Author’s Note
“Sometimes it's our secrets that define us.”
Britney Spears, interview, August 25, 2011
So, I wanted to start this book with a quote. It seems…author-ish to do so, and as much as my Aunt enjoys wrinkling her nose whenever I refer to myself as an author, I figure that seven novels in, I can go ahead and enjoy the moniker.
But right, quotes. At first, I was going to go with the far heavier-handed James Joyce “Secrets, silent, stony sit in the dark palaces of both our hearts: secrets weary of their tyranny: tyrants willing to be dethroned”, but jeez. How about a little levity, James?
Because sometimes, a little humor is what we need, especially when it comes to politics. This book very purposely does not choose “sides”, or “parties”, or decide who’s “right” and who’s “wrong”. In fact, the only “wrong” this book deals with is the very very good kind. The kind of wrong that makes your toes curl and pulse skip a beat. The kind of wrong you’re just dying to say yes to.
This book may be a bit dirtier and bit naughtier than previous ones, and if it shocks, ruffles, or scandalizes; good. It means I’ve done my job.
Besides, politics without anal in the Oval Office just sound like no fun at all.
Let this book be your hidden scandal, your dirty little secret, or your illicit affair, and I do hope you enjoy every single second of it.
1.
“What in the hell are you doing here!?”
This isn’t happening; this has to be some sort of stress-induced waking nightmare. I need juice or something. I’m going to shake my head, or pinch myself in a second and this whole apparition will clear away, and I won’t be looking at him; not here in this world-famous office, not ever.
He’s staring right back at me; smirking, actually, like he’s amused that he’s managed to conjure himself as some sort of hallucination in front of me. Those ice-blue eyes are piercing right at me, right through me, just like they did before.
“He’s working, Madison,” my mother says, rolling her eyes dismissively before frowning at me from behind her desk. “Now will you please take your jacket off and have a seat so we can discuss this like civilized humans?”
But there’s nothing civilized about this man; nothing “civilized” about the things we did that night.
Breathe; just breathe.
I inhale and feel the rush of it all roar through me; the mask on my face, the alcohol in my blood, the illicit thrill of recklessness and lust. I shiver as I feel his hands gripping my skin and his breath hot on my neck. He rocks his body against mine, and I gasp, fingers clutching at hard chiseled muscle, nails dragging over inked tattooed skin as I feel him drive in deep. The whole room seems to undulate with the two of us, the unfamiliar silk sheets teasing the skin of my bare back as I wrap my legs around his muscled torso and urge him on.
Faster. Harder. Deeper.
This is consuming, and this is everything. This is escape, and release, and one last explosion of wildness and recklessness. One last moment of being alive before I get shut away like a bird in a cage.
His hands are strong and full of raw power as he grips my hips, grinding into me and pushing me back into the bed. One hand moves to my cheek, and I moan as I suck his thumb between my lips, gasping as I feel the wave start to crash over me. He pulls away from my neck, his teeth leaving delicious marks and memories across my skin there before he crushes his lips to mine, bruising me, making me moan, making me feel.
He pulls back again, and his startlingly blue eyes like winter ice piercing into my own. Two shocking pinpoints shadowed by the mask he wears; the same mask that covers my own green eyes.
The masks are the only things we haven’t torn off each other in the near pitch-black of the lavish room.
And then I’m moaning, and cascading over that edge like water over a cliff. I’m rushing screaming towards that beautiful release and-
And that was a week ago.
But now we’re here, and now, and in a very different room. In this room, we’re not wearing masks. We’re clothed this time; him in the dark, nondescript suit and earpiece of the United States Secret Service, and me in the formal cream-colored skirt-suit and Jackie-O pearls.
This time, we’re not pressed hotly to each other in the dark shadows of the room built for sex, draped in crimson and silk.
This time, we’re standing on opposite sides of the Oval Office; the Oval Office, in the White House.