Pawn
Volume One
By MAYA ST. JAMES
Table of Contents
Title Page
Pawn: Volume One
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
Acknowledgments
About the Author
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
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright © 2015 by Maya St. James
Pawn: Volume One
Cover Design: RBA Designs
Editor: The Word Maid
All rights reserved. No parts of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
“I want to spend your last semester getting you out of those fucking pearls and on all fours.”
That’s what he says to me when he finds out that with one semester of college left, my father—his colleague—has cut me off. Young, wickedly handsome, and deliciously moody, Senator Graham Delaney’s filthy proposition to cover tuition in exchange for one semester of kink is terrifying and thrilling and offensive.
If you’re wondering if I told him to go screw himself after he gave me his ultimatum—if the night ended with me slapping that smirk off his face—that didn’t happen.
Instead, I did what I needed to do.
I just didn’t expect to like it.
Volume 1 of a 3 part serial. WARNING: The pages of this novella contain filthy words and naughty situations. Reader discretion advised.
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Prologue
Graham
30-November
If I’d known the focal point of my night would be a waitress with her greedy hands down my pants, and her hot breath fanning my ear as she whispers a laundry list of things she’s willing to let me do to her body, I would’ve stayed the fuck at my office.
Yet here I am. In a small storage room because I didn’t want to create a scene when she’d pulled me in behind her. With what’s supposed to be a seductive grip on my dick.
“You can put it anywhere. Everywhere. Just like the first time, Graham,” she says invitingly, the way she purrs my name—Graaaaaaaham—grating what little patience I have left. Pulling her hands out of my pants, she leans against a stack of liquor boxes, spreading her legs as far apart as the shorts she pulled around her knees will allow. “I haven’t been able to get you off my mind since the night we messed around.”
“I’m flattered, but I’m also not going to fuck you. That’s what it’s called, just so you know. Fucking, not messing around. Now, pull your panties back up like a good girl.” The point flies right over her head. She wriggles her curvy body up against mine, covering me with the overwhelming scent of perfume she’s bathed in.
I stiffen, but sadly, my cock doesn’t.
“Come on, baby.” She grabs my hands, planting them on her bare ass cheeks and poking her bottom lip out when I don’t give them the attention she’s desperate for. “We can do anything you want.” She emphasizes every word like she’s offering me a goddamn precious gem.
She’s not, and I have no interest.
Women like the one grinding against me—they’re dangerous.
Liabilities.
I can’t afford dangerous liabilities, no matter how wet and willing they are.
Grabbing her shoulders, I shake my head. Her pout doesn’t sway me. In fact, it makes the decision to say no easy as hell. “I’ll pass, but give my regards to your pussy.”
She’s still out of breath and giving me bedroom eyes when she murmurs, “Do you want to, I don’t know, meet up after my shift or something?”
I sigh. I’ve debated bills that weren’t this difficult. “I wasn’t requesting a rain check on your cunt. I was giving it a firm no.”
She stumbles away from me, looking like a deer caught in headlights. “I swear you’re a giant . . . you’re a pussy tease.” Looking proud of the insult, she turns her back to me to adjust her clothing. She bends slightly and pulls up the shiny blue scrap of material she calls shorts, jiggling her ass to show me what I’m missing. “I hate you.”
But as much as I don’t want to see that ass go—hey, I’m a realist, not a fucking monk—I’ll take her self-proclaimed hatred of me and move on with my night.
“Did you hear me?” she demands, her voice hysterically louder. And this is why she’s dangerous. No self-control. I’m fine with not getting my balls wet in exchange for avoiding the crazy calls, texts, and eventual claims of two pink lines on a Dollar Store stick that are bound to be on the menu for this one.
“You. Are. A. Tease.”
This is a new one. In thirty-three years, I’ve been called everything from misunderstood to cold to powerful to depraved, but this is the first time a woman has ever labeled me a tease.
“You and I agreed you were a one-time thing,” I counter, careful not to say we. It implies that she and I are more—again, dangerous. She whirls around to glare at me, her expertly painted face the same fiery shade as her hair. Approaching her slowly, I smirk when she shivers and backs herself against a shelf of paper towels. Doe-eyed and swallowing hard, she looks almost innocent, almost perfect. Moldable. But then her attempt at a seductive smile ruins that for me.
“Besides, there’s no part of you that hates me.” To demonstrate, I squeeze my hand between her thighs, moving my palm back and forth across her clit until she sags against me.
“I can’t. This is my job, Graham,” she pants.
I snort. The fact she suddenly gives a shit about where we are, what we’re doing, only makes me want her to come harder. Send her back to work with wet panties and no promise of an encore. “A minute ago, you were bent over cases of vodka begging me to pound your ass. You care about your job as much as I do.”
She mutters some garbled nonsense, tilts her head back, and squeezes her eyes together. Straining her tits against my chest, she parts her lips so I can see her biting the tip of her tongue and releases noises that would make even a porn star envious as she claws at the lapels of my jacket.
“I’m so close,” she whispers huskily. “See how good we could be?”
I laugh. “If good is getting off in the middle of ketchup and vodka bottles through a pair of cheap shorts? Personally, I’m looking for a little more of . . . anything else.” Jerking my hand from her shorts, I roll my eyes before shoving it in my pocket. “We’re done here. I�
�m sure you can finish up on your own.”
Her eyes fly open. She shoves her hands to my chest, but I don’t budge. “What the hell, Graham?”
“You lost me at good and gave my fucking hand commitment issues at we. Don’t look so shocked.”
“You’re an asshole. Tell me, what exactly is it that you’re looking for?” She grabs a roll of the paper towels from behind her. Ripping off several sheets, she shoves the wad down her shorts, her face reddening when she catches me watching. “Since this is the second time you’ve come with me back here!”
“You pulled me in here tonight. And there’s a reason why I fucked you here the first—and only—time,” I interrupt, livid at myself because that first encounter had been a mistake. I took pride in being careful, but even the most careful were subject to a lapse in judgment. “That reason is discretion. I needed you in your element to keep your mouth shut.”
She seethes. “I see. Let me guess, a waitress isn’t good enough for you, Senator Delaney? Doesn’t meet your rich boy requirements? Isn’t discreet enough for your pervy bullshit? Do you even know my name?”
“No, nothing against waitresses, just you.” I make it a few steps toward the storeroom door before I feel the roll of paper towels slam into my back. I don’t turn around. “You don’t really think that hurt me, do you?” I question coldly and hear her suck in a deep breath. “Make sure you clean up the spot on your thigh, Jana.”
As I slip back out into the restaurant, she hisses, “I would never have voted for you.”
Does she think I care? Finally grinning over my shoulder, I lift a shoulder in disinterest. “Next time I’m up for election, I’m counting on you to move to New York just to vote against me.”
She hurls another string of shushed insults at my back.
By the time I reach my table, I’ve pushed all thoughts of Jana and her incredi-ass to the furthest corner of my mind. While I was gone my D.C. accountant had re-ordered drinks, and I down my bourbon slowly.
“Did you get lost in the pisser?” Daniel jokes, and I regard him with a noncommittal head movement. It’s better than telling him to piss off simply for being the financial Grim Reaper. Opening a spreadsheet on his phone, he laughs. “I thought you’d run off on me. Looking at all these numbers is overwhelming.”
“Not at all. Ran into an aide I worked with a couple years ago.” I spot Jana leaving the storage closet, a flash of red, white, and blue as she bounces over to a table where three women sit. I begin to focus on Daniel, but something at that table stops me.
It’s like a fucking game of which one of these things is not like the other.
Parked between two cute blondes is a young brunette, and I swear I can sense the stick in her ass from all the way across the room. She’s perfectly coifed and aloofly beautiful in that old Hollywood glamour kind of way—creamy skin, pink heart-shaped lips, and the kind of curves made for my hands. Her eyes dart from waitress to waitress, taking in the sight of their lack of attire. I expect to see her wrinkle her upturned nose at them, but she surprises me.
The look on her face is defeated.
She worries her bottom lip between her teeth and smooths down the loose black waves framing her delicately boned face and resting against a pair of tits that even I find impressive. If she’s trying to hide them under her prude dress, she’s doing a bad job. I can read her like a book. Or in her case, an encyclopedia. Overachiever, practically a virgin in every way, and her sweet little heart goes zero to sixty at the mere mention of getting laid.
When she fidgets with her pearls, I realize another reason why she made me do a triple take.
I. Know. Her.
No, I’ve seen her, know of her, because I sure as hell know her father—Robert Courtney, the senator from Virginia. The douche that, in 2016, will likely be POTUS.
She isn’t drinking, isn’t eating, and from the look of things, not saying a word to the blondes sitting with her. So why is Eleanor Courtney at 202 on a Friday night?
“Are you ready to go over these figures, Senator Delaney?” Daniel’s voice bumps into my thoughts, temporarily forcing my attention away from the woman who has inadvertently captured it.
My lips thin in an impatient smile. “First, food. You have a little time before you ask me to bend over, don’t you?” I ask, and Daniel stammers a response he thinks will make me happy before excusing himself to the restroom. With him gone, I flag down a waitress. She greets me with a seductive pose and a shimmery pout. I disregard both, ordering the first thing on the appetizer menu before casually inquiring about the table across the room.
“Oh, they’re here for an interview with Chad. I swear he’s like the only guy I’ve ever worked for who interviews during Friday night dinner rush.” She grips her serving tray closer to her chest and winks. “Be back with your order in a few, okay?”
I think hard on this new information until Daniel returns, the wheels of my brain accelerating at an alarming pace. If Eleanor is here for a job interview, things must be crumbling in the Courtney household. So badly Senator Courtney’s sweet little precious is ready to slide into little shorts and prance around for tips. I’m as giddy as a kid on Christmas when she rises to her feet, brushes that shapeless wool monstrosity over her body, and turns facing my direction.
As expected, her walk is elegant, refined as she follows Jana toward the back of the restaurant where I’m seated. What I don’t expect is the reaction my cock has to her. It’s a feeling Jana had failed to inspire, and I need to know more. Need to feel more. I need to meet her. The closer she gets the more I can already picture her on her knees, her mouth wrapped around my cock, her legs spread wide for me—that uptight elegance shattered as she begs me to fuck her speechless.
And I’m not getting ahead of myself because I know this will happen. It was settled the moment I laid eyes on her.
Jana passes me by, jutting her breasts out to show me what I’ve turned down, but I tune her out when Eleanor Courtney’s eyes lock with mine.
This shitter of a night just took a turn for the best.
She’s perfect.
And if there’s anything to bring Robert Courtney and everything he pretends to stand for down a notch—or ten—I’m staring right at it.
My ace in the hole.
The perfect pawn.
Chapter One
Elle
7-December
My dad would crap a brick if he could see me right now. And then, he’d very likely wish he could stone me with said brick.
Instead, he would claim, in a dangerously reserved voice, that I’m out to destroy his image, and then he’d throw me his jacket and tell me to cover myself.
I tug on the front of the white and red tank top hugging my breasts like heavy-duty cling wrap. “Why do I care what he thinks?” I ask, as I overanalyze myself in the mirror. I’ve opted for minimal makeup—tinted moisturizer, mascara, and a dab of lip-gloss—so one of the barest versions of myself stares back at me. “I absolutely will not bring that man to work with me. No matter how uncomfortable I feel.”
As if on cue, my pint-sized roommate saunters past the tiny bathroom we share, dressed in full eighties attire—fluorescent pink-and-platinum side ponytail, neon yellow leg warmers over black leggings, and a slouchy fuchsia sweatshirt. When she sees me worrying over my reflection, she backtracks, props her shoulder against the doorframe, and releases a long, low wolf whistle.
“Damn, Elle. You’re giving me a lady-boner.”
Blowing a black strand of hair from my eyes, I pull at the tight blue shorts that barely reach the top of my thighs. Twisting to look at my backside, I release an agitated noise. “Can you see my butt cheeks?”
Blake rolls her eyes. “Do you care? Your ass will launch a thousand tips.” In spite of my threadbare nerves, I can’t help but laugh at the corny Helen of Troy reference, prompting her to continue, “You look fine, I promise. Better than fine. And besides, don’t forget I saw you in that sexy little monokini at Hilton Head las
t summer. You had ass for days in that thing.”
In a way, she has a point. I’d spent most of our spur of the moment, woe-is-me-I-just-ended-a-relationship-with-a-jerk, vacation last June in nothing more than a bathing suit, not caring who saw me. But then again, showing ass for days in a restaurant where I’ll be working feels like a far cry from vacationing at the beach.
Tonight . . . well, I feel exposed.
When I received the call a couple days ago asking me if I still wanted the position at 202, I was so stunned I’d gotten the job that I didn’t stop to think about the skimpy uniforms. Even though I’d witnessed them firsthand last week, I hadn’t given the attire very much thought when I came home last Friday night because I thought I had royally effed up the interview.
Not only had I gone in looking like something that tripped out of a Brooks Brothers ad (the other two women interviewing wore jeans and trendy tops that showed off just as much as the 202 uniform, plus they had years of experience), I’d eye-humped one of the patrons, and then I’d stumbled through the actual interview itself. Chad, the owner, hadn’t exactly looked impressed when I admitted my only work experience was filing paperwork in my dad’s office one summer and some travel articles I’d sold to magazines.
And yet somehow, I’d gotten a call back.
“A trial basis,” Jana, the assistant manager, had informed me when she let me know I had the job. “But you’re really pretty, and Chad seems to like you, so that usually means you’re golden.”
“The tips are supposed to be all sorts of incredible,” I say aloud to Blake, repeating what Jana had said while sounding like I’m trying to convince myself. I run my fingers through my long, ebony hair and pile the wavy tresses into a high ponytail on top of my head. “If it’s as good as they say, I won’t have any problem making the first payment to school next month.”
“You’ve got this.” Blake glances at her watch. She’s the only one I know our age who still wears one, preferring the weight on her wrist over checking the time on her cell phone, but she’s swore for the last couple years that traditional timepieces are making a comeback. “What time are you supposed to go in?”
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