about other people; he does, and he's done great things as President that have helped a lot of people. That's why his approval rating is so high. Well, that and my father is immensely charismatic.
But he does have priorities, and priority number one is getting elected to a second term. At this point, that's really considered to be in the bag. But that won't stop my father from campaigning to win until he's certain the election is entirely locked down. It's what he does, part of who he is.
Beside me, Vi snickers. "Grace Monroe Sullivan," she says softly, her voice low in an imitation of my father's.
"Hello to you too, Dad," I call as my parents approach, flanked by their Secret Service personnel. "And Mom."
"How many times have I told you not to refer to me as 'Mom'?" Katherine Sullivan stops short of me, her eyes scanning down the length of my body. I know what she's doing without her even having to say a word. She's evaluating me, deciding which part of my attire or presentation should be changed. It's what she's always done for as long as I can remember. It hasn't stopped, even though I'm an adult. Actually, I think it's gotten worse over the years. "You know that I can't stand that casual language. I've always been 'Mother' and that hasn't changed in the month since I last saw you."
Standing beside her, my father rolls his eyes, but she doesn't catch it. Or more likely, she caught it and ignored it. "Katherine, leave the girl alone. At least she still calls us Mom and Dad, and not Kathy and Art."
I giggle at the thought, even as my mother visibly recoils, her face contorted in an expression of horror. My mother has never been the casual type. Even when my parents campaigned in the mid-west and my mother tried to dress "like a regular person”, she still looked out of place. She's one of those women who belong in another decade. The magazines call her this century's Jackie O, and my mother couldn't be more pleased with the comparison. She's always been more “afternoon tea and country club” than “jeans and shopping at Target”. "Honestly, Arthur, you shouldn't even joke like that. It's unseemly." Her eyes linger on my shoulders and she narrows them slightly. "Is your dress torn?"
"Not anymore," Vi says. "I stitched the straps back into place."
"Well, you simply can't wear that dress, Grace. Where's your backup gown?"
"I don't have a backup gown."
"How many years have you been attending events like this, Grace? You didn’t bring a backup gown?"
"It doesn’t look torn," my father interjects. "It looks fine to me."
"Well, you would be wearing plaid ties if I didn't dress you," my mother says stiffly.
"I like plaid ties. They're distinctive."
"They're not Presidential."
"They could be your trademark, part of your brand," Vi suggests. "The President in Plaid."
"Am I a brand?" my father asks.
"Of course you're a brand," my mother sniffs.
"Aren't we all," Vi adds wistfully.
"No, we're not all brands," I protest, more out of discomfort with the notion than in disagreement. If my parents had their way, I'd be wearing campaign attire twenty-four hours a day. As it is, I'm enough of a walking advertisement for my father just by being his daughter.
"Don't be obtuse," my mother says, sighing. "Well, at least you're wearing red, Grace. Thank God for small mercies. Red doesn't wash you out nearly as much as some other colors."
I clear my throat, anxious to get my mother to direct her attention away from her critique of me and my wardrobe choices. "Should we go?"
"Sure thing, kiddo," my father says. He puts his hand on my shoulder. "Now, what am I talking about tonight?"
I groan. "Dad, it's the foundation fundraiser. You already know "
"I'm kidding, Gracie. Of course I know it’s the foundation fundraiser.”
I exhale heavily. "I'm a little on edge."
"It's because she needs a vacation," Vi chimes in. "Or a good hard –"
"Let's go out there already, Vi," I say, heavily emphasizing her name as I give her a "cut it out" look.
"A good hard what?" my father asks, oblivious to the innuendo behind Vi's words.
"Nothing," I reply, clearing my throat again. "Shall we go?"
My mother doesn't miss the implication. "You know, I spoke with Eleanor Redding last week. Her son Brandon is attending tonight with her and I told her that you'd be thrilled to connect with him. He graduated tenth in his class at Yale, law review at Harvard Law School, and he's working in international –"
"Thanks, Mother, but this is a charity event." I cut her off before she can say anything else about a lawyer I should be dating. Or a banker I should be dating. Or the billionaire son of billionaire parents who are politically well-connected that she'd love to marry me off to. The last guy she forced me to go out on a date with spent the whole time showing me photos of his yacht. No thanks. "I'd rather focus on the charity, if it's all the same to you."
"Perfect. You can sweet-talk Brandon into donating to the foundation," she says.
Great job, Grace. I walked right into that one. But I'd rather sweet talk Noah. The thought pops into my head, causing my cheeks to heat as we walk to the ballroom. What the hell is wrong with me lately? It's bad enough I can't stop fantasizing about one totally inappropriate guy, but two?
9
Noah
By some kind of miracle, I make it through all five courses of the dinner – or was it six? I endure the man beside me who badgers me for inside information about other players so he can place wagers on next season's games, wink-wink-nudge-nudging me as he downs scotch after scotch and talks about how he understands the game because he played football in college. I even survive the old woman next to me who insists on showing me photos and giving me the phone number of her married granddaughter, despite my protests against it, because "her no-good husband doesn't deserve her and you look like a fine young man".
I don't stab anyone with a fork, which is really commendable, in my opinion. I don't make any scenes. Somehow, I even manage to smile during the meal. All of that is a big deal – after all, my public demeanor has gotten me into hot water before. Apparently, telling reporters to “fuck off” when they’re up your ass trying to interview you after a game is frowned upon.
I blame my tolerance for this bullshit on her – the President’s daughter. I’m distracted by her during the entire dinner, catching glimpses of her from across the room. She's hard to miss in that red dress, although truthfully she could be wearing a paper bag and she'd still be the hottest woman I’ve ever seen. I catch her eyes at one point, and I think I see her blush, an immediate reminder of where my hands were earlier tonight.
I’d give just about anything to put them there again.
The thought of my hands on her breasts makes my cock twitch, and I have to shift in my seat, returning my thoughts to whatever the hell boring bullshit that the guy beside me is talking about, just so that I don't get a boner right here in the middle of this event. And for the President's daughter, no less.
I've got no call getting a hard-on for a girl like that. First of all, she’s out of my league. Even if she weren’t the President’s daughter, every part of the way she carries herself would telegraph that fact loud and clear. She’s classy, practically regal, every inch of her political royalty.
She’s also a rich snob. I remind myself of that fact. A girl like her, born and bred into a family like that is definitely not down-to-earth. That much is true, no matter how hot that girl is. No matter how much the thought of her soft skin and her firm breasts make me want to pick her up and press her hard up against the nearest wall, thrust my cock inside her, and make her moan.
She’s one of the rich and powerful. Hell, she’s the daughter of the most powerful man on earth. People like Aiden and I – poor kids from Colorado who got rich because we play sports – don't get with girls like that, even if we have all the money in the world.
And I wouldn't want to anyway. Rich girls are the exact opposite of my type.
Stil
l, that doesn't stop me from watching the way that silky dress skims over her curves as she walks, or the way she smiles as she tucks an errant strand of hair behind her ear when she talks to someone.
The President makes a speech at the end of the dinner, with Grace standing behind him on the stage with the First Lady. He talks about charitable giving and the foundation and how proud he is of his daughter - and his campaign, of course. This event is obviously a thinly veiled way of drumming up campaign donations, more than it is about supporting his daughter's charity work.
When he mentions his campaign, Grace's face pales, but she smiles and applauds with the rest of the room. Her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes, though. It rubs me the wrong way that she's standing there behind him like a prop accompanying him on the campaign trail when it's her foundation that should be the focus of the evening.
I'm irritated by it and I don't know why. I shouldn't be, because it's none of my business. I don't even know the first thing about her, or any of them.
All I know is that in the few minutes out there in the hallway, the girl I saw – the one who stood with her hands on her waist, glaring at me with her nostrils flared – had some fire in her veins. She didn't seem like the kind of girl to hang back and smile demurely while deferring to anyone, which is exactly what she's standing there doing right now.
I shake off those thoughts, because it's none of my damn business. After the speech, I head right for the door because I'm tired of rich people and I’m pretty sure the longer I stay here, the greater the chance there is of me doing something that's not good for my image. I'm going to sneak out quietly - or at least as quietly as a guy my size can.
Until she catches me. I know it's Grace’s hand on my arm before I even turn around to look. "Mr. Ashby."
"Ms. Sullivan." When I face her, I’m looking down into those striking green eyes. Hell, everything about this woman is striking.
She pauses for a moment, her lips parted just slightly. She's wearing this lipstick, fire engine red, that perfectly matches the color of her dress, and I can't stop staring at it. In that moment, the image of her on her knees, those bright red painted lips wrapped around my cock, flashes into my head. My dick twitches just thinking about it.
Getting a hard-on in this setting is the last thing I need. I clear my throat and try to push that thought out of my head before she decides I'm some kind of pervert.
Then Grace leans close to me, her lips turned up at the edges in a playful smile. "I think, since we've been to second base already, you can call me by my first name."
Well, maybe Little Miss Perfect has a sense of humor after all. "Okay. Grace, then."
She pulls the corner of her lower lip into her mouth and I think I hear her inhale sharply. She's standing so close to me that I can smell her perfume, light and airy and not at all what I'd imagine someone like her – cool, calm, and professional – would wear. "Noah," she says, her voice soft.
The second the word leaves her lips, I picture her calling out my name, her head against the pillow, her face upturned toward mine as I drive into her. Noah… Noah.
Just standing near this girl is killing me.
"Grace!" a woman's voice interrupts, and whatever moment passed between us is immediately broken as Grace turns to smile politely and answer a few questions. I could easily take the opportunity to leave, and that’s what I should do, except that I find myself not wanting to go.
Grace breaks off the conversation quickly, gesturing at me to follow her as she weaves through the crowd. She smiles graciously at people, but her security detail does a good job of subtly whisking her out of the room. They open a door manned by a Secret Service agent, and I follow Grace down a hallway and into a private room as one of the women in her security detail clears the room perfunctorily and then walks wordlessly outside.
I wait until the agent is gone to speak. "If you wanted to get to second base again, all you had to do was say so," I say, regretting my words nearly the second they leave my mouth. Yeah, that’s fucking classy, Noah.
A look of confusion passes over her face. "I didn't want to – you think I brought you back here so I could… so we could –?"
"First you put your tits in my hands, and now you're dragging me to a back room." I don’t know why I say it, except for wishful thinking on my part. There’s just something about this girl who got so riled up in the hallway earlier, with her cheeks flushed pink and her green eyes flashing, that brings out some juvenile part of me. I just want to get her riled up again.
She’s so damn hot when she’s angry.
She narrows her eyes. "I did not put my tits in your hands," she says. "And I certainly did not drag you back here so I could do… whatever with you."
She actually looks offended - offended and pissed off. I'm not going to lie, though, pissed off is a damn good look on her.
"No?"
She hesitates. "No.”
“Well, that’s disappointing.”
She blushes. A faint pink tinge colors her cheeks and I’m unnaturally pleased with myself for causing that blush. I know I shouldn’t be hitting on her – this is a bad idea on so many levels – but somehow I can't seem to help myself.
"Did you get the… you know? The photos?"
"They're gone. Erased."
Her eyebrows go up. "You got them?"
"The photos aren't going anywhere." I leave out how much I agreed to pay the guy to delete the pictures. I thought about keeping one just to show Aiden – and maybe to print out and frame because he’d never believe what happened otherwise - but I didn’t. I deleted all of them because of the principle of the thing.
Sometimes having principles is a real drag.
"Is the photographer…alive?" she asks.
"No, I killed him and left his body outside in the middle of the street with a sign that says, ‘This is what happens when you take photos of the President’s daughter.’”
She narrows her eyes. "There's no need for sarcasm. You're… large and a football player. It's not an entirely unreasonable question."
I choke back a laugh. "Because I'm a football player, you think that I pummeled some reporter into the ground over a few photos?"
"Isn't that what you do for a job?" she asks. At first, I think she's joking, but she looks at me blankly. It makes me irritated, the way she asks it, like I'm some kind of hired thug.
"I play football. I don't break people's legs for a living."
She shrugs, but her cheeks are pink again, embarrassment coloring her face. "I don't really watch the game."
"Of course you don't."
"What's that supposed to mean?" she asks, her voice tight, obviously bristling at my statement.
"Girls like you don't watch football."
"Girls like me?" She draws herself up straighter, standing closer to me, her hand on her hip.
"You're not a drink-beer-and-watch-football kind of girl. Let me guess. You have season tickets to the opera?"
"You don't know anything about me."
"I know your tits aren't fake."
Her face colors. "You're a pig."
I think I must be a pig, because hours after touching this girl, I can still feel her skin under my hands, smooth and soft and silky. Now I want more. In fact, I’ve never wanted to tear a dress off a woman as much as I want to destroy the silky little red number that Grace is wearing right now.
"Why did you really bring me back here?" I ask, stepping closer to her. I shouldn’t be stepping closer to a girl like this. I should be backing off, walking the hell away from her. I half-expect her to push me away – or hell, call for her security – but she doesn't. She doesn’t move an inch.
"To ask you about the pictures," she says, her jaw set but her voice falters.
"To ask me about the pictures," I repeat. "The ones with my hands on your breasts."
She swallows hard. "That's right."
I can’t help doing what I do next, even though it’s the last thing I should be doing. I
touch my fingertips to her arm, running my fingers over her skin until I reach her shoulder. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away a bit when I touch her. Instead, she makes a little whimpering sound.
Oh, hell.