DARK PARADISE - A Political Romantic Suspense Page 2

  A man who travels with security is a man with power, and nothing is sexier than power in a world where everyone wants it, but only a select few will ever taste it.

  “Lay down,” he commands, his voice sending prickles down my spine and delivering an anticipatory smile to my lips. “Small talk is over.”

  My hands reach back, finding the foot of the bed, and I guide myself until I find what feels like the center. Every move I make needs to be slow, exaggerated, and deliberate: a sensual trifecta.

  I wish he could see my eyes. My eyes always have it. I’ve perfected the sultry, come-hither stare over the years, and I spent a painstaking amount of time tonight on my winged-eyeliner and false-lash look. Men always go nuts when I channel Marilyn the first night.

  At least he can see my lips.

  I pout them just so.

  They’re painted with a nude lip stain, because the last thing a man wants to worry about is how he’s going to get that pesky red lipstick out of his starched white collar.

  Plus, it makes a mess of my face after I finish sucking them off, and I can’t have that. I’m not trying to look like The Joker.

  His hands run between my inner thighs, pressing them apart as he climbs on the bed. Hovering over me, he lifts my arms over my head, depositing them on the pillows above me. I’m positive he’s still clothed.

  A warm, wet tongue circles my right nipple as his hand explores the sensitive folds below. He fingers me again, first one finger, then another, and then a third. Pain and pleasure create a delightful cocktail that recharges my excitement, and for the first time ever, I’m not completely acting.

  Every insertion sends a pulse to my clit, and I hold my breath to stave off any excess excitement. He makes it easy to forget that this entire experience is about him.

  His wants.

  His needs.

  His darkest desires.

  My pleasure is supposed to be secondary, and most of the time it’s an afterthought. If I had a dollar for every orgasm IOU . . .

  “I want to taste you,” I say in a breathy sigh, slowly stirring beneath him. “Take off your clothes, John. Let me make you feel as good as you make me feel.”

  I sit up and feel him back away. My hands follow his warmth until they reach his hips. With fingers running the length of a slick leather belt, I unbuckle, unbutton, and unzip before freeing his engorged cock from silken boxers.

  Although I can’t see it, I can imagine it’s a beautiful sight. Anything belonging to a man who smells like this has to be pristine. I pump him in my hand, and his girth fills my palm and then some. He’s straight as an arrow and hard as a rock. A perfectly proportioned crown and dagger from what I can tell.

  I’m on all fours now, the base of his cock gripped firmly in my hand as I bring the tip to my lips. It’s pure velvet. My tongue sweeps across his length before I take as much of him as I can. I’ve honed the art of deep-throating over the years, but John’s generous size is proving to be my most challenging yet.

  He gathers my hair at the nape of my neck, driving himself into my mouth with steady thrusts. The sweet and salty taste of pre-cum drips down my throat as his free hand trails my lower back and traces along the sensitive valley behind my gyrating hips.

  John takes a handful of my curved ass in his hands, squeezing just enough.

  Ah. He’s an ass man.

  I’m taking mental notes, the way I always do during first encounters. I usually pay close attention to the parts of my body their eyes visit the most. In this case, I can only go off of the parts of me where his touches linger.

  I’m going to have to add more squats to my gym routine, but it’ll be worth it.

  All the better to please him.

  I’m a well-oiled, finely tuned sex machine. Some would argue there’s nothing in this for me. I couldn’t disagree more. Giving a man the best sex of his entire life gives me a rush like no other. When he moves on, and they always do, I want him to think of me every time he fucks someone else. When he jerks off in the shower every morning, I want it to be my lips, my tits, and my pussy he’s fantasizing about. I want memories of our steamy nights to play on a loop in his head all day long, even when he’s locked in the senate chamber engaged in heated debates on the direction of this great nation, or even when he’s attending a global summit or meeting foreign prime ministers.

  I want him to think about calling me because he can’t get me out of his head, only he’ll know he can’t because we’ve both long since moved on. And it will kill him. I want him to burn with jealousy when he thinks of me with another man, worshipping another man’s cock and coaxing him into the most intense orgasms he’ll ever experience.

  That is the greatest power of them all.

  I’ve never wanted romance. I’ve never wanted some larger-than-life love story or that clichéd happily ever after every woman my age would kill for.

  I just want to be unforgettable.

  Because at the end of the day, when I’ve drained him of every ounce of cum and every spare dollar to his name, and he goes home to his DC apartment feeling like a real man who just fucked the hell out of his whore, I’m the one who holds the power.

  Men can be so fucking stupid sometimes.

  John groans, his swollen, throbbing erection ready to unload at any moment. His hips jerk back, and he removes himself from my mouth with one pull. I slink back until my head hits the pillow and nonchalantly splay my dark hair around my shoulders like some lingerie model in a photo shoot.

  Presenting myself as an ideal fantasy at all times is the foundation upon which I’ve built my “business.”

  The bed shifts as John positions himself over me. The sound of a ripping foil packet is all I hear before he takes my ankles and deposits them on his hard shoulders one at a time. A moment later, the firm pressure of his cock drags between my folds just before he pushes his entire length into me.

  And so it begins.

  TWO

  “John”

  “My darling sons.” My mother rises from her seat and grins from ear to ear like she didn’t just see us three days ago. It was her idea to have lunch at a new café in Georgetown called Cerulean. This place seems entirely too hip and trendy for her, but here we are anyway. We’ve been seated in a private dining room, Secret Service lining the perimeter and stationed at every entrance and exit. “So glad you could make it.”

  My mother embraces me the way she always does, her hands pressing against my biceps to keep me at an appropriate distance as she air-kisses each of my cheeks. Her hair resembles the shape of a football helmet and reeks of half a can of aerosol hairspray, and she wears the custom House of Houbigant perfume gifted to her by the British Prime Minister at Christmas last year. She thinks it smells like royalty. I think it smells like a funeral home.

  “Hello, sweetheart,” she says, moving on to my brother.

  We take our seats as a server rushes in to take our drink orders, as if making us wait is a treasonous offense. Mother sticks with water, a safe choice. My brother orders Grey Goose on the rocks.

  “So there’s a reason I wanted to have lunch with you today.” Her hands clasp across her heart as her eyes shift between us. She smiles like she’s harboring some big secret, but I can only focus on the uncharacteristic smudge of red lipstick on the side of her teeth. She must have been in a hurry when she left. “As you know, next year is an election year—and your father has decided to run for another four years.”

  My brother’s lips form a straight line. “You had to host a luncheon to tell us this? An email would’ve sufficed.”

  “Our strategist would like the two of you to play an integral role in this reelection campaign,” she says. “The public views you both as extensions of your father, and with you being so handsome and conveniently unmarried, you’re the most eligible bachelors in the country. You’re a PR dream come true.”

  Her hand flies to mine, her thumb grazing my fingers the way she used to when I was a young boy.

  “I�
��m not sure what being a bachelor has to do with a reelection campaign,” I say.

  Her head tilts, and she offers a pleasant smile. “Oh, sweetheart, it has everything to do with this reelection campaign.”

  My brother huffs and turns my way. “She wants us to woo potential voters and use our status and charm to win votes.”

  “No one’s going to vote for Dad because I posed for a picture with them.” I know my statement is incorrect the second I speak it.

  “It’s one year of your life,” Mother says. “You’ll travel to all fifty states. Meet many wonderful people. Smile. Pose. Give some interviews. And when it’s all over, you can go back to your old routine.”

  “Yes.” My brother laughs, shooting me a wink. “Until it’s your turn.”

  As the eldest, I’m next in line for the “throne,” at least in my parents’ eyes. It’s a fact that’s been embedded in my psyche since before I was sent to a military prep school as a child of six. While everyone else’s parents taught them “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” and “Baa Baa Black Sheep,” mine sang “My Country ‘Tis of Thee” and “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” The Fourth of July was a bigger deal than Christmas in our family. To say my childhood was anything but ordinary would be the understatement of the century.

  I’m almost thirty. In five years, I’ll be eligible to run for President of the United States. My father and his father before him have worn those shoes, and while I haven’t agreed with every policy they’ve backed, I’m honored to follow in their footsteps. Taking a turn in the Oval Office is a burden only a few Americans will ever have the privilege of experiencing.

  It’s my proud destiny, my reason for living.

  “Did I tell you Lydia will be working full-time on the campaign trail this time around?” My mother’s voice lilts, her face filling with life. “It only seemed fitting, given the fact that her mother will be your father’s running mate again. Lydia has some novel ideas, and we’re so excited to give her a little more influence this time around. She’s really blossomed into a beautiful young woman, the epitome of grace and refinement.”

  She looks my way.

  “That ship has sailed, Mother.” I clear my throat. “A very long time ago.”

  Her shoulders slump, but only for a second. A First Lady can never let her guard down for too long.

  “Everyone deserves a second chance, sweetheart. After you two broke up, she moved to Paris for two years. I don’t think she ever got over you.” Mother sighs loud enough for me to hear, as if I’m not already reading between the lines.

  What my mother doesn’t know is that Lydia Darlington cheated on me with a greasy Parisian nightclub owner. That’s why she moved away—to be with him.

  “She asked about you the other day.” My mother studies my face, searching for a reaction that might give her hope.

  “Good for her.” I’ll sidestep this conversation as much as I have to. Frankly, I couldn’t pretend to care if I tried. “Anyway.”

  “My goodness.” She clears her throat, tossing a look toward my brother and half expecting him to side with her. “I’m not sure what’s gotten into him today.”

  “Hard telling with that one.” My brother’s gaze meets mine. “Always such a closed book.”

  “You are American royalty,” my mother says. “Let that guide your every life decision, because you have no other choice.”

  My brother rolls his eyes and takes a tight sip of the vodka our server just delivered. Just once, I wish he’d stand up to my parents. If they knew how hungry he was to be next, maybe they’d back off of me. But it doesn’t work that way with them. There’s a proper order to everything, as my father says. Besides, my brother’s rebellious past would make for a campaign nightmare. If anyone digs deep enough, they’ll easily find enough dirt to put a permanent stench on our family’s good name. Keeping him out of the spotlight protects our legacy.

  Or so they’d like to believe.

  “I know you may be harboring some difficult feelings toward Lydia.” Mother clears her throat and leans in. “But in my heart of hearts, I know you two are meant to be together. Besides, not every marriage is planted with the seed of love.”

  “Sometimes they’re just business arrangements.” My brother’s mocking goes ignored.

  “A Montgomery-Darlington wedding.” She grins wide, her perfect hands folded across her chest. “Can you imagine the fanfare? It’d be the wedding of the century. And that sweet Lydia would make for the most refined First Lady we’ve had since Jackie O. Your fairytale practically writes itself.”

  “Didn’t JFK cheat on Jackie O?” I’ve got to hand it to my brother. He never fails to state uncomfortable truths. In my opinion, it’s exactly why he should be the next President Montgomery and not me. “Like, a lot?”

  “Planted rumors.” She waves him away. “The CIA was extremely corrupt in the sixties.”

  “Pretty sure it’s a proven fact,” he says.

  Her face twists, her lips moving but nothing coming out. It’s rare to see First Lady Busy Montgomery flustered.

  “Can we not discuss this at lunch?” she snips. “It isn’t an appropriate topic of conversation.”

  I yawn, and I’m more than ready for this lunch to be over despite the fact that we’ve yet to place food orders.

  “In many ways, this is a family business,” she says, reaching for her water and turning to the young girl who placed it before her. “Thank you, dear.”

  The girl is clearly star struck, her hands trembling and her face flushed as she tries to avoid eye contact with us.

  My brother lifts his vodka glass to his lips, hiding his smirk. He lives for this shit.

  “Everything we do must be for the greater good,” she continues. “We must always think in increments. Five years. Ten years. Twenty years. Generations and lifetimes. The Montgomery legacy will live on forever, all of us immortalized in history books, our paintings hanging on the walls of the White House long after we’re gone. It’s our job to write history, and as of this moment, you are living it. Every interaction you have, every move you make, every relationship. It’s all shaping the future lives of your children. Your grandchildren. This great and wonderful country.”

  My brother offers a limp clap. “Your speech writer come up with that?”

  She ignores him, shifting her body my way. “I want you to talk to Lydia again. Try to work things out. You two used to be so happy together, and it would make your father and me extremely proud if you put your differences aside and put forth a little more effort. Personally, I can’t think of a finer woman to carry on the Montgomery line.”

  “Poodles,” my brother mutters under his breath. “We’re goddamned purebreds.”

  “I’m not interested in making anything work with Lydia.” I adjust my tie. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

  “It’s time to start thinking about marriage,” she says. “You’ll want to be married before you hit your own campaign trail.”

  “It’s at least five years from now. Maybe even ten or twenty.” We’ll see how long I can prolong the inevitable. Either way, I loathe this conversation. Marriage isn’t on my horizon, and if it were up to me, it would never be. There’s nothing exciting about a piece of paper that binds you to someone for the rest of your life.

  And love–or the illusion thereof–doesn’t appeal to me. I tasted it once, and I spit it out the second it turned bitter.

  “The last unmarried president to be elected was Grover Cleveland,” she says. “It doesn’t happen anymore. It’s practically an unwritten requirement.”

  Our server carries a large tray covered with plates of elegantly presented meals. My mother must’ve ordered our lunch before we arrived, because God forbid she leaves a single detail out of her control. I suppose I’d be foolish to expect her to retract her claws from the marriage issue.

  “This looks wonderful. My goodness. Thank you very much.” As if a switch has been flipped, my mother smiles and turns back “on,” cha
tting idly with the server before turning to discuss the weather with us.

  I tune her out after a while when my mind elects to replay last night instead.

  I know everything there is to know about “Bronwyn.” Her legal name is Camille Buchanan. She’s twenty-four. Marital status is single. Born out of wedlock to a presently retired Tennessee schoolteacher. I know she lives on Shaw Street in Logan Circle. I know her favorite dry cleaner, coffee shop, wine bar, and lingerie store. Her roommate is Araminta Randall, youngest daughter of the Harrison Randall and Mimi Rothschild Randall. Both girls attended Georgetown and studied Theater and Performing Arts. Lastly, once per month, Camille goes home to Tennessee, spending two days with her mother before taking a red eye back to the city.

  It’s not that I’ve stalked her; it’s just that when you’re a Montgomery, information is readily available.

  I’ll never forget the first time I saw Camille hanging on Senator Bancroft’s arm at a charity masquerade last New Year’s Eve. She wasn’t wearing her mask, though I was. We made eye contact just past the coat check, and for a paralyzed moment, I couldn’t breathe. I’d never seen anything so stunning in all my life.

  Her movements were fluid, effortless. Her smoky eyes smiled while her full lips did not. Each sequin on her fitted black gown flickered in tandem with the diamonds dripping from her neck and left wrist. Everything around her blurred into the background so that she could shine, and shine she did.

  The senator led her by the hand to a private corner away from the crowd, and she turned to give me one last glance before disappearing out of my sight. I spent the rest of the evening searching for her in a sea of masked thousands, only to come up empty-handed and more determined than ever.

  I decided then and there that I had to know her, and I knew in that moment she could only ever belong to me.

  THREE

  Camille