were coming with the campaign? I noticed you haven’t made your announcement yet,” she says. “Are you … waiting for any particular reason?”
She tugs at the gold cross necklace around her neck, sliding it back and forth across the chain as she waits for my response.
Every time I come around, she brings up the campaign. At first I thought it was because she didn’t trust me to do what needed to be done. Now I know it’s because she doesn’t have faith that I’ll even win.
Her steely blue gaze narrows, and I can practically read her mind.
She wishes it were Ronan launching a senatorial campaign.
She wishes it were Ronan preparing to carry on the family legacy.
But Ronan won’t speak to her, and she refuses to yank that ‘golden child’ crown off his stupid head, so she’s going to have to accept that I’m the only one left.
“I’ve been working closely with a strategist,” I say, straightening my tie. “He has the timing figured out. We’re just waiting on a few things to fall into place.”
My mother exhales, resting her hand across her heart. “I just need to know that you’re completely on board with this. That you understand what this means, not only for your future but for our family. For all of us. You’re going to be under an even bigger microscope. Your opponent is going to dig up every black mark on your record they can find—and unfortunately, they’re innumerable.”
She’s rambling on about all the ways I’ve fucked people over in my day, but I tune her out.
“Mother.” I rest my hand over hers, silencing her. “You need to trust me. I want this. I want this more than I’ve ever wanted anything. I’ve got it all figured out.”
She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t shrug in relief. Doesn’t take her cold gaze off me. “It just worries me, Keir.”
“What?” I lift a brow. “What worries you? That I’m not Ronan?”
Mom doesn’t respond, but her mouth is parted.
“You should be rejoicing over the fact that I’m not him,” I say, jaw clenched. “He ran off with the first girl who stole his heart, let her write a tell-all about our family, and now he pretends we don’t exist. He’s a goddamn coward. Me? I’m the only one in this family with some—”
“Keir.” My father’s voices comes from behind me, and when I turn, I see him study the two of us. A plate of grilled breakfast meat rests in one hand, his tongs in the other. “Hungry?”
Glancing at my mother, I press my lips together. I’m done with this conversation. I’m finished with the constant barrage of reminders about how I’ve failed her.
What about how
she failed me? Shipping me off to boarding school at age five, military school at thirteen, college at eighteen.
She doesn’t know a fucking thing about me, how my resolve and determination are second to none.
And no one gets credit for that.
It’s all me.
Rising, I say, “Famished.”
Leaving my mother’s side, I help myself to a plate, chat up a couple staffers all to avoid my mother’s looming presence, and wait for the White House photographer to arrive to document this morning so I can get the fuck out of here.
After all, I only came for the photo op.
My father’s supporters will vote like hell for me if they think we’re a close-knit family.
I don’t say goodbye when I leave, and on my way to the car, I check my phone. Scrolling through a handful of missed calls and text messages, I release a hard breath when I don’t find Rowan’s name amongst any of them.
But if I’m right about her—and I am—she’s going to spend the rest of today thinking about last night, about my mouth on her tits, my fingers in her pussy, her hips bucking against my cock for fucking hours … and she’s going to want a reprise.
She’ll tell herself to be strong. She’ll talk herself out of it five ways from Sunday. She’ll think about me so much she won’t be able to get me out of her head, and by the time we run into each other again—excuse me, “run into each other again”—she’ll be all over me.
That’s how it always happens.
I’ve yet to know a single woman who means it when she says she only wants one night.
Chapter Thirteen
Rowan
My stomach is sick with butterflies as my cab crawls down Hawke Street in morning rush hour traffic. Checking my watch, I calculate that even if we sit here another twenty minutes, I’m still going to be early for my job interview at Calloway Corp.
I spent all of Sunday researching everything I could find on Spencer Calloway and his not-for-profit corporation, but most of what I could find consisted of an Instagram page clearly managed by a college intern and a few write-ups on Huffington Post.
The coffee and bagel I had for breakfast rumbles in my stomach, threatening to rise when the driver slams on his brakes at the next light. I’m not normally an anxious person, but I’m still new at this job interview thing, never having held a job outside my parents’ multi-million-dollar empire.
P.S. I Hate You Page 50