Hard As Stone (Beautiful Betrayal Book 1) (11 page)

The wildcat gives me one snappy answer too many and primal instinct kicks in. I turn her around, lift her dress, and stare at twin globes of perfection. As if my self-control isn’t already questionable, I slide my palms over her warm flesh to test fate.

Chrisssst!

Cupping her firm round bottom, I’m at the end of my rope. The forged steel inside my trousers painfully throbs. I knead her silky globes, lifting and separating each cheek. I wasn’t this horny chasing my first lay. Effectively, I’m a six-foot five hard-on and she’s the place I need to be. We’re ten seconds away from me thrusting into her.
I’m talking hard and deep
.

“Are you sure?” I ask and she tells me she can take whatever I have in store with her fresh mouth.

Between gritted teeth, I remind her that’s no answer. I close my eyes, seeking the strength not to cave and take her up against this wall when every cell in my body demands that I thrust into her. Own her.

Bite her.

Mark her.

Make certain she understands how good, how extreme, how complete what I offer will be, if she acquiesces.

Again she contradicts me and I’m closer to the point of no return. Her fresh remarks are pure friction, leveraging my libido against my self-control. I lean over, palming her glorious ass, and graze my bulge between her cheeks.

My sanity is hanging two-sheets to the wind. A shrink would say this is some sort of Jonah complex. So close to success, close enough to wipe away the past. Lock that closet and toss away the key. Tunneling through a carefully, painstakingly plotted plan, I’m almost there.

Yet in this dim corridor, she’s the relief I need to keep going. Her soft whimpers are a soothing balm.

She grinds against me and I say, “Yeah, that’s it.” Skimming my fingers down between her cheeks, I stop short of touching her pussy. If I do, there will be no stopping me from taking her up against this wall.

And wham! Breakpoint. My burner and cell buzz simultaneously, demanding my attention. “I’ve broken my promise,” I tell her, wishing I could tell her more. Get her number and call her. But I don’t do normal.

“I’m not complaining,” she says, looking up at me with the face of an angel and I’m slipping fast.

If this is Vince rattling my cage, I’ll… I stare at the screen. “Shit,” I exhale between my teeth. “Another bombing.”

She snaps up her face. “What! Where?”

I show her my cell. It’s as if a missile has detonated inside this hall. And beyond. Movement uncharacteristic and jerky can be seen in the main part of the club. I’ve got to check-in with the Capitol, same as every U.S. Senator.
Follow White House protocol
. Issue a statement to the press as chair for the Foreign Relations committee. Review briefings. It’s go time, not that I want to. I’d rather pilot this girl away with me.

One fall, and there goes my plans for retribution.
Being in this hall is risk personified, career-crushing, life taking. I’m in too deep to get out. The truth is staggering. I lower this woman’s dress and step back.

With Patricia Ryan offering me the Veep spot on her kangaroo campaign ticket, I can’t chance rumors, forget a scandal before I close that deal. The Saint is ruthless, and he’ll use anything as extortion even my mother.

Leveled, I’m imbued by a slice of clear thinking and see how screwed up this is if I take this woman in public. If she realizes who I am and talks, stirs up trouble—it isn’t me who’d come after her. The Saint takes care of any threat he perceives. It isn’t like I can offer her protection 24/7 from The Cleaner. I can walk away, and what could she say? We shared a kiss. That’s not exactly headline news. Nothing that would put her life in jeopardy.

The tendons knot in my neck and shoulders. Even with the news of another bombing, I’m a selfish prick. If I don’t say something incredibly asinine, I’m going to back her up into the corner, and that’s it. I’ll take her until she screams and comes all over my cock.

I use verbal ammunition by insinuating this is a
mistake
. Inwardly I curse myself. She’s upset—probably hurt—and I want to reach out, smooth away what she feels. Get her naked, feed my hunger, and then take care of her. Hold her until the first rays of dawn burst apart the darkness in my soul, and then do it all over again.

Instead, I watch her turn on her lovely heel, and walk away. My entire existence should be centered on taking down PanCorp and outgunning The Saint, not chasing a piece of ass.

Yet that rings hollow.

The vacuum is replaced by
best mistake I ever let go
. I repeat it as if it’s a mantra.

Not that it’s helpful.

I’m not a heartless bastard, just the unnamed running mate in the Veepstakes. Either I catapult into the spot as vice president of the United States before the end of the month, or I’ll be on my uncle’s hit list.

X.S.~
Invisible Ewe

AT THE CURB, I park and check my nose. A couple of splatter drops are on my top, but I can’t do anything about them. So far so good. I pop the lid on the ‘script of mega-iron, down a horse pill with a gulp of water, crossing my mental fingers.
Please, no more torrential bleeding
.

I get out of my car, whistling and waving to Jon exiting South Station and then crap, I feel a tiny drip. What the heck is happening? Better not be the umpteenth time in less than two weeks. Grabbing a tissue from my pocket, I dab at my nose.

“What happened?” Jon asks suspiciously. He reminds me of an American Alex Pettyfer who up and decided to go gay.

“Nothing.” I toss him my keys. “Let’s go. We’re running late.” We’re headed to Nantucket. A three-hour drive-n-ferry ride to my grandparents’ final summer cookout before they close up their home and head back to Manhattan.

I hope they aren’t upset about the arbitration. More stress I do not need and blame these idiot nosebleeds on anxiety. At the first ER visit I’d marked ‘unknown’ on the form asking if anyone in my family has hemophilia. The second time at Boston General, the ER doctor sternly informed me I needed to pursue a rigorous set of pathology evaluations. Blood tests to determine why I’m so low on iron. I told my mom in an email. So far, I haven’t gotten a reply other than a FedEx box that contained a syringe of Quadferon and a bottle of colloidal minerals. And if she’s too busy to care, it’s not as if I can chase her down. She flies by the seat of her pants.

Behind closed doors, my grandmother calls Mom ‘reckless.’ After graduating from college, my mother bolted to Europe. A trip abroad and
tah-dah
. She crash-landed back in Boston with a baby. For years, I was Gran’s little hobby. Like my mom, I’ve kept my intimate details on lockdown, akin to a miser of minutiae. I’ve learned to be greedy with personal factoids out of necessity. And what’s the saying? Necessity is the mother of invention. That rings loud and true, especially in my family. I’m what you might call the
invisible sheep
. I’m expected to walk softly. Do what’s proposed.

It isn’t the year 1602, last time I checked—not that my grandparents would care. I’ve skirted their rules. Easier when I had a rock-solid marriage on the horizon and they weren’t in freak-out status.
Until last week
. Check failure on that front, thank you not, Spencer Donovan.

As I go to move past Jon, he grabs me and crushes me within his arms. “Not too late for a hug.”

“Never too late,” I squeal and thump him on the back, scrunching my eyes shut at missing him so much. “You’re a nut.”

“I miss you, Phoenix. Terribly. Even with a Kleenex stuffed in your nostril.”

“Oops. I forgot.” And laugh, pulling it out of my nose. “Then why do you stay away so long? A train ride. Not too tough.”

“Girl, that rail runs in both directions,” he mocks me. “You need to come to D.C. I’ve got a job. You’re the freewheeling student.”

“Student as in past tense. Freewheeling—not even close,” I retort, escaping from his grasp as I take shotgun.

Jon flips me off as he stalks around the hood of my car, humming under his breath. Once inside, he opens his messenger bag, and laughs devilishly. “Then help me, help you.”

“What have you done that you can’t explain over the phone?” I ask, eyeing him playfully. My second best friend has a propensity to believe in the impossible and does the outlandish at the drop of a hat.

“You’re welcome, Ms. O’Malley.” He hands me a manila envelope. “There are three copies, and a telephone number. Your contact is Nora Swan. Call her tomorrow morning for directions. When it comes to A.D. Stone, it’s all about being ready to roll at the drop of a hat.”

“A.D. Stone? Is that a nickname for one of the congressional buildings?” I shift my glance from him to the envelope, knitting my brow.

“Senator
Atticus Damian
Stone. Hello?” he snorts. “For an O’Malley and a journalist, you are the most apolitical person I know.”

“It’s a psychosis or something. The man’s name is Atticus? As in
To Kill A Mocking Bird
. That Atticus?”

“Kinda.”

“Oh brother. Is he an uptight Bible thumping hardliner?”

Jon scoffs, “There’s no oh-brother about the man. Think Gregory Peck and sure. He is Atticus Finch done modern.”

“Well then, I’m down for playing Scout,” I toss back. “So this job is for the good senator. I’ve got a contact but not an exact time for an interview? What kind of job is this? I thought it was working in the Hill cog.”

“Hah! I wouldn’t do that to you. This spot is primo, frontline. The kind you’re going to owe me for, big time. Follow through on this one and you’ll thank me. Damn, will you thank me.”

“Clearly, we see the world differently,” I mutter, opening the envelope and removing a stack of neatly stapled documents. Stamped with an official Capitol ‘received’ in red ink on the original. “You already completed a U.S. Senate internship application for me? How?”

“Button your lip and read,” he instructs as he puts the car into gear.

I hate driving and when Jon comes to visit, he’s behind the wheel; but, I’m rethinking that one. I want to do anything besides read whatever he spewed in an application and then forged my name. Short on time doesn’t supersede that I’m tired of all the lies and secrets. I want this to be a fresh start. Not another version of someone’s good intentions, suggestions, connections. Everyone collectively is strangling me, regardless of how well-meant.

“First, I have to say, I’m peeved that you presumed to fill out my application. I can’t go to D.C. on a carpet ride fueled and constructed by misinformation. Especially not to the part near the Capitol. There are enough lies mushrooming on the Hill. Maybe this was a mistake,” I sigh. It’s enough to have to deal with the political leeches we’ll soon see at Gran’s.

“This is no mistake. And have a little faith. I’m not mopping the floors at the
Post,
in case you’re wondering.”

“Fine. I’ll read it and get back to you,” I snip then commence reading without pausing. From miffed, I’m moved, and the smile on my face gets wider and wider.

“Well?” he demands.

“Well, you’ve been on a mission. And did good. Thanks!” Chuckling, I squeeze Jon’s arm.

“Thank me by getting the hell out of Dodge. Officially, this is ‘mission get your ass in gear.’ After that moron Spencer showed his true colors, you owe no one but yourself. You’re drowning here and besides, I’ve got it going on. Just need my wingman.”

“Correction. That’s
wingwoman
. I’ve got a vagina to prove it.”

“Love bug
,
I’m not the one who needs to be reminded of that fact. Another of the myriad of issues we’ll address. One-by-one. I’ve got you in my sights. Nora is expecting your call. She’s crazy, on the verge of bridge jumping with her boss. Stone is a taskmaster like no other.”

“I can handle the pressure.” I pat the application like it’s my newest friend. “And I promise. I’ll call Nora first thing.”

“And if you need any more motivation, feast your eyes on your new boss.” He holds up his cell and winks.

Laughing, I lower my gaze to his cell and freeze. Surprise implodes in my chest. A fusillade of shockwaves scatter, seizing-up my diaphragm. Paralyzed, I stare at the photograph of the gorgeous and unforgettable man. “Sweet Jesus,” I hiss.

“What’s wrong?” Jon glances over at me. “Do you know him?”

Unless Atticus Stone has a twin, I know the man, or rather his mouth.
Don’t forget his hands, his body, and his ability to torment me for the last fifty-eight hours.
But who’s counting.

“Know him?” The shock of the truth hits me full force. Tongue-tied, I can’t find the words to admit this is the hunk from the club. “Is this photograph recent?”

Last night, I’d told Jon that I met someone. More than met, that I’d made up for lost time in a dim hallway. Jon hadn’t crucified me—we commiserated. But if he finds out that the hot piece was—is—a congressman…
That Senator Stone is the world’s most incredible kisser…
What will my friend think? He’s gone to all this trouble.

“You’re whiter than normal. Spill, Phoenix O’Malley. Stat,” he demands, lowering the music.

Steeling my features, I dodge diving back into the pool of my shame at having lost my head in a dark hall. “Stone? No-o-o. Of course, I don’t know him. He’s just so handsome. I need a minute.”
And a shot of Jack
. It was true. I didn’t actually know him. He was a drive-by suck my lips off kiss. The guy I had the craziest, hottest sex with in my life.
Minus the sex
.

Instead of coming out with my dirty little secret, I seal my lips, refusing to divulge the truth. I was clueless about that wolf from the club, but so what. I’m no longer clueless and what I need is a plan.
How can I hoodwink a wolf? That would be just desserts.

“No argument, the man’s stunning. And going places. Take a look.” Jon fishes out a magazine from his bag as he drives.

It now makes sense why Stone seemed so familiar. I stare at him on the cover and murmur, “He’s that politician featured by Rolling Stone.”

“The very same brilliant hottie. If I’d just graduated, I’d go intern for him in a heartbeat.”