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In another life, she’d have called it destiny. Fate. Whatever.
Not in this one.
In this one, she could only long for the one wish she couldn’t have.
Walking away from him and not regretting it.
No. freaking. Luck.
The weight of it crashed over her as the girth of him slipped out of her. It made her grip the pillow like a life ring in a typhoon, grateful John wasn’t looking as he lithely rolled from the bed and headed for a small attached bathroom. But even if he noticed, the pillow survival grip was better than succumbing to the tears again—no matter how badly they scalded everything behind her eyes.
She wouldn’t set them free again. What was the damn point? None of this was a news flash. She’d known it, like an extra weight on her psyche, even from that soul-changing moment back in Vegas. But that was the thing about soul changes. They altered one’s entire world—until the world forgot to read the memo. So it was up to someone to write the memo for themselves, as many times as they possibly could, praying the ink would seep in and the memories would last forever…
God, the memories.
And the lessons.
Ohhhh, yeah. Those too.
Perhaps…especially those.
It wasn’t the world’s funniest joke, but it led her brain back to a mindset that wouldn’t have her bawling into the pillow. As the mirth grew, so did the smile quirking her lips as she turned, gazing up at the panels of the stamped metal ceiling—
At least until John slid back next to her.
“Do I dare ask what has the kitten looking like she swallowed the canary?”
“Wha—huh?” Her head hadn’t hit the clouds, but one newly naked, hot-as-hell warrior had just gamboled onto her mattress. Same difference. He’d just have to understand.
Franz snickered. Leaned down, softly suckling her lips, while dipping the damp cloth in his hand into the space between her thighs. Tracy opened, giving him better access for the care. For a Dominant who knew how to screw a woman’s ears off her head, he was stunningly incredible at the afterglow shit too. Just didn’t seem fair that he’d hogged all the good genes in the Dom pool, but she sure as hell wasn’t going to lodge a complaint.
“So what’s going on, my little canary binger?”
She gave up a brief laugh while snuggling tighter back against him. “I was just realizing…how a joint session of Congress is going to be a cake walk compared to your crowd.”
This time, Franzen beat her to the laughter. His full-throated version was as smooth and rich as the toffee his skin resembled, coating her in sensations just as warm and delicious, especially as he compelled her to roll over and face him again. Wasn’t a horrid request to meet. A new sigh spilled out just from the sight of his face again, so exotic yet noble. She let a huskier sound interrupt it, as she tucked a hand under his T-shirt. Holy gravy train, the man was well-made. From the defined slant of muscle bordering his hip to the sleek ridges of his abs to the broad beauty of his pecs, she’d never get tired of exploring his sculpted glory. He was like a relief map for the land of oh-my-fucking-God. If so, then she’d happily be his Lewis and Clark expedition. To the west! Though at this point, she wouldn’t mind even staying in the east. Or the central valley. Really, anywhere on the grid was fine by her.
“Well.” His gaze grew hooded as she kept exploring. A thoroughly male growl unfurled from him. “My work here is done.”
He could have slammed an iceberg on her chest and impacted her less. But maybe that was exactly what she needed. This could never be their reality; he was just sucking shit up and accepting it faster than she. It was time to follow that lead. Put her big girl panties on—or in this case, hike her latex shorts back up—and be grateful for the magic he had chosen to give her.
So much more than she’d ever dreamed of. Hoped for.
And it had to be enough.
Because no way could she ever offer him enough.
It was laughable, but so damn true. The White House? Sure—but what was a man like him going to do in an environment like that? Sit around and oil paint while she finished eighteen-hour work days? Get in putting practice on the East Lawn while she made trade policy and signed shit into law? Squirm in a tuxedo from time to time, as her “arm candy” at formal dinners?
He’d hate every second of it.
Then he’d hate her too.
“Tracy.” His voice was rough as a rusted penny, betraying the million-dollar hit he’d landed on her thoughts. She lifted a hand to his face, spreading fingers into his dark stubble, grateful the hard part had already been said, though sensing he still fought to dig deep for the prose. Why? She pressed the word into him with the force of her gaze. Why are you doing this? Why are you making this harder?
“John,” she finally uttered, slowly shaking her head. “It’s—it’s all right. We both knew, going into this—”
“No.” He all but snarled it. His gaze turned to flames as his fingers clawed into hers. “Don’t you get it? I didn’t know.” His dimple became a violent tick. “I didn’t know I’d…”
