The Phoenix Candidate(25)

“You’re ready for your election? This year should be an easy run.”

I nod. “I’d never call it easy, but this year I’ve got a big head start.” Last month, an investigative reporter unearthed my Republican challenger’s dubious tax filings. He dropped out of the race, replaced by a shrill state legislator who hasn’t made a big dent in money or the polls. Given the Democratic leanings of my district, I’m considered to be in a safe seat.

She chuckles and leans toward me. “All work and no play? Tell me you’re having some fun, too.”

The thought of Jared’s teeth nipping my flesh, my neck, my inner thighs, sends the blood rushing to my cheeks. “I’m kayaking a bit. Enjoying the beautiful weather.”

Lauren’s perfectly plucked brows lift. “You must be enjoying it with someone special.”

I look away quickly, all but confirming she’s hit the nail on the head. Shit. Shit. Shit. I can’t be having this conversation with her.

She touches my hand lightly. “Grace, it’s not inappropriate to date. You lost your spouse. Voters can’t expect you to become a nun.”

I nod, guilt washing over me. It’s not the thought of Jared that prompts the guilt. It’s the fact that there’s so much assumed about my relationship with Seth.

There was sadness in losing my partner of eleven years and the father of my child. He was a good dad. A stable force in our family. He was a safe choice, but I’m still coming to terms with my guilt: I felt relief that I could actually start over after him.

Quit it, Grace. You never wanted him to die. You never wished anything bad on Seth.

“Thank you for saying that,” I tell Lauren, forcing lightness into my voice. “But I’m a public figure. So it feels like there’s no good time to really explore that, you know? If I were to ever … date … it would have to be a foregone conclusion.”

She gives me a knowing gaze and for a moment I’m terrified she’ll see through me. “I understand you want to keep private things private. But in politics, they rarely are.”





Chapter Seventeen





“Don’t get up.”

I roll over, my sleep-blurred eyes straining to see the person entering my hotel room. The digital clock reads one a.m.

“Jared?”

He walks around the bed to where I’m lying, shedding his jacket and shoes and crouching so he’s eye level with me. “Hey, gorgeous.”

Warmth floods me and his thumb traces my jawbone. I never expected this tenderness from the man who demanded I strip and crawl to him. But as his hands trace my naked shoulders, as they skim above the sheet along the curve of my hips, I find myself wanting the tender in equal measure with the hard.

“Who said you could come in my room?” I ask sleepily.

“I’m not in the habit of asking permission,” Jared says, his soft drawl caressing me as his fingers work the buttons on his shirt.

“You just do it and ask for forgiveness later?”

“Grace, I’m not in the habit of asking. Period.”

His shirt drops to the floor and his pants follow. In moments I’m joined beneath the cool sheets by this furnace of a man, his chest hair tickling my arms as one hand slides from my knee up my leg to the center of my thighs.

“You’re wearing too many clothes, Grace,” he growls, and tugs at my panties. I lift my hips and nudge closer in the crook of his arm, reveling in the feeling of his hand skating up and down my now fully naked body.

“You didn’t pack me a nightgown,” I say.

“You didn’t need one.”

“I didn’t know you’d be back tonight.”

“But you wanted me back.” Jared’s fingers skim down my belly and tease my seam. “You’re so wet. Tell me where you want me to touch you.”

I arch my back, stretching like a cat to connect with his hand, but it dances out of my reach. “Right there,” I plead.

“Where, Grace? You’re an articulate woman. Tell me.”

“There,” I pant as his fingers work the moisture between my legs until my cleft is slick.

“Keep going.” Jared’s breath skims over my cheek, my breasts rise and tighten. “What do you want me to do to you tonight?”

“Everything.” His hand withdraws and I whimper with frustration.

“Use your words, Grace. Tell me what you want me to do. How you want me to make you feel.”

“I want you to … to …” I can’t say the words. I can’t utter something that feels so taboo.

“You’ve got an excellent tongue, Grace Colton. You use it so well in speeches and debates, so why not use it now? Talk to me. Tell me what turns you on.”