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A man. The president.
I imagine his arms around me and his hand on mine—touching me, taking over—and then him kissing me. My head hits the tile wall, and I fight back a groan as I come harder than I have in a long time.
There’s no hiding from the truth when I face myself in the mirror. You’re fucked, Reese.
It’s not that I’m fantasizing about a man. There’s a dearth of good people in this world, and if the one who captures my heart ends up being a man, well then. Guess I wasn’t as straight as I thought all those years.
It’s that the man I fell for, the best man I’ve ever met, is Brennan Walker.
Fucking high standards you have, asshole. I glare at my own reflection. Fall for a king next time. He’ll be just as unattainable.
Mais quel con, how am I going to handle this when I’m back at the White House? Having a crush is cute when I’m sixteen miles away from Brennan, but how am I going to look him in the eye and talk to him like I haven’t been dreaming about his lips on me? Or like I didn’t just stroke myself to orgasm while imagining my hand was his?
Buzzing cuts through my self-flagellation, and I dart from the bathroom and grab the burner off the charger on the nightstand. It’s Brennan, but he’s not texting, he’s calling. I swipe to answer before I notice he sent a video call request.
And there he is: soft and subdued in the glow of the lamp shining from the end table in the West Sitting Hall. He’s dressed down in his undershirt and the same running leggings I spied from the picture he took of himself on the Truman Balcony. His hair is ruffled, like maybe he’s been upside down in a yoga pose, and he’s got black-framed reading glasses on. He’s tucked into the corner of the couch, one leg propped up next to his chest, one arm loosely thrown on top of his knee. The kind of limber flexibility most men can only dream of.
His eyes go comically wide, and his lips part as his gaze falls to the center of the screen. Shit. I bolted out of the bathroom in nothing but a towel. My hair is still wet, and drops of water are running down my chest.
“Sorry. Hang on, lemme grab a shirt.”
Brennan goes screen-down on my bed while I fly to my duffel, tugging on boxers and an undershirt at the same time. I’m a hopping mess, but in eight seconds I manage to run my hands through my hair, shake off a little more water, and not have a heart attack, so that’s a win. Then it’s my turn to plop down, but I can’t sit like he is. Best I can do is cross-legged.
“Hey.” I smile.
“Hey.” He smiles back.
It should be weird, but it’s not. He’s the president and I’m nobody, but for the next twenty minutes, we’re just two guys talking. He makes fun of my drive-thru tacos, and I tease him for being a health nut. He shrugs, says, “California,” and, yeah, I get that. It’s a reason in and of itself.
I tell him about the boxing match and meeting Sheridan, and how Henry was a little too pleased at being right about me liking him. “So you’re going to see a new face around the detail. Young guy, but, I’m hopeful.”
“I’m sure he’ll be great.”
Then, apparently, it’s story time, because I tell him a half dozen: My short stint on diplomatic protection, before I transferred to cybercrimes and then moved to the White House. My first time in Washington, which was the first day of my training with the Secret Service. Rolling into New Orleans with nothing but three hundred dollars in my pocket and my ‘gator skin boots on my feet.
“Am I boring you? I’m sorry, I’m just rambling.”
He has a soft smile on his face. “Not at all. Listening to you talk is very soothing.”
“Me? With this accent?”
“I love your accent.”
His eyes are shining, so I say the first thing that comes to mind. “You rougarouin’, mon cher.”
“What does that mean?”
“Means you’re trouble.” It means you’re trouble, dear, as in, darling of mine, but I let that part slide right off my explanation.
“Me?” His eyebrows rise. “I think you mean you. You’re trouble.”
“Alohrs pas! I’m no possede.” Okay, maybe I am. I am a bad boy, but it’s him that’s making me this way.
“Will you teach me? We could have a secret language.” He’s playful again, teasing me, and, quel con, I love it.
“Bien sûr. Ça c’est bon.”
“I know that one. I took two years of French in middle school. That was a million years ago, but a few things have stuck. I was able to say hello to the French president, at least.” I laugh—
