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* * *
"How did you pull this off?" I glance down at the blanket he’s laid out on the floor of the House of Commons, in the Palace of Westminster. Yep, the same House of Commons which is covered so often on TV when the members of the ruling party face the opposition during Question Time, which takes place from Monday to Thursday during working hours. Today is a Friday. It’s also after office hours, so the entire Parliamentary building is deserted.
"You should know better than to ask me that." He places the picnic basket at the edge of the blanket. He hauled it in from his car and up many steep flights of steps, all without breaking a sweat or getting out of breath, annoyingly.
I take a slow turn, taking in the galleries on either side of the floor. The benches, as well as other furnishings in the chamber, are green in color, a custom which goes back 300 years. The adversarial layout—with benches facing each other is, in fact, a relic of the original use of the first permanent Commons Chamber on the site, St. Stephen's Chapel. There’s so much history in this room. If I shut my eyes, I can almost hear the echoes of the voices of a debate between the ruling and opposition parties.
"You had a picnic basket in the trunk of your car when you came to my apartment?"
He straightens, then fixes me with that trademark Hunter look—raised eyebrow, smirk on his lips, and that part-innocent, part-wicked gleam in his eyes, which seem to imply all the world’s a stage, he’s a player, and everything is done in the spirit of good fun. Also, if he’s done anything wrong, then he’ll be happy to ask forgiveness… After the fact.
"You have quite the ego about you, don’t you?"
"Which we have established many a time." He pulls out his phone and swipes his finger over the screen. The lights in the chamber dim.
"No way." I shake my head. "You arranged for mood lighting?"
"Not only." Another flick of his finger, and a melodic aria wafts from his phone speaker. He leans the phone against the basket, then straightens and holds out his hand.
When I hesitate, he chuckles. "I won’t bite."
"Don’t you?" I murmur.
His nostrils pulse. His blue-green eyes take on a midnight hue, a tell-tale sign he’s aroused. A cloud of heat wafts off of his chest. It slams into me and seems to pin me in place. I gasp, unable to move, unable to do anything other than appreciate his sheer assuredness—this complete sense of rightness that fills me whenever we are together. He must sense some of the emotions running through me, for he closes the distance between us. He wraps his arm about my shoulders and pulls me in. I rest my forehead against his chest, then after a second, fold my own arms about his waist. We sway in place, as the haunting notes from the classical ditty fill the space.
"La fleur que tu m'avais jetée from Carmen, otherwise known as The Flower Song," he murmurs.
"It’s beautiful." I close my eyes, and for the first time since I woke up in my bed and found him gone, my muscles relax. The stresses of the day fade away, and I lean closer. His arm tightens around me. He tucks my head under his chin. The thump-thump-thump of his heart is a reassuring vibration against my cheek. His dark scent is as familiar as my own. Some time, over the last few months, he crept under my skin, into my blood, and occupies my every thought and dirty fantasy. He’s become a part of me, without my realizing it. Or maybe, I was very aware of it and did nothing to stop it. Either way, I can’t deny the fact that I’ve come to depend on him. When I opened the door earlier and saw him, a flush of joy spread through my chest. Oh, I hid it behind the smart words I lobbed at him, but deep inside, I felt as if it were Christmas all over again. Pun intended. He rubs his palm over my back in slow circles, and a tingling grips my limbs.
Neither of us speak, and the notes of the aria replace any lingering stresses that may have hidden in my cells. The last strains fade away, and we continue dancing, slowly…slower…until we come to a stop, arms about each other. Neither of us seems to want to move. I wish I could capture this hushed silence, so full of everything in my heart, so I can take it out later when this moment is gone, as time inevitably does.
"Baby, I think we need to feed you." His voice rumbles under my cheek.
I shake my head, not wanting to pull away. Not wanting to separate from him yet.
Then my stomach grumbles.
"Definitely need to feed you." His eyes flash, and I wonder if what he’s thinking of putting in my mouth is something more than what’s in the basket.
I slide my hand between us and place it on the thickness between his thighs that made itself known a little earlier.
His nostrils flare. Then he leans down and presses a hard kiss to my lips. "First food, of the nourishing variety." He pulls back, then urges me to sink down onto the picnic blanket
* * *
"That was some spread." I pat my mouth with the paper towel that was packed into the basket. We ate from plates of the ceramic variety, with cutlery that wasn’t plastic. He offered me champagne, and when I declined, he didn’t push it. Or asked questions. He simply poured me some sparkling apple juice, which was delicious.
"I still can’t believe you arranged for all of this." I place my now empty plate on the blanket and glance about the room.
"It had to mean something to you."
I narrow my gaze on him. "Am I that easy to read?"
"You trained to be a lawyer, then got into PR because of your love for the media. And you come into your element when trading arguments with me. You’ve also taken on some high-profile politicians as clients and prevented their names from being marred by scandals. It doesn’t take a genius to realize you love politics."
I look away. How can he see me this clearly? When my own family, and perhaps, many of my friends have not.
"Hey, don’t hide from me." He reaches over and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. "Why didn’t you get into politics yourself?"
