Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 27065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 135(@200wpm)___ 108(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 135(@200wpm)___ 108(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
“Yes, sir. Thank you for the honor of this post.” I smile brightly and shift the clipboard I’ve been using to shield the wild reaction of my heart to Pierce McAlister, dropping the laminated wood to my side and in the process, drawing the president’s eyes downward, just for a split second, warmth washing over my breasts as he looks at them against his will. “The young people of this country have long deserved a voice in the White House and it’s no surprise you’ll be the one to give it to them. We’re going to do great things together.”
“I have no doubt,” he says, coughing to clear his throat. “Thank you, Ms. Rogers.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
I return to my position in the semi-circle of cabinet members, ignoring the withering look from the Secretary of Agriculture. Oh well. Nothing will ever bother me again in this life. I’m convinced of it. I’ve just met Pierce McAlister. He touched me.
As the conversation continues around me, the president going through talking points with each cabinet member, my flesh is warm beneath my blue skirt and tucked, white button-down shirt. My pulse points have been triggered, now they’re tripping over themselves, my lips swollen from being chewed. Transfixed by the strength of Pierce’s throat while he speaks, I picture myself kneeling in front of him on the blue carpet, pulling my hair back in a ponytail and unfastening his belt buckle.
You worked so hard today, sir.
Let me give you a little treat.
I jolt free of my fantasy when I sense Pierce watching me with darkening eyes. There’s a clear warning there. Knock it off.
Oh God. Were my deviant thoughts so obvious?
I’m still reeling over the possibility that the president read my mind when he dismisses everyone in the room and I turn to leave with them, but my black, pointed flats draw to a pause when that deep voice carries across the office.
“Ms. Rogers, if I might have a word?”
two
. . .
Pierce
No fucking way this is going to work.
That was my initial thought when I found out this…girl in her tight skirt and wide, innocent eyes is my youth council secretary. She’s a distraction of the highest order. One that I definitely don’t need when the eyes of the entire free world are locked on me, waiting with bated breath to see what I’ll do with my first hundred days.
So why am I asking her to remain in the Oval Office post-meeting?
Last time I checked, I wasn’t a masochist.
No, I’m the opposite. A survivalist.
But as this young brunette with swollen lips and pink cheeks marches back toward my desk, I don’t see how I’m going to survive close quarters with her. When I decided to run for president, I swore off sexual flings of any kind. My war record has earned me a lot of leeway with the American public—they know I’m not some squeaky-clean robot who spouts a bunch of political jargon and expects everyone to swallow it whole. But I do have a responsibility to the people who voted me into the highest position in this country not to be a goddamn lecher. Ms. Rogers…my God, she makes me feel like one.
And that’s not her fault.
She can’t help that she’s a knockout, all long legs and perky tits.
A face that puts angels to shame.
Jesus, she’s probably a decade younger than me.
“Yes, Mr. President?” she says, stopping a few feet away, the toe of her right foot turning inward, as if suddenly shy. Is this the same girl who appeared to be undressing me with her eyes during the debrief? Maybe I only dreamed the way her eyes turned a molten blue, roaming over the front of my pants.
Definitely a dream.
Had to be. The girl standing in front of me now has her pen poised above her clipboard, ready to take notes, her demeanor professional to a fault.
For the second time, I clear my throat out of necessity, doing everything in my power to keep from asking her if she has a boyfriend. I’m recalling more and more about her vetting process and there’s no husband to speak of. Still, there could be someone she’s seeing in an unofficial capacity. Not that it’s any of my business. “I was wondering where you’ll be working. Where is your official post?”
“Downstairs, sir. I share an office with the Secretary of Education.” She smiles, showing off a row of perfect, white teeth. “You designed it that way, don’t you remember? You thought the youth council should work hand in hand with education.”
“Right. It’s all coming back to me now.” Chagrined, I rub my chin, expecting to encounter my beard, but feeling smooth skin, instead. Damn, I’m never getting used to this new life. Working in an air-conditioned office, instead of the desert. Talking around a problem, instead of getting to the meat of it for efficiency’s sake. I only vetted Ms. Rogers thirty days ago, but I’ve gone in countless directions since then, every choice I make affecting millions of lives. That reality sits on my shoulders like ten tons of bricks. “Decisions I made a month ago feel like they were made over a decade ago.”