“You hot, wet, and moaning… that’s my undoing.”
I smile and hug him. Being in DK’s arms is one of my favorite things. But beneath the intimacy is the awareness that with the workday ending, we need to get out of the building without being seen coming from the stairwell.
DK helps relieve me of the shields, licking each nipple before tucking me back into my bra. He uses the wipes from my purseto clean me up, taking his time with the aftercare. He pockets the cloths, not leaving any evidence behind, and closes the folds of my blouse. Then he smooths down my skirt before adjusting his own appearance. Watching him pull himself back together makes me miss him already. It’s the lakehouse all over again. The end-blues.
“I hate this part,” I admit, annoyed for complaining about a situation I agreed to. “I hate that we have to part ways until we can figure something out. I hate how pissy that makes me sound.”
“You don’t sound pissy.” He catches me around the waist, pulling me back into his warmth. “I hate this part too. I want more than a quickie and a goodbye,” he says. “I want real time together.”
“So do I. But how?”
“Come home with me next Saturday.”
I blink. “To meet your family?”
“Yes.”
“It’s your grandmother’s birthday, DK. I can’t impose.”
“My family’s already excited about meeting you. They’ll probably have us engaged by Sunday.”
I know he’s joking, but not gonna lie, the idea of marrying DK has already taken shape in my mind. I realize it’s too soon, but I was that girl who dreamed of becoming President while also planning her wedding and naming her future children.
“Luna?” His voice pulls me back, his brows tugging together. “I wasn’t serious about the engagement.”
Talk about a misread. “You’re the one who should be scared. I had my wedding colors picked out before I even got my driver’s license. I used to play house with my dolls. Baby Alive with her afro puffs—she could eat and actually pee—that girl was elite.”
He looks at me with a big grin. “That doesn’t scare me either. Except for the Chucky-sounding doll.”
I swat his chest. “She was adorable. And how do you knowChuckybut notCross?”
He laughs, drawing me in closer. “So, what do you think about coming home with me?”
“I’d love to meet your family, but how would we pull that off?”
His expression shifts into full tactical mode. “We’ll take separate cars. Park yours in the garage, out of sight. The house backs onto a ravine, so you can be outside without being seen. I’ve thought it all through. It’ll be as safe as the lake house,” he promises. “All you have to do is say yes.”
I do better. I bring his lips to mine for a long, unwavering kiss.
The days that follow feel like a test in living a double life.
On Sunday, I meet with Women Rising to thank them for their endorsement. The group is a powerhouse of progressive energy, but as I sit in their boardroom over a catered brunch, surrounded by curated posters about equity and empowerment, I know the score. These women aren’t just looking for a candidate who supports childcare and equal opportunity—they’re looking for a standard-bearer. Someone who will uplift the office, not bring scandal to it.
I smile, nod, and promise to be that pillar of leadership, all while my secret burns beneath every assurance. I know who I am, and I know what I offer is real, but I also know how the optics of DK would look to a group that prizes “impeccable” character.
By Monday, Symone has officially been announced as Director. We celebrate over lunch, talking through the landmines of managing the committee, specifically how to handle Cecil with diplomatic assertiveness. Don’t crush, but don’t crumble. A delicate balance that women are unfairly expected to master.
Tuesday, I’m back on the campaign trail in Ward 5, wearing capris and comfy loafers this time. No blisters. No accidental run-ins with DK. Just listening to concerns and showing voters why I’m the solution, then I go home at night and curl up with DK’s voice in my ear.
But by Wednesday, that’s not enough. I haven’t touched him in days. I miss being with him. I miss being held, loved… ravished.
So after the streets are fast asleep, we make one calculated decision, and meet at the far end of the beach, past the tourist stretch where nobody lingers after dark. The dunes give us cover, the grass is tall enough to hide us from the boardwalk, the distance far enough to swallow every sound.
We steal an hour in the sand—quick, breathless, desperate. A fix. Something to quiet the ache until Chicago. Afterward, we lie tangled beneath the stars, holding each other until reality forces us apart again.
Thursday, I go back to my world, and DK goes back to his. I have dinner with my Dad at a steakhouse, and still see the concern in his face—the fear of me losing what I’m working my heart out for. But DK has my heart, too.
Friday morning, with one day to go, I wake up zinging with nervous excitement. Thankfully, Gogo’s gift arrived in time. The silk scarf is indigo blue and gold, patterned with joined triangles that form diamonds—a Zulu symbol of family strength.
