The World: According to Rachael (20 page)

Thank goodness he doesn’t press me. While he walks down the street to pick up our Chinese food, I have a few minutes to think. My internal war goes something like this:

I don’t really know him at all. In fact, I only met him eight days ago. But these eight days have been great. I like the feeling of butterflies in my stomach when he texts me. It makes me feel wanted and thought-about to have someone drop by my place. I honestly can’t remember the last time I’ve had a visitor.

I spend every day surrounded by people calling my name and wanting me for a purpose. None of them are my friends—well, except for Evan and the President. When I had the flu last January, Lou is the one who brought me chicken soup.

Graham would bring me chicken soup.

“Fuck,” I say out loud as I drop my head into my hands. “I’m falling so hard for this guy.”

As if George speaks English, he lets out a sigh of agreement.

Graham returns, balancing a bag of takeout in each arm. We spread our Chinese food feast out on my old beat-up coffee table and sit on the floor while we marathon-watch
House Hunters.
Because I am super competitive and so is he, we decide to bet on which house the couples will choose.

The first wager is silly. Loser must eat the hot pepper from the spicy beef dish we ordered.

Graham chooses house number two, when anyone who was paying a bit of attention would know that the wife likes house number three, so that’s the one that they’re buying.

“You’re the losingest loser,” I tease as I elbow him in the ribs.

“No problem.” He smirks. “I love spicy foods.”

He picks up the red pepper by its stem and dangles it mere millimeters from his tongue. He wiggles his tongue suggestively and cuts his eyes towards me. I melt at the memory of that tongue performing magic tricks last night. It’s one of the hottest things I’ve seen.

I blink reminding myself that it’s just a pepper and cheer, “Eat it. Eat it.”

He flashes a smile that would melt concrete and takes it in one bite. His Adam’s apple bobs up and down as he swallows. Then he licks imaginary sauce off his fingers very suggestively, and says, “Tasty!”

The way his tongue runs over his index finger causes my lower stomach to ache for the same sort of treatment. It’s suddenly gotten rather warm in my living room. Playing it cool, I say, “I’m sure I’ve had hotter spice at a shrimp boil,” and dismiss his antics as nothing special.

The man is on to me and before I can blink, he straddles my legs and pins me against my couch with a searing kiss. His eyes blaze and I respond to him instantly. The pepper heat on his tongue lingers in my mouth when he pulls away. I feel bereft without his lips pressed against mine. I’m empty without his tongue.

I’m lost in him, and I wonder if he knows just how much he owns me.

He stares down, his long lashes fanning his cheekbones. “You make me crazy when you look at me like that. Goddamn, I swear you can make me hard just with your eyes.” He looks so perplexed that I would laugh, if I weren’t so turned on.

“How do I look at you, Graham?” I drop my chin and peer up at him while I part my lips and let out a quiet moan. I want him to transport me away from my real life to the place he’s taken me before—a place where I believe that there is a future when my time at the White House comes to an end.

His eyes cloud with need, telling me exactly how I look at him. The feeling is mutual, which makes this moment perfect.

He uses one hand to pin my wrists above my head and against the seat cushions, arching my back and hips towards him. I thank the sports bra designers for making this one a zip-front enclosure. Graham is easily able to free my breasts with little effort on his part. I long ago accepted that I have a flat chest, but the way his tongue worships my nipples makes me feel like a goddess.

I moan something that resembles, “Graaahammmm.” Longing to hold his heavy cock in my hands, I try to free myself from his grasp. He gives each wrist a squeeze, reminding me that he’s in control.

This is a new sensation for me. I’ve never not been in control in the bedroom. But if last night was any indication of what it means to let Graham Jackson take the lead, then I’ll quit struggling and let him consume my body.

He must sense my submission, because he grows more aggressive with his tongue and teeth on my breasts.

My body becomes pliant under his strong fingers and talented tongue. His right hand stops pinching my nipple as it travels south towards my workout shorts. He slips his dexterous fingers under the elastic and moves my thong to the side.

I gasp as he enters me without hesitation while his mouth moves from my left nipple to my right. His fingers stretch and open me, preparing me for what I need and he wants.

“Fuck me, Graham,” I plead as I gyrate my hips against his hand.

He pulls off my nipple with a pop, showing me his eyes. They’re dark as a midnight-blue sky. He studies me while he uses his fingers to massage me with increased intensity.

“Rachael, Rachael, Rachael.” His voice is husky, and dusted with cockiness. “You, my smart, sexy girl, do not get to decide when I fuck you. That’s my job.”

It’s such a corny line that if I heard someone deliver it in a movie, I’d laugh at the absurdity. What do I do instead? I melt. His words or the tone in his voice, I’m not sure which, make me dance with renewed intensity against his hand.

Helplessly, I watch as he lets go of my wrists, removes his very talented fingers and stands up before me. I’m panting for him and almost cry out from the loss, but I realize that he’s still fully dressed and I have my shorts on.

He pulls his sweatshirt over his head and makes quick work of discarding his athletic shorts while I tug off my own shorts and panties. He stands in front of me while I stare up at his beautiful form that looks like it was sculpted out of marble and made to be displayed in a museum. Yet he’s real, and he is kind, and he wants me as much as I want him.

“Stand up,” he orders.

I do what he says without question.

“Bend over, and place your hands on the arm of the sofa.”

I walk towards the side of the couch and position my hands on the rounded, exposed wood. My ponytail falls to the side with the hair blocking my peripheral vision. I lose sight of him momentarily as he walks behind me.

His fingers dust each vertebrae of my back, starting at the top of the neck and travelling all the way to the tip of my tailbone. It’s as if he’s fingering a piano’s keyboard. Delicate, precise, yet adept at knowing where to touch.

I shudder and gasp.

“Shhh … Rachael. Let me admire you.” He repeats the action again. “So beautiful,” he murmurs to himself. “So perfect.”

I long to see his expression. I want to read his eyes as he touches me. Just when I’m about to stand up and turn around to study his face, he places both hands on either side of my hips and begins to feed his cock, inch by inch inside of me at the same slow pace with which he tickled my back.

I’m warm and wet, very ready for him. He could push in balls’ deep and take all of me in one swift movement, but there’s something about the slowness—the deliberateness—that makes this feel … Then, I recognize it. The feeling is revered.

I push my hips back, longing for completion, but in my state of nirvana I’ve forgotten that he is in control.

His hands tighten on my hips, stopping my motion. His warm breath is on my neck, blowing against my pulse, followed by a whisper in my ear, “Let me make love to you.”

As he slowly fills me completely with himself, we become one person. Our movements are together—him anticipating my needs, and me longing to be the reason for the best release of his life. I’ve given him control, but as we move together we’re a team.

The burning in my lower stomach builds gradually, and with white-hot intensity, I give in to my orgasm and to the overwhelming emotions that I’m feeling.

Graham swells inside of me and then follows into his own release, yelling my name with the same intensity that I’m experiencing. We fall into a heap on the worn living room carpet.

Tears begin to trail down my cheeks. Turning my face away from Graham, I close my eyes, begging them to stop.

My back is pressed against his front, and my knees are drawn into my chest. Graham wraps himself around me, and uses his muscular arm to anchor me to him. I rest my head on my bent elbow. Graham’s breath tickles my scalp as he rhythmically kisses my hair.

The tears make their way to the crook of my arm, and then spill to the carpet. I’ve never felt so vulnerable and exposed before. Panic seizes my chest. My heart starts pounding madly. I can’t let anyone see me like this, and specifically not Graham. I’m too mature to cry after sex. I’m no longer a silly teenage girl.

I wiggle out of Graham’s tight embrace, and stand up on shaky legs. My back stays to him so he can’t see that I’m upset.

“Where are you going?” he calls as I make my way upstairs to the only bathroom in my home.

“Just to clean up.” Thankfully, my voice sounds normal as it reverberates off the walls that surround the staircase.

Right before I close the door, he says with a suggestive tone, “I like you dirty.”

I smile, in spite of my wet cheeks, as the door latches behind me. Fortunately, I have the good sense to turn on the water faucet before I collapse on top of the toilet seat, drop my face into my hands and sob. The emotions that I’ve just experienced are raw. I’m naked, for the whole world to examine. Graham has managed to open a floodgate of feelings that I didn’t even know I possessed.

I’m scared to feel this way. This is the part of myself that I thought I had locked away, and tossed the key in the nearest river so I wouldn’t be foolish enough to get caught up in a relationship with a man who could derail my goals.

Aiden.

Aiden was the one who taught me that I couldn’t have it all. I’d had to make a choice—my career or my relationship. Panic seizes my heart at the thought of having to choose between Graham and my White House position.
It’s only been a week, Rachael. Remember what he said
—
“One day at a time.”

There’s a knock on the door.
Of course, he’s so perfect that he must check on me.
“You okay, sweetheart? If I hurt you, please tell me.” His voice is raised in concern. He only gives me a few heartbeats to respond before he demands, “Answer me, Rachael.”

Clearing my throat, I say, “I’m fine. Give me a minute more, please.”

“No. I’m not giving you a second more. Open the door, and tell me what’s going on.”

I stand up, and splash cold water on my face before grabbing a hand towel and wiping the water droplets away. I also use the towel to shield my splotched cheeks as I turn the lock to the horizontal position.

The door flies open, and Graham comes rushing in. I still have the towel over my face pretending to be drying it when he pulls the material out of my hands and unceremoniously tosses it on the floor.

“You’ve been crying.” It’s a statement, not a question, and it isn’t accusatory. He places his hands on my shoulders while demanding with his eyes that I answer the unspoken question of
why?

I take a deep breath, and don’t give myself the time to examine my actions or analyze the possible different ways to discuss this with him. Instead, I match his intense glare and say, “Can you just let this be?”

His hands go to my hips. “No. I can’t
just let this be
.” He glares at me with eyes that speak of concern, anger, and frustration. “We had sex, and then you ran to the bathroom to cry. Sorry, but it doesn’t work like that.”

I look away from his intense gaze, wishing that my emergency pager would go off right about now. But of course, it only sounds at the least opportune times. Finally, I sigh. “I need to tell you about Aiden.”

This is obviously not the response he was expecting. His head tilts to the side, and the corners of his eyes wrinkle in confusion. “Who is Aiden?”

“Aiden is my ex, and the only guy I’ve ever had a real relationship with.” My response is a whisper, and I half expect him to ask me to repeat myself.

Instead he draws his eyebrows together and replies in an even tone, “Oh.”

The silence that follows is awkward. I take in my worn, tired bathroom, and note that it’s not the ideal place to share the history of my only meaningful relationship, especially with a guy who I hope can be in my future. “I’d like to not discuss this in my bathroom, if you don’t mind.”

He follows me to my bedroom and watches me pull my quilt tightly to my chin. It’s my shield against vulnerability. “Join me?” I tap the other side of the bed.

I feel desperately sorry for him. The tall, gorgeous man whose presence not only fills my bedroom and home, but has also taken residence in my heart, looks as if he has been condemned to die.

“It’s not a terrible story,” I mentally add
but it’s not a terribly flattering one either.
“I think it will help you understand a bit more about me. And this is something that can’t be Googled,” I say with the most reassuring smile I can muster.

My thin bedroom curtains filter some of the streetlamp’s yellow glow, bathing my dark bedroom in a soft, low light. I admire how each of Graham’s muscles are shadowed as he walks to the other side of the bed and slips under the quilt. Without hesitation, he draws me to him in a protective embrace.

I take a deep breath, and let it out slowly before I begin. “All my relationships other than Aiden have been just sexual in nature.” I pause letting that bit of information penetrate his brain. “I expect nothing from the encounter other than a bit of pleasure, and the man is always on the same page.”

“Like an escort?” He gasps as his body goes rigid.

I wiggle out of his arms and lean on my elbow so I can study his reaction to this news. His eyes are large and his mouth is hanging slightly agape. “No. Nothing like an escort. Usually, I’m physically attracted to him. We make a deal that both of us aren’t interested in exploring anything more than each other’s bodies. That’s it. We meet maybe once a month at a hotel. Enjoying the time,” I say, clearing my throat. “Then, we go our separate ways with no expectations placed on each other for anything more.”