And speaking of ass pains, it’s yours truly’s job to make sure the royal princess herself is ready to stop sticking her head in the sand and act the part. She’s been avoiding me — well, me and anything else that involves leaving her living quarters — for the past two days. But let’s be real: her mom is going to be President for at least four fucking years; she’s gotta come out sometime before then.
One conversation, two days ago, and that’s it. One snippy little accusatory bullshit conversation where somehow I’m the bad guy here for having sex with a very hot, very willing girl in a fucking mask who was explicitly at that place to get laid. Somehow I’m the dick for not divining with my sixth sense that that same girl would be my stepsister at some point in the future.
Goddamnit, why her? Why the fuck did I sleep with this girl?
The absurdity of even thinking that actually gets me heated as I stomp up the back staircase towards her quarters. So heated, in fact, that it doesn’t strike me that I should knock until I’ve already swung the door to her room wide open to the sound of her shrieking.
Well, fuck.
She’s wearing black lingerie. Well, at least I’m pretty sure she is before she jumps behind one of the thick posts of her four-post bed.
“Hunter! What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Hey, I was coming to see if you’re ready to go!” I say, turning away.
“Well close the door!”
“Fine, Jesus.” I growl, frowning as I step into the room and shut the door behind me.
“With you on that side, ass,” she hisses from her shitty hiding place.
This time I turn back to her, and suddenly I’m forgetting I was even scowling as I just stare.
Jesus fucking Christ, she’s perfect.
Okay, she’s glowering at me, and still ridiculously trying to hide behind the damned bedpost, but all at once, it clicks.
Yeah, that’s why I slept with this girl, because she’s a fucking knockout.
She is wearing black lingerie; this crazy hot lacy black bra that has no business being in a place as formal as the damned White House, and this black skirt-slip thing that barely covers her ass.
And stockings. Jesus Christ, the girl is wearing thigh-high black stockings.
And right then, every iota of self-professed professionalism goes out the fucking window. Right there, the badge, the oath, duty, and all that shit can go right ahead and fuck itself. At that moment there is one singular thought searing across my brain.
That I want to bend her over that bed, lift up that slip, and bury every inch of my cock deep inside of her.
I want to hear her moan like she did before. I want to feel her nails on my skin, feel her teeth against my neck, her hair in my hands and her breath across my lips. I want to feel her come like she did that night.
It all hits me like a freight train, like a sense of need like something an addict might feel. I’m standing there, alone, behind closed doors, with the first daughter of the United States, and I want to fuck the shit out of her.
“Um, stare much?”
“Huh?”
She’s blushing as she meets my hungry stare with her own gaze, her eyes wide and wild, her lips parted, and her cheeks flushed pink. My eyes drop to her legs — specifically at the lacy tops of those fucking sinfully hot thigh-highs — and I all but growl out loud.
“I hate pantyhose, they’re always so itchy,” She says quietly, like she’s apologizing for the stockings.
Believe me, she has nothing to apologize for.
“You shouldn’t be in here, you know.” Her voice is whispered, hushed, and it’s just enough sass to snap me out of it. I quickly shake my head and tear my eyes away from her legs.
I clear my throat. “Well, time’s a-wastin’, princess. We have a schedule you know.”
She rolls her eyes as she crosses her arms across those perfect, lace-wrapped tits. “Like I’m going anywhere without clothes on?”
I sigh as I check my watch. “Okay, what are you wearing?”
“Excuse me?”
She’s still half behind the bedpost, and still scowling at me. Which, granted, she has every right to do since I literally just walked in on her in her underwear in her own room.
Doesn’t mean I’m not hard as fucking stone in my suit pants.
“Wearing; tonight. What are you planning on wearing to your mom’s thing.”
She nods at the navy-blue garment draped across the bed. “That dress, obviously.” She gasps and takes a step back as I march across the room, snatching the dress up as I move around the bed towards her. “Are you kidding me?”