I wish I didn’t want to drag my hands along her gorgeous curves or taste that pouty mouth But I do. Just like I want feel her body pressed against mine.
Shit. What the hell is wrong with me? As pissed as I was about being placed in SACU yesterday, I woke up hard this morning. Hard for Melissa. Melissa, who can barely stand being in the same room as me.
My eyes scrunch tight as I try to shake away the dream I had about her. We were at a black tie event, the kind where waiters walk around with silver trays packed with champagne and anyone who’s anyone in politics works the room flexing their egos. I was supposed to give some kind of speech. I opted out, returning my place with Melissa’s hand tight in mine.
We had sex in my living room. I can’t remember ever having a dream this graphic. She lay over my leather ottoman on her hands and knees, the skirt of her black beaded gown hiked up to her waist, my mouth buried against her. I tugged off my jacket and tie, managing to pop open the front of my shirt before I couldn’t take it anymore and shoved my pants and briefs down to my ankles.
In those romance movies women like to watch, my thrusts would have been slow and sweet. But there was nothing slow or sweet about what we did. It was sexy, primal; me grunting hard and her hips circling fast. Her hair fell in messy waves around her heated face as she clamped down, turning her head enough to see me, and show me the sexy way she bites down on her bottom lip.
I wasn’t a gentleman in my dream. I was the epitome of an alpha claiming what belongs to him. She loved it, calling out my name and begging me to go faster.
My problem is, I loved it too. A little too much.
I groan, thinking about how hot she made me and entertaining why she made me so hot. Melissa is different. Curvy hips, round perky ass, with what I’m guessing are some serious double-Ds. I usually date the model types, those who spend more time on their hair, shopping, and make-up and less time on anything that really matters. Why? Because they’re not looking for anything serious, and neither am I.
When I take a long hard look at all the political giants I know, every last one of them has a devoted wife, looking adoringly back at them―standing by them, raising their children, spearheading charities, and working tirelessly on their husbands’ campaigns―usually alongside the skanks their husbands are fucking when they’re not around. I’m not exaggerating. It’s what men of power are almost expected to do. But I swear to Christ, I’m not going to be one of them.