"On the house, Mayor," the bartender tells me, pushing a giant mug of beer in my direction. I’ve already drunk a few glasses of whisky, but what the fuck, you don’t say no to your citizens. Especially when they’re slender brunettes with perfect breasts.

"Cheers," I thank her, taking the mug to my lips and drinking a long gulp. The beer goes down my throat softly, settling in over the whisky pretty easily. I already have a fucking buzz going on, but I’m not too shitfaced—exactly the way I like it. "Oh, come on," I yell at the TV, my voice joining a chorus of annoyed jeers. The fucking Jet’s QB just got sacked, and we’re already down by fourteen points. Sometimes I think I should have become a fucking football player and won the goddamn Super Bowl; I mean, I’d like to see the Jets win a fucking championship during my lifetime.

Everyone has their eyes glued to the TV, watching as the team struggles to reach the playoffs. This is why I love my city, New Kingston. I might be the fucking mayor and all that, but I can still hang out by the bar and be treated like a fucking regular human being. Yes, that’s right, I go to the same places the regular Joe goes to. Despite what all those gossip magazines tell you about me, I have my feet firmly planted on the ground; I’m not a snake in a suit, like the politicians New York presents us with. Sure, I’m fond of hard liquor and pretty women, but that doesn’t make me a fucking lunatic.

Take our governor, for instance, Carter Andrews. The guy had the fucking nerve to walk into my fucking office and tell me with a straight face that I couldn’t bring jobs to my own city. Fucking unbelievable. No wonder the country is in such a fucking disarray, if guys like Carter are the best we have.

"Another one," I ask the smiling brunette behind the counter, pointing at my almost empty mug. I should have ordered a whisky; you don’t have to drink your own weight to get drunk, but I decide to stick with the beer. It’s still early, and I want to be sober enough in case I decide to thank the young bartender for the free drink… I don’t have to be any more explicit than this, do I?

Another wave of jeers and boos takes the bar by assault, the opposing team scoring a fucking touchdown. Well, so much for this year’s playoffs. Then, something amazing happens; the whole bar quiets down, everyone turning their attention away from the TV. That’s almost a fucking miracle, taking into account that the patrons here are die-hard Jets fans. I turn around on my stool, trying to see what the fuck is going on, and my eyes find the most beautiful woman in the whole fucking universe. I know that I’m prone to some exaggeration now and then, but I’m fucking serious right now.

She has just gotten inside, her eyes sweeping the room as she looks for someone. I wonder who the lucky bastard might be, my eyes and mind busy with taking in every single detail of her. Slender, blonde haired and beautiful, she almost looks too good to be real. I let my eyes wander over lively eyes and full red lips, but soon after that my gaze starts to go lower. She’s wearing a tight black dress, the fabric hugging her curves with such perfection that I feel my cock twitching inside my pants. Who the fuck is this woman?

Every single pair of eyeballs is on her, but she keeps looking around lazily, not giving a fuck. She radiates confidence, and that makes her even more fucking beautiful. Then, her eyes find mine; her lips curl upward into a heart-melting smile and she starts to walk across the room toward me. She was looking for me? Oh, God, I hope she isn’t a fucking reporter. She might be scorching hot, but I just want to drink in peace, for fuck’s sake.

I turn around and face the bar, placing my elbows on the counter as I take a gulp from my refilled beer and wait for the mysterious woman to reach me. She leans against the counter, sitting on the stool by my side, but I don’t even look at her. If she’s a fucking journalist, I’m shooting her down. I don’t care how fucking hot she is, I won’t let her bury her fangs in me.

"You’re hard to find, Mayor Liam Jeffries," she says, her words caressing my eardrums and sending a shiver down my spine; my cock twitches some more. I look at her, my guard still up.

"Maybe that’s because I don’t want to be found," I respond. "And who the hell are you?"

"Vivian Hawthorne," she says, giving me her hand. I shake it gently, her small delicate fingers caressing the palm of my hand. "I’m a US senator." Well, she isn’t a reporter, that’s good. But why the fuck is a US Senator looking for me in a bar this late? "I heard you already made friends with Governor Andrews." Oh, that’s why. Did that fucking asshole send a senator after me?

"Oh, yeah. We’re best friends now," I smirk, taking another long gulp out of my beer. "Did he send you?"

She snorts as if I had just told her a joke, and then casually leans against the counter and orders a 20-year-old Glenfiddich. Now that’s my kind of girl, one that knows her drinks.

"Who do you think I am, Mayor? I’m a Senator, not a girl who runs errands."

"Well, it’d be a waste if you were just running errands," I say with a grin, my eyes wandering over her body. I know I shouldn’t be this frontal, but hey, she’s the one who came looking for me after hours. "And you can call me Liam. I’m not a pompous ass like the Governor."

"Very well, Liam… I came here because I wanted to hear your side of the story. Your deal has caught the Senate’s attention, and it seems that Carter is pretty adamant on blocking your deal. I’ve met with him already, and it doesn’t seem like he expects to lose."

"Couldn’t you hear my side of the story during the day, in my office?" I ask her in a mocking tone, ignoring her comments about the deal. "Or did you want to see me this bad?"

"Oh, I see. You’re trying to impress me with your devil-may-care bad boy persona; don’t worry, I’ve heard all about it already. After all, not a day goes by without reports of your, ahem, escapades hitting the news." She talks back. Impressive. Most women would just flush, happy to be talking to me and trying to figure out a way to get me into their bed. But not this one; whoever Vivian Hawthorne is, she’s a different woman than what I’m used to. I like that… I really like that.

"So, tell me, Liam… Why are you this hell bent on the deal you made? You might be committing political suicide if you clash with Carter."

"Vivian… Do I look like I give a fuck about that? Political suicide… Are you fucking kidding me? Do you think that I’m the Mayor because I want a career in politics? If that’s what you think I care about, you’re dead wrong."

"Then what do you care about? Besides drinking."

"Drinking and womanizing," I correct her with a wide grin. "Look around, Vivian. Do you see all the people in this bar? To them, I’m not the fucking Mayor. I’m the guy they trust to look after them. And I won’t let them down, come hell or high water. Carter might try and turn the Senate, the Supreme Court, the President, or the fucking Pope against me… It’s all the fucking same to me. I won’t quit on New Kingston because of my political career."

She raises one eyebrow in surprise, taken aback by my words; holding her drink, she swirls the whisky before taking a sip.

"That’s refreshing… To hear a politician talk that," she confesses, her eyes staring into mine. Smiling, I reach for her and take the drink out of her hands, putting it down on the counter. I can already feel the fucking atmosphere around us growing heavy. Maybe it’s the booze, but there’s something in her that’s just pulling me in.

"I’m no ordinary politician. I talk different and I… do everything different. Better." Unblinking, she swallows in dry; she knows exactly what I’m talking about.

"Everything?"

"Everything," I say, and with that, I go for it. I just can’t fucking help it. I lean in, her eyelids drooping as I cross the distance between us. The moment our lips touch, my mind tunes out everything else. I no longer hear the noise in the bar, or the loud sound of the game on TV. No, my brain is focused on one single thing right now: Vivian’s lips.

"No," she says, suddenly pulling back. She looks around the bar, looking hesitant. "I can’t be seen with you like this… I came here as a senator." Without saying one more word, she gets up from her stool and turns her back to me, walking out of the bar in a hurried step. I remain sitting there, dumbfounded as I stare at her. What the fuck was all that about? It’s not like we were fucking on top of the counter. Sure, it might not be a good thing for me to be kissing a Senator while a shit storm is looming on the horizon, but still...

I turn to the counter again, sighing as I reach for my beer. But then I see her unfinished drink; there’s a lipstick mark on her glass, and I close my eyes for a full second, reliving our kiss as I feel my cock hardening. I never became so entranced with a woman after just one kiss… Fuck, I don’t care if it’s the booze pulling my strings, but I can’t let her go like this.

Jumping up to my feet, I grab my helmet from the counter and head out the door into the cold air of the night. I look around, my heart tightening inside my chest as I see no sign from her. But God seems to be on my side tonight. I see a taxi at the end of the street turning around the corner, and my eyes catch a glimpse of Vivian in the backseat.

I run toward my motorcycle, get on it, and rev the engine up. I put my helmet on, turn my hand over the accelerator, and in a matter of seconds, I’m racing down the street, the engine roaring out loud as I push it to the limits.

Swerving in and out of traffic, I quickly catch up with the taxi, following it until it stops in front of the Courtyard, a hotel just outside of New Kingston’s downtown. I park my bike as she gets out of the taxi, but she doesn’t even acknowledge me as I approach her.

"Stay away from me," she tells me harshly, looking back over her shoulder. I stop dead in my tracks, wondering if I read her wrong. But no… The way we kissed, the way she’s running away… She wants this as much as I do.

I follow after her, her heels clicking in the distance as she walks past the hotel’s reception. Not wanting to run after her like some fucking psycho, I stop and turn toward the young receptionist, gifting her with a smile. She looks at me with wide eyes, surprised to see the mayor standing in front of her.

"The woman who just walked in… What’s her room number?" I ask her, hoping that she won’t give me some bullshit about the guest’s privacy and whatnot.

"Uh… It’s… Uh, room 17," she manages to mutter, typing something on her computer. The moment I know where to go, I turn on my heels and start walking down the hallway. The receptionist calls after me, but I don’t bother looking back. Vivian Hawthorne’s perfect body has taken over my mind, and there’s no stopping me now.

My eyes scan every door as I walk past them, and I finally find the one with a golden 17 engraved on it. Balling my right hand into a fist, I rap my knuckles against the door, my heart beating like a motherfucker. What the fuck am I doing here? Minutes ago I was just drinking a beer and watching the game, and now here I am, my cock hard inside of my pants as I wait for the hottest woman I have ever seen to invite me inside her room.

The rational part of me is trying to convince me to turn around and leave. This isn’t a good idea, not at all. If she has already met with Carter and now she’s seen checking in with me at a hotel… Well, if the press finds out about it, we’re all going to have a field day. But before I can come to my senses and leave, the door swings open.