Power Surge: Power Play Series Book 4

by Kennedy L. Mitchell

  Trey’s dark brows dive between his eyes, making a deep line form between them. “I'm confused.”

  “Same.”

  “Mess, you can't just agree with what I'm saying,” he states, his tight voice revealing the underlying frustration that’s desperate for an outlet.

  “Yes.” Pushing his buttons is fun and simple when he's obviously already sitting at the eruption point.

  “Damnit, Randi, I said stop it,” he grits out. The muscle along his jaw twitches as he keeps it tightly clamped together.

  “Randi, is it?” I snap. I shove his shoulder a bit harder than he’s expecting, causing him to step back. “Talk to me, Trouble. What’s going on with you? Something is obviously wrong.”

  “I'm fine.” Right, and unicorns aren’t the coolest magical creature. “Let's talk about you.” He shifts the hand holding the cigarette in my direction.

  Now it’s my turn to be confused. “Um, okay. But what about me are we talking about?”

  “You're as stressed as I am, for fuck’s sake.”

  “Um, yeah, because I have a fucking stressful job as president, Trey.” I spread my arms out wide, indicating the expansive kitchen we’re standing in as a reminder of my current job.

  “Thanks, but I don't need a reminder,” he hisses under his breath.

  Stunned, I stagger back a step, bringing my hand to my chest. “What did you just say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Oh hell no. This”—I flick my index finger between us—“is not nothing, you asshole.” There’s a high-pitched hiss as I drop the spent cigarette into the bowl of water we’ve been utilizing as a makeshift ashtray. This time I slam both hands against his muscular shoulders with each word for emphasis. “Talk. To. Me. Damnit.”

  His own cigarette falls into the water, extinguishing on impact. Rotating, he places his back to me, shielding me from the array of emotions I swear just flashed across his tense face.

  Once, twice, he rakes his fingers through his hair as his shoulders rise and fall at a rapid pace with deep breaths.

  After a moment, he clears his throat but still doesn’t turn to face me. “I should go. Now seems like a bad time for both of us.”

  Desperation, dread, and anger battle for dominance inside me. Before he takes a single step, I clasp one shoulder to halt his retreat.

  “Hell no, you're not walking away from me. From us. What the actual fuck is wrong with you, Trouble?” My voice cracks. He can’t go. I’ve waited three weeks to see him in private, to feel somewhat normal again, and he’s acting like an ass and about to leave.

  This isn’t my Trey. Whatever is going on with him runs deep, deeper than T or I realized.

  “Let me go.” The warning in his voice is palpable. Sensing the threat, three agents step from their invisible posts along the wall, their focus solely on Trey.

  “Everyone out.” My words are soft with the worry clogging my throat. No one reacts. Trey stands taller, readying for a fight as one agent advances another step. “For fuck’s sake,” I shout, stomping my bare foot on the tile. “I said get out!”

  Shock registers on the approaching agent’s face before he glances to his team members. One by one, they reluctantly file out of the kitchen. The final agent narrows a glare at Trey before trailing the others.

  “Fuck you, Trey Benson,” I mutter before slamming the heel of my hand against the center of his back.

  Chapter Five

  Randi

  Trey whirls, strands of hair lifting with the fast move. His fury is palpable. Face flushed, chest rising and falling at a rapid pace with each short breath, he looks terrifying, menacing—deadly. To anyone but me. I don't flinch, don't shrink away even though he has the power to kill me in a single blow. No, I don’t move because in my heart, deep within my soul that’s been imprinted on by this man, I know Trey would never hurt me. The thought would never even cross his mind.

  “Back off, Randi. I'm begging you. Back the fuck off.” His words are strained. The vein along his neck throbs at a quick beat.

  “No,” I nearly hiss as I dare an inch closer, shrinking the distance between me and the man I love. The same man who is clearly fighting an internal war over things he won't allow me to understand. “I'm not backing off. And you know why, jackass?”

  His jaw works back and forth, but he doesn’t respond.

  “Fine, I'll tell you anyway. Because I love you, you jerk!” I shove my arms out wide, fingers splayed. “I love you, and I’m dying inside right now not having any clue what you’re dealing with, what you won’t let me see. I want to. Fuck, I want to know, and I want to help, desperately. Don't you see that?” My last word is barely a whisper.

  With both our cigarettes extinguished, I flick the vent hood off. The loud hum immediately dies, leaving the kitchen depressingly quiet.

  “I wish it were that simple, but it’s not,” he states, his focus slipping to just over my shoulder.

  “Yes it is. I’ll show you, how’s that? I’ll start with this impromptu amateur hour counseling session.” He arches a brow with a condescending tilt of his head. “Fuck me,” I groan. Massaging my temples, I lean fully against the counter. “You're a dick for pushing me away, you know that?”

  “I'm not… I’m not pushing you away, Mess. Don’t take it so personal. I'm simply processing, that’s all.”

  “For the past three weeks?”

  “I was fucking shot, damnit!” he roars. “Cut me some damn slack, woman.”

  “Slack? You want me to cut you some slack because you’re ‘processing’?” I add a sneer to the end of the air quotes in hopes of pissing him off. “You know what I'm processing? The fact that I’m carrying the legit weight of the free world on my shoulders without my boyfriend to support me.” This gets his attention. Those light eyes focus back on me, searching my own. “And I don't know why you resent me for that, since you're the one who convinced me to take the damn job.”

  “I don't resent you, Randi. It's just—”

  “I've needed you every day, Trey.” Looking to the ceiling, I fight the tears that want to fall. “It's not that I can't do all this alone. I know I can. I've been through a shit of a life and fought for every single step forward I've taken. But I don't want to do this alone. I don't want to be in this role, in this city, without you near me, with me.”

  “Mess,” he whispers. Shaking his head, he runs a hand through his hair and tugs at the ends. “We’ve talked, texted. I am here.”

  “No you're not.” Ignoring the warning bells, I jam my pointer finger to his sternum with each word.

  He reacts lightning fast, grabbing my wrist to keep me from poking him again.

  My heart sprints at the feel of his tight grasp holding me firm. And because there is something really wrong with me, the area between my thighs slicks with desire. I wet my upper lip, and his eyes track the small movement. Desire floods into his darkening stare while the restrained anger that was evident the moment he walked in the door still radiates off him.

  Neither of us moves. Heat and passion spark between us.

  I know what he needs. What we both need.

  “Do it,” I breathe.

  Without warning, his lips crash against my own, our teeth connecting amid the searing kiss. I scrape my fake nails along his scalp before gripping a shaggy section of his hair. This isn’t sweet or tender. It's angry and devouring, using all our pent-up stress and aggression to fuel the raging passion between us. Back and forth, we struggle for control with each tangle of our tongues and nip of our lips. A cool wall of metal meets my back, the air in my lungs leaving in a violent whoosh.

  With an animalistic growl, he relaxes his hold on my waist only for rushed fingers to slip between the small gaps between the buttons of my dress shirt. I gasp, the shock quickly morphing into blinding desire as he rips the shirt open. Buttons fly around the kitchen, pinging on the tile floor and counter.

  Chest heaving, I arch my back, head pressed to the unrelenting freezer door, effe
ctively thrusting my breasts into his face, demanding attention from his talented lips and teeth. He gives a harsh tug on the soft lace demi cup, and my breast pops free, exposing my already hardened nipple. Gripping his hair, I attempt to urge him faster as he licks a thin line down the pounding vein along my neck with the tip of his slick tongue.

  My hips jolt forward, seeking connection at the scrape of his teeth against my hard nipple. Adjusting his stance over me, Trey slips a muscular thigh between my legs. His knee dips beneath the hem of my pencil skirt, shoving it north to bunch around my hips.

  Weight forward, his hard thigh seals between my own, applying agonizing pressure to my hot, slick core. Dignity gone, I grind down on his thigh, providing the friction I'm desperate for. His cool palm sizzles against the overheated skin of my stomach as he skims a hand around my ribs and down my back. Without missing a beat, he unfastens my skirt and works the zipper down.

  A whimper escapes at the loss of his lips on my breast and his leg between my thighs. With a swift yank, the Gucci pencil skirt drops to the floor, pooling around my bare feet. I say a quick prayer of thanks to the unicorn gods that I ditched the heels and hose earlier beneath the presidential desk.

  Shutting my eyes, I focus every nerve ending on his demanding grip around both hips. His thumbs draw tight circles just above my thong before hooking the elastic band. The near painful scrape of his nails down the inside of my ultrasensitive thighs as he drags the thong toward the floor hurls a breath-catching shiver through my body and soul.

  The moment he stands from his low crouch, I fumble at the front of his jeans with desperate fingers, eager to pop the top button and work the zipper down. Just as I connect, he swats my hands away. Half confused, half pouting I peek up through my dark lashes.

  There’s a deviousness in his half smile, one that sets my pulse racing even faster with anticipation. Without a word, he gathers both my wrists in one constricting grip and guides them high up over my head. The cold metal of the fridge is a stark contrast to my overheated skin along the back of my arms and wrists where they now connect with the smooth surface.

  I watch in fascination as the hand not restraining me works to pop the button of his dark-wash jeans. Frustratingly slowly, he drags the zipper down, his hard cock bursting free immediately without the confines of boxers or briefs.

  Allowing the jeans to sag halfway down his hips, Trey grasps his dick, giving it a tight-fisted pump followed by another as he focuses at the apex of my thighs. The wetness dribbling down my inner thighs is no doubt visible under his scrutiny.

  A bead of precum wets the head of his swollen cock. After a swipe of his thumb, he lifts the smear to my dry lips and shoves it deep into my mouth. My tongue swirls around the digit, licking every last drop, the salty taste of him driving me even deeper into a lusty haze. Without warning, he pops his thumb loose, leaving me whimpering for more until his lips slam against mine once again as he slips a hand beneath my left knee, hiking it high over his hip.

  I moan against his mouth as I feel him slide between my folds. Up and down he travels, never dropping low enough to breach my entrance. I squirm, lifting to my tiptoes. The grip on my thigh and wrists constricts, a silent command to stop struggling for control.

  Without warning, he raises me higher and slams through my core, thrusting deep. The tips of my right toes scrape the tile as he pins me back with his steel-hard cock, my thigh hooked around his waist. Panting, Trey presses his forehead to my own.

  He still hasn’t moved inside me, driving me nearly to the brink of insanity. I yank against his grip, eager to clutch his firm, round ass and urge him even deeper, but his hold doesn’t budge.

  My entire core aches as he withdraws to the tip only to thrust deep. My pleasure-filled cry is cut short as his teeth sink into my lower lip and tug it into a pitiful whimper.

  His cadence quickens, thrusting hard. Every nerve tingles; my thoughts and concerns vanish. All I can do is give myself over to his control.

  Each time he sinks deep, he swirls his hips, driving pressure to my clit. Breathing shallow, eyes closed, I lose all grasp on reality as I tumble into a mind-clearing orgasm. Tremors rack down my spine as aftershocks pulse with his determined thrusts. I fall limp, only staying upright with his support. He presses his lips against the shell of my ear, a harsh grunt pushing past as he finds his release, shoving himself as deep inside me as possible.

  His panting breaths fan through my hair where his forehead presses to the freezer beside me.

  The hold on my wrists loosens, and he carefully helps lower them to hold behind his neck. Tingles erupt as blood rushes to my fingertips. A soft caress along my outer hip before he eases my leg from around his waist.

  My muscles twitch at the sudden exertion, but I couldn’t care less. “Damn, I needed that,” I mumble into his hair. With a deep inhale, I savor the unique spicy scent that is all Trey Benson.

  “I don't resent you.” The confession is a mere whisper.

  I shake my head. Dipping both hands beneath the collar of his T–shirt, I scratch my jagged nails along his upper back.

  “Let’s not do this here, not now. Let’s go to my room where we can talk freely. I think we both have a lot to get off our chests.”

  The loss of him from between my thighs leaves a void in my heart and core. Trey assists me back into my damp panties and skirt before tucking himself into his jeans.

  “Commando, huh?” I question, biting my upper lip as I work to piece my shirt back together. With a huff, I give up. Gripping the two ends, I secure the sides together in a tight eighties-style knot. The upper portion still gapes if I don’t hold it together, but at least now I'm not flashing who's left in the White House at this late hour. “Shit. They'll know what we were doing when I walk out looking like this.”

  His honey brown eyes eat up every inch of me, devouring me with his still hungry gaze. “Pretty sure your scream already gave them a hint. But don’t worry, I know those guys. They won’t say anything.”

  Peering up, I smile, feeling a little better about the unconventional situation I’ve found myself in. Shirt situated enough to be decent, I grip his hand and interlace our fingers. Without a shred of embarrassment or shame, we walk out of the kitchen, my chin held high. The Secret Service agents don't give a second look to my haphazard appearance, simply fall in step behind us. I wince as the evidence of our sexcapade slips past my panties and begins to lazily trickle down my inner thighs. Quickening the pace, I accelerate my barefooted steps down the carpeted hall.

  Inside the master bedroom, I don't pause, continuing my beeline to the attached bathroom. The ripped shirt goes first, then my bra, stripping as I move. By the time I step through the glass shower door, I’m completely naked. The immediate steady flow from the rainfall showerhead drenches me in cold water for half a second before changing to scalding.

  I breathe out as I step farther under the spray while a leering presence looms nearby, lingering in the middle of the bathroom.

  “Sorry,” I mumble, my words more bubbles than actual words. “I was sticky.”

  At his nonresponse, I turn, putting the pounding water to my back to face Trey.

  His hands are shoved deep into his front pockets, his thick hair hanging in front of his downcast face.

  “Okay,” I state, putting force behind the word, hoping to gain his attention. “Out with it. Tell me. What's going on, Trouble?”

  “I don't know,” he admits, the words muffled by the water pounding around me.

  I release an exasperated sigh. “Trey, really? Don't—”

  “I'm telling you the truth, Randi. I don't know what the hell is wrong with me. I'm a fucking mess inside.” Lifting his head, he meets my searching gaze. “So much changed in a short period of time, and I… I'm….”

  “Lost?” I offer.

  He nods and shrugs in the same move. Him uncertain, almost broken slices deep into my heart. Making quick work with the fragrant body wash, I clean myself. Pressing the fauc
et handle down, I turn off the downpour of water, only a few trickles escaping the chrome shower head. Water streams down my bare legs and chest as I step from the steam-filled shower. Normally the sight would urge him into action no matter if we’d just made love or not, but now Trey just stands there unmoving, his focus on the marble tile floor.

  Using the fresh towel that magically appeared in place of the one I used this morning, I dry off and then wrap it around my chest, securing it by tucking it into itself.

  “Trey,” I say while attempting to tame my thick damp hair into a messy bun. “I'm not a mind reader here. I have zero idea what's going on inside that head of yours. Remember that conversation in Hawaii? That we need to tell each other everything?” I pause until he answers my question with a reluctant nod. “Well, this is one of those times. You tell me what's bothering you. Don't be embarrassed or afraid if it all seems… heavy. You confronted your parents on some shady and quite troubling shit and got shot all in the same twenty-four-hour period. It was a lot. But I need you to talk to me, tell me. Don't push me away by saying it’s nothing.”

  The last of the water trickles down the shower drain while the overhead fan hums, absorbing some of the humidity from the thick air.

  “I can't tell you what's wrong when I don't know myself,” he says, hesitantly pulling his stare from the floor to me. “I don't even know where to start.”

  I sigh and nod, completely understanding where he’s coming from.

  I remember those periods when everything seemed too much to understand, much less explain to someone. How many times did I lose myself in my studies because those emotions were overflowing? How many times did I avoid people in general to keep from being forced to acknowledge what was going on inside? Understanding through trauma, which is exactly what he went through with the shooting and his parents, is difficult for anyone to process, but especially him. Someone who's never really known true devastation. He's lived a cushy life up until this point, always knowing if he failed, his family would catch him.