Pawn: Volume One

by Maya St. James

  I can’t take it anymore and blurt out, “What are you thinking about?”

  “Let me guess, you know this song too?”

  “From a TV show,” I admit. “That’s what you’re thinking about?”

  “No.” His smile, the reserved politician’s flash of teeth with a hint of secrecy behind it, issues me a warning. “Do you want the filtered version?”

  I don’t think before I say, “No filter.”

  “Fucking you.” He doesn’t blink. My drink goes down the wrong way, causing me to choke. Did he just say that? “Is that not what you expected to hear?”

  “Excuse me?” I cough out.

  This time he goes a little further. “I’m thinking about fucking you with my tongue.”

  I rub my palm across my burning chest. “Why the hell would you tell me that?”

  “Because you asked what I was thinking about. You’re beautiful, smart, and mature enough to handle the thoughts going through my head about you. I would’ve never stepped foot in 202 again if I hadn’t laid eyes on you.” He keeps a perfectly straight face as he tells me this, like he’s dictating his daily schedule to an assistant and not flat-out propositioning to go down on me.

  “Don’t look so surprised, Elle. I’ve spent the entire night watching your mouth, and not calling you out like I should, because all I can think about are your lips clamped around my cock and the way your cunt will taste.”

  Oh. My. God. In my twenty-two years, nobody has ever said anything like that to me. His words instantly affect me, causing an unexpected heat wave between my thighs, and I stare at him with wide eyes. “You could’ve warned me we’d be discussing vaginas when you asked me for drinks.” I take a gulp of my drink to clear up the sudden dryness in my throat. “Isn’t it a little crude for someone like you to talk like this?”

  “It’s crude for anyone to talk about pussy at the dinner table, but I’m a politician, not a priest.” One side of his lip jerks up in a sardonic smile at the look on my face when he says that particular word. “In fact, I’m the complete opposite of a priest.”

  “Believe me, I can tell.” Standing, I jerk on my coat, my fingers trembling as I reach for the zipper at the bottom of the quilted black material. He regards me skeptically as he reaches in his back pocket for his wallet. Even though the bar is virtually empty, I add in a low voice, “And as you can tell, I’m not interested in your tongue. Thank you for the drinks, Graham.”

  “Don’t lie.” His words stop me, and I turn around as he peels a hundred out of his wallet and tosses it on the receipt. I glance down at the total bill. Just under sixty bucks. My redheaded 202 comrade was very wrong—shitty tipper, my ass. He gets up, returning his wallet to his back pocket and staring down at me with a stormy challenge in the dark depths of his eyes that make me feel like he can see through my clothing. Given everything he’s said to me tonight, I wouldn’t be surprised.

  Maybe that came with being rich and powerful—X-ray vision. It would explain why my dad seems to always know everything.

  “If you weren’t interested, you wouldn’t still be here, and you sure as hell wouldn’t be moving so goddamn slow to get away.” He leans closer, and I stiffen when his scent washes over me. God, I bet the man’s interns go home at night and douse their pillows in his cologne. “You’re already wet, and I haven’t even touched you.”

  To my humiliation, he has affected my panties. There’s an undeniable pressure between my thighs, and it has everything to do with Graham Delaney and his filthy mouth. “I should slap you.”

  He straightens his back, and I release the breath I was holding. “Your lies are epic, Elle. Stop denying me.”

  I lift my chin a little higher and fist my hands. “Just because I’m physically attracted to you doesn’t mean I’m going home with you tonight to jump in your bed.”

  He touches the small of my back, causing a jolt in the pit of my stomach. Guiding me toward the bar’s exit, he places his lips close to my ear. “You misunderstood me. I never said anything about taking you to bed tonight. I only said I was thinking about fucking you.”

  I jerk my head back to meet his teasing expression. “Then what was the point of telling me?” I demand hotly.

  “I told you, to give you something to think about.”

  We walk outside, and I’m relieved to see the crowd has thinned. Nobody seems to notice when he turns to me on the sidewalk, grinning. What an asshole. A horribly sexy asshole that succeeded in getting me hot and bothered in a matter of minutes.

  “I’m going to walk you to your car now, Elle. I’m going to leave you with my number, and a few days from now, you’re going to call me if you’re still thinking about me.”

  “Well, aren’t you a cocky son of a bitch.”

  He closes the space between our bodies so that we’re touching. “If you don’t shut up, I’ll tell you everything on my mind. Trust me, it only gets more . . . colorful.” Framing my face with his hand, he brushes his thumb over my lips. Tingles burst across my skin. Unintentionally, I lick them away. “Three days from now, you. Will. Call. Me.”

  There’s no if this time, and that unnerves me. That he expects me to call him. Expects it. “Goodnight, Senator Delaney.”

  Chapter Six

  The challenge of finding another job isn’t enough to take my mind off Graham, but it does make him less prominent in my thoughts. Still, over the next couple days I can’t seem to escape him. He’s on the news when I’m flipping through channels, his smug smile sexing up the screen. He’s in my fantasies when I close my eyes at night, touching me in ways that make me wake up wanting to tear my pajamas off. And when I’m grabbing coffee with my friend, Karissa, after lunch the following Monday, he’s in the paper, an article about loan forgiveness, that I spot on the rack.

  “What a bunch of bull,” I say under my breath, rolling my eyes at the paper.

  Karissa twists toward me, her mahogany and wheat ombre lob swinging around her shoulders. “Whatever you do, don’t call glorious news bullshit in front of Mr. Kyler when you start after Christmas.” She wiggles a light brown eyebrow. “He’ll think you’re possessed or something.”

  “My dad shunned one of his reporters for an interview a few years back. He probably already thinks I’m possessed.”

  She wipes a line of whipped cream from her top lip. “You’re gonna end up hating me for referring you, I can already feel it.”

  While I hadn’t used any of my dad’s resources to find a job, I had reached out to my own network of friends. I’ve known Karissa since grade school. Though she goes to Georgetown and her boyfriend is close friends with my ex, we stay in touch and usually get together once or twice a month. When she’d mentioned that her boyfriend’s dad, the owner of a local tabloid-centric paper, was looking for an assistant, I jumped at the chance. After learning that I’m a journalism student, Mr. Kyler had hired me on the spot at lunch yesterday, but not before letting me know he thought of my father’s politics as certified assholery.

  I hadn’t told him that I wholly agree.

  My hourly pay won’t come close to matching the tips I was making at 202, but at least I’ll be earning something to put toward the installment payments—and with the money I made at 202 combined with the meager checking account my dad hasn’t frozen, I already have the January payment covered. I’ll figure out the rest before school starts back in a few weeks.

  Grabbing my holiday-themed gingerbread latte from the counter, I drop a couple dollars in the tip jar and follow Karissa to the parking lot. She stops in front of her car. “We should all get together when Blake comes back.” She cringes, and I sigh, preparing myself for what I know is coming next. “Unless you don’t want to be around Alex and his flavor of the week.”

  Since Alex had messaged me for a pre-vacation booty call just a few days ago, I wasn’t even aware he had a flavor of the week. Which pisses me off. “We broke up almost six months ago, I think I’ll be okay.” I smile reassuringly. “We can have a belated New
Year party at my place. You know Blake is always on board for a good time.”

  “Perfect. Make sure you call me after Christmas and let me know how things with Kyler are going. And don’t complain too hard because I already warned you the man is off his rocker.”

  Backing toward my Jeep, I laugh. “He seemed perfectly sane.”

  “Please. He has enough conspiracy theories to give Scandal new material for years.” Winking, Karissa climbs behind the wheel of her car and lets down the window. “Good luck!”

  Still smiling, I turn to my Jeep and dig in my pocket for my keys. My pulse quickens when a card comes out along with the keys, fluttering facedown to the ground. I know whose card it is, and even though I should walk right over it (and maybe grind it into the asphalt, just for good measure), I can’t. Graham Delaney and his dirty mouth have spent too much time inside my head this week.

  I’m going to leave you with my number, and a few days from now, you’re going to call me if you’re still thinking about me.

  When hadn’t I thought about him since he took me to my car on Friday night? Sighing, I pick up the card and get into the Jeep. For the longest time, I stay in the parking lot, staring at the number typed along the embossed paper. I give myself a hundred and one reasons why I shouldn’t call him.

  He and my father are in the same line of work—in the same party, for that matter.

  He’s high profile.

  He called me a liar, and even though he was right, it was still rude.

  With a mouth like his, he’s probably screwed half the city.

  That mouth. Period.

  And then, I think of the one reason why I should call. Why I need to call.

  I haven’t been able to get him out of my head.

  He answers on the third ring, and a shiver courses down my spine when he says my name in a confident growl. “Elle.”

  I turn off my car radio, drowning out Hozier mid-Amen. “I figured you’d be a little more cautious about how you answer your phone.” I put the Jeep in reverse and, after checking my surroundings, back up. “I could’ve been a reporter.”

  “This is my personal number. And relax, you’re safe. There are thousands of Elles in this city.”

  “Thanks for making me feel special.” I pull into traffic. “You always carry around cards with your personal number?”

  “Would you rather I wrote my number on your breasts? I have to admit, I greatly prefer them over a boring piece of cardstock.”

  “I’m in the middle of a restaurant,” I blurt out, interrupting him because I’m afraid of my body’s response to whatever he was preparing to say next.

  “Did you know your voice deepens when you lie? And you lick your lips, too. And that the edges of those green eyes crinkle just slightly?” When I gulp, he chuckles. “What time are you available tonight?”

  “What makes you think I’m available? I haven’t given you a single thought until today when I found your card in my pocket.”

  “You wouldn’t have called me if you weren’t available. Let’s not waste time with ridiculous back-and-forth, you want to see me, and I definitely want to see you. What time should I pick you up?”

  After I stupidly tell him I’ll be home all night—because what’s more interesting than a twenty-two-year-old woman who sits around during holiday break flipping back and forth through travel channels—and give him the address to my apartment, he says, “I’ll see you at nine.”

  “Wait! Where are you taking me?”

  “Does it matter as long as I promise to keep you safe?”

  “That’s the dumbest question I’ve ever heard.” Stopping at a red light, I catch a glimpse of my face in the rearview mirror. I’m flushed, go figure. “Of course it matters.”

  Graham laughs again. This time, it reverberates through my body, tightening every muscle down to my core. Damn, why does he have to have such an effect on me? “I’ll see you at nine.”

  Chapter Seven

  Graham

  17-December

  Just like Elle, I’d done my research after we parted last Friday night. No surprise, Eleanor Courtney is squeaky clean. Untarnished, in fact.

  Straight A student at the best private school Daddy’s money could buy, former equestrian at said high school in addition to one shitty season of lacrosse, 3.9 GPA at George Washington University—Elle is exactly what I expected her to be on paper. Dull. It had taken me a few calls, but I’d finally figured out just what she’d been lying about, which added fuel to the fire.

  Eleanor Courtney’s father hasn’t paid for her spring tuition yet, but she’s already contacted the finance department to set up month-to-month payment arrangements.

  Not only has Elle been cut off—for whatever reason her shit stain of a dad came up with because she looks pristine from where I’m standing—she has also handed herself to me on a silver platter.

  “And she has no fucking clue.”

  From the front seat, Vivienne, my Chief of Staff’s assistant, narrows her ice blue eyes at the rearview mirror. “I’m sorry, did you say something?”

  “Watch the road. The last thing we need is for your bad driving to kill someone. Christ, with the way you handle traffic, you’d think you grew up in Iowa instead of New York.” Then, feeling like the king of fucking D.C., I throw my phone into my briefcase, where it lands somewhere between papers and the other phone I reserve for business. “Something’s come up. When we get back to my office, cancel my dinner plans for tonight.”

  She keeps her gaze on the road, but I catch her reflection when I glance up at the windshield. Vivi frowns about everything, and my newest instructions are no exception. “But, Graham, you have a meeting scheduled with Thomas Neill.”

  “And I don’t give a fuck, just do your job.” I sigh and rub the bridge of my nose. “Cancel whatever it is, Vivi. It can wait.”

  “I know what my job is, so you don’t have to talk to me like I’m a child.” She taps her short nails anxiously on the steering wheel. “In case you forgot, I’m three years older than you.”

  She’s never let me forget. My parents were shit, too wealthy for their own good, and they’d left me and my brothers to be raised by nannies and whoever else they could throw hundreds at. It wouldn’t have been surprising if they’d pawned me off on a stripper, but luckily for eight-year-old Graham, they struck gold with Vivi’s mother. Housekeeper and nanny-extraordinaire, the woman had raised me until my own parents deemed me old enough to swat off to another state for school.

  So, yes, I’m well aware that the judgmental blonde glowering at me from the front seat is three years my senior. I’ve also known her long enough to predict that, without a doubt, she’s seconds from questioning my every move and calling her nosiness caring.

  Five . . .

  Four . . .

  Three . . .

  Two . . .

  She huffs and puffs from the front seat. Here it comes. The deluge of morality. “All right, Graham. Who doesn’t have a clue this time?”

  “A woman.” It seems too bland a way to describe the girl who’d crawled her way into my thoughts over and over since I let her drive away, so I correct myself. “A very exquisite woman.”

  “Surprise, surprise,” Vivi sings sarcastically. “You’re one lucky son-of-a-bitch. How your . . . habits haven’t ended up blasted all over the place is beyond me. Someday you’re going to mess with the wrong one, and she’s going to sing like a canary.”

  “My habits are mine and mine alone because I’m usually careful about those I practice them with.” Or because I usually have the upper hand, like with Incedi-Ass from 202. I’ll be even more careful with Elle until the time is right. “Now, keep your thoughts on the road and off my cock. You’re making shit awkward.”

  Vivi sucks in a breath. “I think I just gagged in my mouth.” Cursing at a taxi that cuts in front of us, she slams on the brake. I clear my throat, but she rambles on anyway. “Look, I’m just looking out for you, Graham. You got me this amazing
job. You’re like my brother. I don’t want you to ruin yourself because you can’t keep it in your pants.”

  “Professionalism. Learn that shit. Fast.” Because, fuck, I don’t need advice from her about where I dip my dick. My phone rings again. I grab it from my briefcase, and my irritation with Vivi fades to satisfied anticipation. It’s Elle again.

  Shooting Vivi a dark, warning look in the rearview mirror that makes her shake with suppressed fury, I accept the call. “It’s hard to believe you managed to stay away for a week,” I say into the phone, and Elle laughs. Sweet and trusting. A reminder that women like Eleanor Courtney want commitment and L-O-Fucking-V-E in exchange for missionary and a million excuses not to give head.

  What I’ll offer her tonight will be better. And when everything between us is said and done, what she’ll give me is priceless.

  “I had no problem not calling you.” Bullshit, but I won’t say that. Won’t point out that just speaking to me has her blushing and squeezing her thighs together. “At least tell me what I should wear,” she pleads, her voice lowering.

  I close my eyes, cutting out the bleak winter day and Vivi’s sour ass expression, and picture her. Not in that silly 202-waitress uniform but that dress she wore the day I first noticed her, even if it did look like a sack. Giant green eyes. That nervous lip-licking that taunts my cock every time she does it. That long black hair knotted between the fingers of one hand, and her pearls gripped in the other, as I finally fuck that sweet mouth of hers.

  “Graham?” Elle says my name softly. “Did you hear what I said? Can you at least give me a clue about how I should dress?”

  I heard her. And the answer is simple: It. Doesn’t. Matter. Not when the only thing she’ll be wearing by the end of the night are my fingerprints on her bare ass. I don’t try to hide the grin when I answer, “Surprise me, Ms. Courtney.”