by Alex Elliott
SEDUCED BY THE SENATOR is a work of fiction. Names including the reference to historical figures, characters, places, organizations, business and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. The author makes no claims to, but instead acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the word marks mentioned in this work of fiction.
Published in the United States of America
by Red Shoe Romance
Copyright © 2014 by Alex Elliott
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SEDUCED BY THE SENATOR by Alex Elliott
All rights reserved.
DIRTY LITTLE SECRETS
Seduced By The Senator Book 1
Vetting The Senator Book 2
Table of Contents
Copyright Page
Seduced By The Senator (Dirty Little Secrets, #1)
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Prologue
The Fall Should Always Be Fast...Memorable
SECRETS. SECRETS. Are no fun... Patently untrue propaganda. And in my world, that’s precisely how I get by. I was born to a mother who refuses to divulge my father’s identity, and adopted by Mom’s husband number three. A Kennedy. You know the ones. Like my mom, I keep my intimate details on lockdown, akin to some miser of minutiae. I’ve learned to be greedy with personal information out of necessity, and what’s the saying? Necessity is the mother of invention. Well that rings true, especially in my family.
“Let’s do another round!” Brooke drums her hands on the table. She just returned from dancing, and sinks onto the chair next to me.
“How about peppermint schnapps?” Rowena suggests.
“One more drink? Can’t hurt,” I say in response to the proposition of doing another shot of pretty-colored liquor. We’ve done everything from Alabama Slammers, a round of fireballs to flaming B-52's, and fine. One more.
Brooke orders singles this time. “Anyone up for a bump?” She pulls out a vial of coke, but I shake my head.
We’re seated upstairs, overlooking the dance floor in a club her uncle owns. Wall-to-wall people crowd the place with a line outside, and security up the wazoo. Techno thunders from the speakers, and I can’t resist tapping my foot.
“Isn’t that George Clooney?” Rowena asks, pointing to a man with an attractive woman.
“Yep. And his new wife,” I reply. “God, what a catch. Funny and handsome.”
Katrina pulls my hand and shouts, “Xavia! Come dance with me!”
I shift my focus to the dance floor, then pensively glance over at my friend. “If you promise not to step on my toes.” I raise the shot glass placed in front of me.
“Deal,” she replies.
“To getting laid.” Brooke clinks my glass, then I tap everyone else’s before tossing back the shot.
Both Kat and I rise on heels that should come with a warning against drinking and dancing.
“This is my favorite song!” she declares.
“You’ve said that at least three times,” I admonish her but laugh as we descend the stairs, and blow through the crowd toward the dance floor.
Four of us flew down to New York for the weekend. We’re hanging out in Brooke’s dad’s brownstone, clubbing all night, and I don’t care that within the last two days, I’ve downed several liters of alcohol. It’s June, classes are over, I’m twenty-four, and for once, I’m not going to sit and worry about my future. Not when there’s a bounty of handsome men around who smile at me, beguiling enough to make even me believe that I could do something crazy...say, ditch my friends in a New York City second, and lose myself.
When in Rome—am I right?
The men giving me a once over have no idea who I am, and don’t frigging care! That’s why I love escaping Boston and getting lost.
“We’re almost sprinting!” I shout.
“Don’t want to miss the best part.” Katrina doesn’t stop until we’re out in the middle of the dance floor. Soon afterward, she’s sandwiched between two guys and shouts, “Come join us!”
“I’m good.” I close my eyes. This is what it’s like to be free! I lift my arms, swivel my hips, the music blaring all around...and when I open my eyes, I see him. From flying high, I’m tumbling fast.
My brain sizzles.
I stare across the dance floor at a man. More like some mythical hunter... Orion.
I shiver from his power. Projected. It’s his eyes.
Brighter than exploding twin stars.
They consume me.
Obliterate my next thought and the one after that one.
I swallow, and gather he’s not just some run-of-the-mill handsome hunk. He’s got this stare that slices through the bodies gyrating next to me, and right into the center of my being. I want to look away—Christ, I tell myself—look the hell away...but I can’t. Instead of being mortified that Mr. Gorgeous is staring holes in me, I’m excited. He’s seated maybe twenty feet away, behind the cordoned off VIP area at a table with three other men—all of them in suits. He doesn’t seem to be focused on their animated conversation. No, he’s zoning in on one target...me.
He lifts a glass to his mouth, and over the rim, he watches me dance. There’s something so familiar about him. No way could I have met him at one of my family’s parties. He’s not only gorgeous—there’s an intensity about him. Proof that I’m caught in a mind-screw-fest as I dance for him—nearly a whole song.
Mesmerized, I let go as though I know what he wants. I don’t feel cheap or sleazy—he makes me want to be daring. Provocative. And in return, I want to tempt him like he’s tempting me. Trailing my fingers down my breasts, I alternate rotating my shoulders slowly to the music, and yes, I imagine that his mouth is on me, drinking between my legs, driving me wild. Best of all, in my fantasy—he doesn’t care who my family is as he forces my legs wider, imprisoning me under him until I forget everything except how insane he makes me feel.
My dress—a tiny scrap of shiny white material—rises up my thighs, the hem tickling my skin. Thank God there are people all around and steamy clouds float up from the floor or the slice of man cake would be getting a shot of how little I’m wearing. And just as I think that thought, the crowds part, and guess who gets an eyeful of me and my dirty dance routine? My admirer leans over, setting his glass down, and I get that his eyes have just gotten a panoramic view of me and the strip of lace I call my thong.
He breaks eye contact. He’s saying something to the men seated with him, and then he’s up and out of his chair. Now, I’m the one leaning to the side, then to the other, wondering is he leaving. I track his movement, my heart thudding, and I’m edging off of the dance floor. He’s a head taller than everyone and easy to spot as he walks from the VIP section. Even in the dimly lit space between the bar and tables overlooking the dance floor, I follow his progress. When he enters a section that is better lit, our gazes reconnect. We’re closer and in that flash, I can’t move. Or think. Or breathe. Tractor beams aren’t this strong or mind warping.
A woman shouts, “Excuse me.”
Shit, I’m frozen, and have to decide, either I can hover at the edge of the dance floor, gettin
g knocked and bashed, or exit. I’m no longer dancing, and without warning my feet direct me toward him. “Okay, wait,” I tell myself. I can’t just head off his progress—he might be headed for the front door.
“You’re quite a dancer,” he says in a deep voice, shaped by a slight Southern accent, and towering like a redwood right in front of me.
For the year it takes for my brain to reconnect, I lift my chin and face him. I say, “Thanks...” and stare in stunned silence.
What.
The.
Fuck!
His gaze pulls the thoughts right out of my head. This impenetrable specimen of a man isn’t like the mama’s boys I’ve known. Up close, I look into his smoky grey-green eyes that don’t just consume, they devour me. He holds off smiling, looking down at me, and slightly cocks his head. Instantly, I want to run my fingers through his thick dark messy hair that frames his chiseled and yes, stunning face. All at once, it’s like the weekend of drinking pretty-colored shots goes straight to my forebrain, and I totter.
“Hey.” His hand shoots out, taking hold of my arm. “You all right?”
His touch isn’t static. His fingers on my arm send a racing jolt that hits me like a rocket, tingling along my skin, then diving deep. A spark of fiery pleasure implodes in my belly. “Uh...It’s kinda crowded. I’m just hot,” I think I say.
I’m beyond charred standing next to him and now with his fingers on my skin, it’s all I can do to stay upright.
“Come talk to me. Over there.” He tugs on my arm, jutting his chin to some invisible place, not that I break eye contact to see where he means.
“Okay. Sure.” I hope I’m speaking and the mute button isn’t pressed. Confirmation.
He leads me to an alcove, down from the dance floor, and one I didn’t know existed. Not that I’ve been to this club before. Thunderstruck, I follow along, his hand on my arm and a tiny voice inside my head, asks the question. Should I be afraid? We’re alone and even though he’s wearing an expensive suit, he has the body of someone who clearly doesn’t sit around all day, crunching numbers.
“Why are you dancing alone?” He stares down at me, thoughtfully assessing as he waits for me to say something, I imagine.
Inside the narrow hall, I’m panting and the blood is pounding in my ears. Should I admit that I’m floored that a man who is taller than any jungle gym I’ve encountered, wants to talk?
“Who the heck are you?” I ask not answering his question. My tongue is numb instead of loose from all the drinking, and being this close to an unchecked power source of masculinity—let’s get real—he’s too... I don’t even know a proper term—but he’s too.
Leaning closer, he whispers in my ear, “Your worst nightmare.” He chuckles—the sound is gravelly, hooking, and a decadent rumble in his chest. Far different than those men I associate with from Nantucket. Each is owned by a woman, birthed and bred to rear the next generation of power moguls. Each woman is expected to dress in pastels, smile graciously while wearing strings of pearls, and wielding a saber.
“Trust me,” I reply. “You’re not.”
For a beat our gazes lock. He leans closer. “I’d like to kiss you.”
Okay, he’s not a nightmare, but definitely the idea of him really touching me more so than what he's already doing, is all at once frightening and mind-bending. But instead of being truly scared, my clueless brain is saturated with lust so deeply tinged, it’s cloying. I know without question, whatever he has to offer, I want in on. Now.
“Just a kiss?” I ask.
“Just a kiss,” he promises and my heart batters within my chest.
I don’t close my eyes, bending toward him. He’s what I need. Maybe this is just a kiss, but it’s a reminder that I don’t want to spend another New England summer counting days, hours, minutes.
I want hard, dark, gritty.
A blur and a storm.
Dangerous.
I can’t become what my family wants. Predictable. Safe. A cog in the wheel.
One kiss and I’ll remember. I’ve got to remember this night. Our lips meet and his warm mouth envelops me in a way that fully relays he knows how to kiss—knows how to...how to do other things. He slides his hand to the back of my head, imprisoning me. In reality he’s freeing me by taking the reins—guiding me so that our mouths meld at the perfect angle as he traces my jaw with his fingertips. Without warning, he thrusts his tongue in between my lips, fisting his fingers in my hair, shifting my head back as my chin tips up.
I grab onto his muscular arms, bracing myself in free fall off a jagged cliff into an ocean of lust where his hot, velvet, and very wild mouth beckons me. He sucks my bottom lip between his teeth, biting down, and pushing me back until I’m flush against the cool wall.
Sweet Jesus, this man can kiss!
His body is hard, so hard and forceful I'm moaning against his mouth. I take a breath and the scent of his cologne enters me, taking root deeper than the darkest of dark secrets. Like one of those ancient pine forests but a titch smoky, and then there’s an undercurrent of leather. I inhale, swallowing a groan as I savor the aftereffects of another whiff of him. It’s a potent projectile that travels through me, landing between my legs.
He takes my face between his hands, kisses me again, and orders, “Open for me. All the way.”
“Please,” I moan, blinking up to his face.
He kisses my mouth harder this time, pushing my lips apart. His tongue goes deeper. He’s a little rough. Not too much, but the kind of kiss that relays, without argument, he’s in control as he plunges his tongue into my mouth. He’s consuming and at the same time filling me...with sparks of pleasure, tingling from my nipples to my toes, from my mouth to between my legs. Giving me a taste of what he could do, if he desired to do more.
And that’s what I hunger for: MORE!
I want his hands on my body, rougher than the edge of this kiss and equally demanding. I arch against him as he holds my face, tongue banging my mouth. Our hips connect and the rigid bar of his cock presses into my belly. I lift up onto my tiptoes, seeking to get closer, lifting my knee to give him better access.
He stops devouring my mouth, dragging his lips along my jaw as my breasts ache for his touch. I reach for him and he hoists my hands above my head. “You can’t imagine the things we could do,” he whispers. “The way you’d feel if you gave yourself to me.”
“If?” I ask, hooked by what he’s done so far.
“Yeah. If.” He releases my arms and spins me around, recapturing my hands. He presses my palms to the wall. One by one. Without stopping, he kicks my heels apart and pulls back on my hips. Just a tug while lifting my hem, and draping my dress across my lower back. “How old are you?” he asks, leaning over me as his thumbs peel apart my ass cheeks.
I’m fully exposed to him and I answer, prepared to let him do me in any way, shape, or form he desires.
I gaze over my shoulder and meet his eyes. “Old enough for what you have in store.”
“That’s not an answer,” he replies, his thumbs sweeping down my crevice.
“I didn’t use a fake ID to get in. Okay?” I bite my lip to stop from whimpering when he pushes my hips down, letting my hem fall and cover my bottom.
“You like to argue.” He scrapes his jaw against my cheek as though punishing me for not giving him a direct answer.
“You seem to like a woman who isn’t a total pushover.”
“We’re equally paired. You and I.” He nips my skin, and moves his lips to my neck, sucking a point that has my eyes rolling back in my head. I’m going to come so unbelievably loud and hard from this man kissing me in a dark hall. In an ear-popping club, I decide this is my moment of flying by the seat of my pants, past the land of pastel pleasantries. I push back, swaying my bottom against his cock, fitting his thick erection in between the valley of my ass. He pushes himself forward, his fingers curl around my hips as he grazes his cock against me. We’re two seconds away from going from dry humping to fu
ll-throttle sex in public, and I hear a low growl escape his lips.
“That was some kiss,” he grunts. “Guess we got carried away.”
I’m stunned as I pivot toward him. He bends forward, kisses my mouth one last time. A sweet kiss, a lingering plant of his lips against mine, and then he releases me. “Shall I walk you back to your friends?”
No more hands on me. No more lips. Only a few paltry words.
“My friends...” This isn’t how I envisioned our conversation—we shouldn’t be talking—we should be half-naked. Clearly this is an ending and I don’t understand.
He steps back, raking a set of long fingers through his hair, and gazes down at me with that same unrelenting stare that first grabbed me. “You didn’t come alone. Did you?”
Almost...so it seems. I shake my head, my cheeks heat from embarrassment. Was I too crazy? Too easy? Not enough? “I’m fine. I’ll probably go to the restroom.” I gesture across the club toward the stairs.
“This was...incredible,” he says in a voice that’s low and deep, but even with the music rebounding off the walls, I feel each rough syllable resonating in my body. He doesn’t offer more and the ensuing awkward silence is louder than the techno song in play.
“You’re leaving then.” The words are out of my mouth before I can censor the comment as ‘not cool—don’t say.’
“I am. Just stopped in for a drink. Friend’s birthday. This place is too dangerous.” He lets his gaze slide down my body, then he looks back at my face. “Much too dangerous to make a mistake.”
A mistake? My heart hammers in my chest, and I feel like he’s tossed ice water in my face. I return to the land of autopilot—devolving to how I am around my family. “It’s been fun, but I better get going too.” If I don’t leave, I’ll say something incredibly stupid. I look up and into his eyes—predator like and heavy-lidded—then turn on my heel and away from his arresting face, away from his unrelenting gaze. Away from the hottest mistake of my pastel-colored life.
* * *
I Found My Heaven...and My Hell
Bennett Stone
WHAT THE...? I do a double take. Who is that girl?