Scheduled to release: April 26, 2016
He’s America’s golden boy. A power broker. A Kingmaker.
She’s America’s dirty little secret. A sex broker. A scandal maker.
Together they are headline news.
A Presidency hangs in the balance.
Then, there is the chemistry.
It’s combustible, incendiary, explosive.
He might not care.
He stared at a pair of legs—long and shapely, with dark olive skin that glowed in the low light of the room. They ended in a pair of very strappy stiletto heeled shoes, and toe nails the color of a fine burgundy. Unfortunately, those spectacular legs were currently pressed against a wall while his client—his very married client—mauled the owner of said legs in a swanky hotel suite in southwest D.C.
“You have got to be kidding me,” Derek groaned as he stood in the doorway viewing the clusterfuck that had just exploded all of his plans.
“Unh,” Jason Melville grunted as he stopped ravishing the woman’s neck and raised his eyes to gaze over his shoulder at his very pissed campaign consultant. “Derek,” he gritted out. “This isn’t what it looks like.”
Derek slammed the door and strode across the room to glower at Jason and the woman splayed against the wall.
“What exactly is it then, Jason? Because it looks to me like you’re about to screw a woman who is not your wife hours before we’re supposed to announce your candidacy for president of the fucking United States. Did it ever occur to you that she could blow your entire campaign to hell before it even starts?”
Derek’s gaze drifted from Jason’s rapidly reddening face to the brunette he had pinned, hands above her head against the expensive wallpaper. As Jason released her and she straightened her clothes with a huff, Derek could see that the rest of her was as exquisite as her legs. Classic bone structure covered with smooth as silk, flawless skin. Exotic eyes the color of dark chocolate, tipped up at the outside corners, the lashes long and luxurious. And below all of that, a pair of tits that would tempt any president—well, maybe not the current one, since she seemed to swing toward men.
“I’m a professional escort,” she hissed. “And I’ll have you know that I’m very discreet. I would never discuss a client’s business with anyone, whether he’s the president or a janitor.”
Jesus. A hooker? Could it get any worse?
“Look, sweetheart, I’m sure you’re the picture of discretion, but the presidency is not something to risk over a tumble with an escort.” He squeezed out the last word like he could hardly tolerate saying it, and her cheeks turned pink in response, her mouth tightening and eyes narrowing.
Jason exhaled a big breath and stepped further from the brunette.
The woman pursed her plump lips and nudged Jason out of the way before brushing by Derek heading for the bathroom, her perfectly firm and round ass swaying in the pencil skirt that hugged her like a second skin.
Derek whipped around to glower at his candidate who blatantly adjusted himself in his $1000 Armani dress slacks.
“What the fuck were you thinking?” Derek snarled. “Do you realize what you’ve done?”
“Come on,” Jason muttered. “Like every other presidential candidate for the last fifty years hasn’t done the same damn thing. It’s a high stress job, you have to find some way to relieve that stress.”
Derek walked to the thermostat on the wall and turned on the AC to rid the room of the scent of the hooker’s perfume which was perversely turning him on even in the midst of his anger.
“Well, if this is how you handle your stress, I’m not sure you’re cut out to be president. You’ll recall that behavior like this may be commonplace in D.C., but it also nearly always ends in scandal that ruins careers. Particularly for a young, good-looking candidate with little kids at home. Do I need to mention Gary Hart and John Edwards to you?”
Jason grabbed his jacket off of the bed. Derek heard the water turn on in the bathroom and wondered exactly how much money he’d have to cough up to make this woman go away, and how long it would be until she came around again wanting more.
“London is known for her discretion,” Jason said as he unrolled his shirt sleeves. “No one will ever find out. I swear.”
Derek raised an eyebrow.
“Fine. I’ll stop, okay? Is that what you want to hear? I won’t see her again, and I’ll be a good boy and jack off in the shower instead. God knows Angela’s not going to help me out.”
Derek thought of Jason’s Patrician blonde wife and their two preschool aged children. His stomach churned. Why the fuck did these guys get married if they weren’t going to make the commitment? It wasn’t essential to have a wife in order to be successful in politics these days. He shook off the thoughts and focused on the problem at hand.
“How much?” he asked.
“How much what?” Jason responded, searching for something on the floor next to the bed.
“How much do you normally pay her?”
Jason muttered “Got it!” in triumph and stood to put on a pair of diamond cufflinks. “Oh, London? She’s a grand an hour.” He checked his watch. “And she’s been here about twenty-two minutes.”
Jesus. A grand? The last time he’d gotten laid, Derek had spent fifty bucks on two cocktails, and then taken the pretty young reporter home for a couple of hours before sliding her into a taxi and saying goodnight. Final total? Maybe a hundred dollars. A grand seemed excessive.
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