The World: According to Rachael (24 page)

I warred with how soon this all was happening. Finally, I decided that it was my own prejudices causing me all of this anxiety. Who says that love has to be on a predetermined timeline? Look at Caroline and Colin; they got engaged very quickly and they’ve had a great life.

Now, I sit here in my quiet office, staring out the window and watching the final fall leaves surrender to the whipping wind outside, contemplating what I’ve gotten myself in to. Glancing at my watch, I note I have a meeting with the head of CNN’s news programing in twenty minutes. We’ve talked off-the-record before about me acting as the bureau chief here in D.C. Even though I have no news or television experience, I have run the White House. He thinks that I would be excellent at deciding what actually is newsworthy in Washington, and helping the reporters to present those stories accurately. I think I would excel in the position.

That’s not what’s bothering me. It’s that as I make my mental list of why I should take this job, Graham Jackson keeps appearing as a bullet point. I can’t seem to separate the merits of the job and my personal life. This has never happened to me before, and I recognize just how deeply I’ve fallen for him.

“Miss Early, Ken Kingsbury is here to see you,” my receptionist says when I answer the phone.

I stand up and open the double doors of my office, greeting Ken. His eyes widen and his mouth drops when he sees my face.

“Sparring accident at the gym. It’s no big deal.” I touch my cheek that’s now lovely shades of yellows and greens.

He follows me in as I pause to shut the doors behind us. “You still boxing with Malik?”

“Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday morning,” I reply as I motion for Ken to sit at my conference table. “You know him?”

“I do,” Ken says as I hand him a cold bottle of water and a napkin out of the mini refrigerator in my office. “When I was a reporter here in D.C., I boxed at his gym. Great guy.”

“Yes. He is,” I agree.

Ken is probably in his late fifties. He’s in excellent physical shape, with grey hair and a receding hairline. I’ve known him since he was a reporter at the White House, and I was a runner for then Senator Jones. He’s a good man.

“You know, Rachael, your office at CNN will not hold a candle to this.” He motions around my gorgeous space and gives me a teasing smile.

“I’ve heard that the pay makes up for it,” I banter back.

He laughs, and we continue to make small talk for another couple of minutes. Then he moves in for the kill. “I’m here to offer you the job of Bureau Chief when President Jones’ term in office is up. The position is yours. We’ll hold it for you until you’re ready.”

I swallow and wait for the relief to wash over me, loosening the knot in my stomach. Here it is. My future is no longer the black vortex. I’ll have a paycheck that’s not from a university. I’ll get to stay in D.C.
Happy dance, Rachael. This stops your three a.m. panic attacks.

Relief never comes.

“Thank you, Ken. I’m truly honored. When do you need an answer by?”

“I told them you weren’t going to say yes immediately.” He laughs and crosses his legs

“Would you still want me if I did?” I counter.

He shakes his head. “No. I think that’s why you’ve been such a great Chief of Staff. You don’t make knee-jerk decisions. How about a month?”

I smile and shake his hand. “You’ll have my answer before Christmas. Thank you for this opportunity.”

Ken says that Human Resources will be contacting me to discuss the salary and other details. After he leaves, I send a message to President Jones, letting him know about the job offer. I’m very curious what advice he has for me. This will be my first job ever in the private sector, and suddenly, I’m feeling unprepared, and totally overwhelmed.

I text Graham.

Me:
Reason #497 that boxing is better than MMA: Boxers must be light on their feet and move like a butterfly around the ring.

I’m deep in a national security report when I receive Graham’s response.

Graham:
Reason #503 that MMA is better than boxing: MMA fighters must be experts at their ground game. They learn to sweep their opponent off of their feet, where the fighter can dominate in a horizontal position.

Holy fuck! I don’t think we’re talking about MMA versus boxing any longer. I stare at my phone, wondering how I should respond, when it buzzes in my hand.

It’s from Graham.

Graham:
Three days is too long to go without you. I don’t care what time you leave work. Call me. I’ll meet you at your place.

One of the major complaints I have with texting, or emailing for that matter, is that you can’t interpret inflection or true meaning. That’s not the case here. I know exactly what Graham wants, and I want it also.

My lower stomach aches for the clock’s hands to speed up. I pull up my calendar and note that I don’t have any more meetings today. I’m going to do something that I’ve never done before. I’m going to leave work early.

“Maggie, something’s come up”—Graham’s cock—“and I have to leave. Please tell anyone who needs me urgently to call me on my phone.”

“Yes ma’am.” Her voice drops off at the end, indicating that she’s worried.

“Everything’s fine. I just need to take care of something at home,” I reassure her.

Next, I text Graham

Me:
Reason #561 that boxing is better than MMA: A boxer learns to dance in the ring, knowing that their foot work is just as important as their punches
—
maybe even more so. I’m leaving here in ten minutes. I’ll put my footwork up against your take-down skills. May the best man, or woman, win.

I shut down my computer and am packing up my tote when I hear my phone ding.

Graham:
You’re on.

It’s Friday afternoon. I’m skipping out of work early. I decide to be crazy and book us a room at the Four Seasons. I text Graham with our change of address.

Then Lou and I make a stop at the closest lingerie store. I buy a see-through green, lacy piece of material and matching thong. Thankfully, Lou waits outside while I make my purchases.

I check into the hotel and text Graham the room number. This feels like one of the craziest things that I’ve ever done. I check my watch. It’s four o’clock, and I’m not at the White House. I was offered a job that’s actually interesting to me after I’m no longer Chief of Staff. I have a boyfriend who seems to like me just as I am. Besides a busted up face, life is good.

I order a bottle of champagne and cheese plate from room service, and slip on my nothing lingerie while I wait for my hot date to arrive.

Fortunately, he doesn’t keep me waiting too long. There’s a knock at the door, and I throw on the white fluffy bathrobe just in case it’s room service.

Looking through the peephole, I see his stunning face. He seems just as hot and bothered as I feel, and he runs his hand through his floppy hair in anticipation. Or at least, I hope so. He’s wearing a white button-up shirt tucked into a pair of faded jeans. I watch him for a few seconds. He looks down the hallway, and then back to the door. When I see him bring his fist up to knock again, I shed my robe, tossing it on the ground, and open the door in nothing but my green lingerie.

He gasps, and moves so quickly inside the room that I yelp in surprise. He picks me up, and I wrap my legs around his waist. His mouth crushes against mine, and I part my lips, allowing his demanding tongue entrance. My hands fist his hair, pulling him closer to me as if there’s space between us. I want him. All of him.

It feels like an eternity since we’ve seen each other instead of a few days. His desperation feeds my ego.

My nails rake over his shirt, scratching his back. He moans into my mouth, which allows me to nibble on his bottom lip.

“Rachael … Fuck, baby,” He groans.

His silky hair tickles my injured cheek so I use my hands to hold it away from our faces. I tug on the strands while I grind my pelvis against his hips.

He walks us to the king-sized mattress, and we tumble to the bed in a frenzied movement of passion. His weight on top is anchoring me against the mattress, to him, to the future that he represents.

His hard bulge clad in denim presses into my thigh. Frantically I reach between us, trying to undo the button on his jeans, but I fumble with it for only a second before he distracts me by moving his talented mouth from my lips to just below my ear. I lean back and lift my chin, craving his tongue on every inch of me.

He feathers sweet kisses and gentle bites along my neck as he works his way to the spaghetti straps holding up my lingerie. His teeth remove each bit of the flimsy material from my shoulders. Next, he takes his time pressing his tongue against the pulse of my neck and nipping at my collarbone. He must run out of patience because he quickly discards my lingerie top and panties, balling them up and tossing them onto the floor. “As fucking sexy as they were, this is what I like. You, Miss Early, naked and wet, all because of me.”

His words are a mental aphrodisiac. I reach for him, longing to feel his body pressed against mine. “Come feel just how wet I am for you,” I purr.

He doesn’t pause for a second. His mouth and hands start worshiping one of my breasts. I arch off the bed in a loud moan when he uses his teeth and lips to both suck and bite my nipple at the same time. His other hand makes its way south to my center. He slips two fingers inside me so I can move against the palm of his hand. I’m lost in the sensations of want, lust, and need.

The contact with him is lost when he stands up. My eyes, that I hadn’t realized that were closed, pop open, desperately searching for the reason that I’ve been abandoned.

He’s smiling down at me. Obviously, he’s very pleased with what he sees. “Your thighs are glistening, Miss Early. That’s a damn fine sight.”

He slowly starts unbuttoning his dress shirt. I lick my lips in anticipation of seeing his ripped chest and lean on my elbows to get a better look. His actions are deliberate, and they’re having the desired effect on me. I ache for him to hurry.

Graham Jackson stands before me, looking like a fitness model on the cover of a romance novel. His skin is a gorgeous shade of honey against his brown hair that is tussled from my fingers. But his eyes—his eyes are the bluest shade of blue, and they’re gazing upon me like I’m the prize at the bottom of the Crackerjack box.

Next, he moves to his jeans and shoes. It really shouldn’t be possible to make removing a pair of leather shoes sexy, but somehow Graham Jackson finds a way. His bare feet are beautiful. I admire his long toes and perfectly trimmed nails.

He turns his back to me, but looks back over his shoulder as he slides his jeans over his hips, taking his boxer briefs with them. His ass is firm—a cheek for each of my hands—and I can’t wait to squeeze them, and then rake my nails up and down his sculpted back.

Slowly, he turns back around, and he’s fisting his very hard cock. For a moment, we just stare at each other, as if we’re each appraising our prizes. Then, with a simple tongue swipe across my bottom lip, he pounces, entering me with one forceful thrust.

He pulls my hips to the end of the bed while he remains standing in wide stance, and I wrap my legs around his waist. This angle is divine. With each thrust, I feel it in my stomach. “Yes, Graham,” I encourage him in a voice that I don’t recognize as mine. “Oh, yeah. Just like that.”

His hands squeeze my hips as he continues to drive inside me. “God, Rachael, you’re what I’ve needed,” he says through clenched teeth as he pushes deeper inside of me. “This is it. This is where I’m meant to be.”

His words penetrate my desire-addled brain, and I briefly question what he means. But, then he slightly changes the position, and I gasp at how good this feels.

Our tempo is fast and hard—it’s as if we’re both using this connection to prove something to each other. This moment is much more important than just sex between a new couple who haven’t seen each other for a few days.

“Do you see how well we fit together? Your body craves me, like I need you.” The words aren’t said to me. I feel like I’m witnessing a personal conversation with himself. He’s looking over my head. At the headboard? I’m not sure. “We’re so right for each other.”

He changes the angle of his body so his movements are deeper, which I didn’t believe was possible, as if he’s attempting to reach some unexplored land that he can claim as only his. It’s a bit painful, and I try to adjust my hips to find a more comfortable position by lying back on the mattress, but the pain mixes with the white-hot intensity of an orgasm that seems to come out of nowhere. It takes me completely by surprise.

I reach up and grasp Graham’s forearms, clenching my eyes tightly, as I experience the most intense release of my life.

When I open them, his mouth is turned up in a gentle smile, and his eyes are soft with emotion. He lies next to me and dotting my non-bruised cheek with kisses while running his hand up and down my chest in loving stokes.

“Hi,” he says as I smile back at him.

“Hi yourself. Did you come?”

“God, yes, Rach. How could I not? When you grabbed my arms, I felt you clinch so tightly around me. I couldn’t have stopped myself if I’d wanted to.” A small smile plays across his lips causing his dimple to deepen.

“Good.” I swallow before I speak again. “That’s … That’s … never happened to me before. I usually feel myself building towards an orgasm.”

Dear Lord, I half expect him to beat his chest he looks so damned cocky. “That’s what happens when you’ve found the right person.”

I open my mouth to explore his comment, wondering if he’s referring to my confession about my past sexual relationships, when there’s a knock on our door.

“Who’s that?” he asks, jerking upright.

I scoot out from under him and grab the discarded robe, slapping my hand to my forehead. “Room service.”

I open the door and the girl, who can’t be more than eighteen, carries in a tray and places it on the round table in the corner of the room.

Graham, who had put on his jeans while I was tying the robe, hands her some cash as she leaves.