Thief:A Bad Boy Romance(96)

 

I smirk. “Arms up.”

 

“What?”

 

I sigh and glance at my watch again before I plaster a big fake smile on my face. “Arms. Up. Let’s go, princess.”

 

“You dick, you can’t just waltz in here and dress me like I’m some sort of-”

 

“Arms. Up. Maddie”

 

I realize as soon as it comes out of my mouth that voice suddenly has the same edge of dominance she’s heard from me before, from that time. The edgy, dark confidence and demanding voice that a girl who says “Guess you’ll just have to tell me and see if I behave” apparently elicits from me.

 

And I know she remembers it too, because suddenly it’s like it triggers something in her. She’s biting her lip quite suddenly, her eyes are flashing wide at me as she blushes and slowly turns away from me.

 

She raises her arms up high, and I almost want to groan out loud.

 

Fuck, is she perfect. Like utterly fucking flawlessly perfect. The black lace of her bra straps cross across her back, and her long dark hair tumbles over one shoulder. That tiny little skirt slip is barely covering that sweet little ass of hers, and I clench my jaw as I imagine the thong beneath, since there’s no line.

 

Or maybe no panties at all. Little miss First Daughter isn’t as sweet and all-American wholesome as she always looked during the campaign with her mother, or on the steps of the Capitol building during the inauguration. She might put on the perfect, clean-cut and elegant outfit, and wear the perfect hair to debates and stump speeches, and have that perfect little winning good-girl smile for the papers, but I know her other side.

 

I know the side that was wild enough to go to that place on that night for one specific reason. I know the side that fucks like a woman possessed and comes like a firework going off on the Fourth of July.

 

Which is why I’m suddenly wondering if I’m inches away from Madison fucking Adams without any panties on.

 

“Well?” She says it quietly, and I realize I’m just hulking behind her, staring at her with the dress in my hands. I grin, so close to just asking what she’s got on under that slip, before I decide that’s crossing a line.

 

Right, and helping your lingerie-clad stepsister get dressed is totally within the bounds of normalcy.

 

I clear my throat and just find myself nodding and raising the dress up, up over her outstretched arms, and down over her head. I give it a tug over her slender shoulders, and I watch as her breath hitches just a fraction as my fingers barely graze over the skin at the backs of her arms. And then I’m pulling it down, and she shivers as my finger brush against her back for a moment.

 

I’m in a trance as I pull the dress slowly down her body, taking far more time than I normally would. I realize I’m holding my breath as I linger with my fingers on the hem, almost like I’m stalling, before I give it a tug down over the swell of her hips.

 

She steps away then, quickly pulling her dress down over that tiny black slip and over the lace tops of her stockings as she shoots me a furtive look, her eyes wild.

 

“So, uh-”

 

It’s a moment. This is a moment, and for a half second, we’re frozen like that; motionless, eyes locked, and breathing heavy in the heat of the room.

 

The room with the closed door, no cameras, a big bed, and just her and me, with no one else in the world coming to worry about her so long as I’m here.

 

You keep thinking like that and you’re going to have a VERY bad time with this job.

 

It can’t happen, and it’s not like it's going to happen either, it’s just my overactive libido and the effect this girl seems to have on it. This isn’t some conquest, or some rich sorority girl I can flash my war wound to and have her panties around her ankles in a second.

 

This is the job; the job I’ve wanted for a long fucking time. The Secret Service is hard. Period. And even if it's all going to end when I’m barely through the gate thanks to my dad’s pick in women, that doesn’t mean I’m going to give up yet. The job is supposed to be a challenge. Okay, sure, it’s supposed to be a challenge in the sense of watching for outside threats, being vigilant, and keeping weird hours, not telling your cock to shut the fuck up about wanting to go balls deep in your charge.

 

Or your stepsister, for that matter.

 

But there she is, standing not three feet away in that navy blue dress. Just like the cream one from the other day, this one is doing a shit job of looking demure, or conservatively elegant.

 

It just looks plain hot on her. It looks like it was tailored for her exact figure, and yeah, it probably was, but that ain’t helping things one bit. It hugs the swell of her tits perfectly — almost too perfectly to be appropriate if you ask me — and it grips the curve of her hips in the exact way my hands are dying to.