“Are you shitting me?” I can feel the fury rising inside as I cut him off and stare at him in disbelief; “You think this is just about me trying to act out or snub my Dad? Do I look like I’m fucking twelve years old?”
“Twelve year olds are better behaved, Princess.” He grins at me.
“Don’t call me that!” I snap shrilly; “I don’t want the money because I am not taking campaign donations from a gun manufacturer!” Half my damn platform is about cleaning up the streets and keeping firearms out of the hands of kids; how the hell did Donald OK this?
Hudson purses his lips - those perfect, totally kissable-
“We got out of all that, it’s nothing we do anymore.” He says evenly, his eyes staring into mine.
“Sure.”
He sighs loudly, rolling his eyes at me; “Jesus, have you always been this ridiculous? Look, just come have a fucking drink with me and I’ll explain everything.”
I know the sneering face I make at him plays entirely into his calling me childish but I just don’t care. I turn back to the doors and see Donald standing behind them back inside the museum, giving me a scowl and shaking his head, and I can practically feel his disapproval from here.
“Fine; let’s go.”
“This is your car?”
He looks up from the passenger door he’s opened for me with a smug expression; “Yep”
Of course it is; I roll my eyes, wondering for the ninth time since we walked out of my own fundraising event why on earth I said yes to this.
The sleek black vintage Charger is sexy as hell, but it’s just so overtly masculine and absurdly macho that I just shake my head as I slide into the passenger side of the bench seat. A car like this, of course, usually says that you’re making up for something else. I instantly feel my face flush scarlet with the memory of that one moment and the size of that thickness pressing against me as he kissed me.
Hudson Banks isn’t making up for a thing with this car.
I jump from my naughty daydream when his hand brushes my knee as he reaches for the shifter; “Easy there, hands-y,” I quip, shooting him a look.
“Oh, relax and put your seatbelt on, Senator.”
I’m about to respond when he roars away from the curb fast enough to take the breath from my lungs and send a surge of adrenaline right through my core as we tear off into the cold city night.
The place we end up going is way fancy; like, the kind of bar that’s got so much class you can hardly get away with just calling it a “bar” anymore at all. As we’re ushered in, I’m suddenly glad we’re dressed the way we are, with him in a tuxedo and me in my gown. Although something tells me when I see the Benjamin that Hudson palms the maitre-d that he’d be seated wearing nothing at all.
Images of Hudson’s chiseled, shirtless torso, and the big hint of what’s hidden lower flood my mind as we take a seat at the far end of the elegant bar-top.
“What are you drinking?”
“Huh?” I shake my head, feeling my cheeks burn as I try and clear my head of the dirty fantasies throbbing and undulating through my brain involving the man sitting next me. This is the man I need to loath and despise on pretty much every principal I have, not the man whose cock I should be fantasizing about. I don’t really drink much, and I can actually still feel the half-glass of champagne I had back at the fundraiser buzzing through me, but I shrug apologetically at the bartender anyways; “Oh, uh, wine I guess? Something white?”
He smiles and turns to Hudson with a curt nod before he moves down to the other end of the bar.
“He knows what I want,” Hudson says with a wink. He lets his eyes linger down the neck of my dress as he grins; the subtext that I should know what he wants too isn’t exactly lost on me. I clear my throat and look away.
I let my eyes wander around the demurely lit, sleek and modern-looking room that reeks of money, taking the place in; “Come here often?” The place is full of gorgeous women; all young and hot and digging - and Hudson looks like he’s made out of solid gold.
“Often enough, sure.”
Yeah I bet, I think, eyeing the trio of skanks giggling and batting their eyes in Hudson’s direction from the other end of the bar. The jealousy takes me by surprise, and find myself shaking my head; confused by it. Why on earth am I so heated about this? There is no “Hudson and I”; it was one night, five fucking years ago, and we basically just kissed.
Well, kissed with his shirt half undone and his hand on my skin, teasing across my hip and sliding down across the wetness at the front of my panties. I cough again to clear my throat and my thoughts as the bartender returns with my wine, and something that looks like it jumped off the kids menu at a chain restaurant that he sets down in front of Hudson.