Stew has my jeans unbuttoned before we get into the hotel room. The short hallway is empty, but I’m still burning up with mortification as he strokes the bare skin of my belly above my panties. “Baby, I can’t get the room key to work if you’re undressing me.”

He nuzzles the back of my neck. “Let me try it.”

I spin around and press the card into his hand, then I return the grope, finding and cupping his erection through his jeans.

He can’t get it to work, either.

“Fuck,” he growls, and he cups the back of my neck, holding me still for a kiss before trying again. “Okay. Hands off for a second.”

“That’s what I said to you,” I point out.

“You’re irresistible. Not my fault.”

My cheeks are going to hurt tomorrow from smiling so much. He finally gets the door open, and we stumble inside. He presses me back against the door—the private side, now—and runs his hands over the as-requested tight t-shirt. “This looks so good on you.”

“Thank you.”

“Now take it off.” He helps, sort of, and pretty soon the t-shirt, my jeans, my heeled boots, and most of his clothes, too, are scattered around us.

“This is what that young kid wanted to do with you,” he murmurs as he trails his fingers across my swollen, aching breasts. “He wanted to strip you down and touch you all over.”

My husband is officially crazy. And adorable. I kiss the side of his jaw. “He was not seriously trying to pick me up. He was just being nice.”

“I watched him. In his metrosexual shoes and his pretty-boy haircut. I watched him leer at my wife.”

I laugh gently and pull him closer, happy for an excuse to run my hands over Stew’s solid abs. “He was a hipster, not a metrosexual.”

“How am I supposed to know the difference? Suddenly the music I listen to is retro. What the fuck?”

I laugh harder. “You're like the opposite of a metrosexual. You’re a retrosexual.”

He gives me a stern look that makes me shiver. “You’re mocking me for being old.”

“Noooo,” I say in a bad attempt at solemn, inviting more stern looks. I duck under his arm and start to move across the room, tripping over his jeans.

“You’re the same age as me.”

“Not really.” I giggle, and that pulls him up short.

His expression shifts from stern to confused. “How old are you?”

That sends me into peels of laughter. He growls as he chases me across the bed. “That was a serious question. I can't remember.”

“I know, baby. I know. I'm two years younger than you.”

He pins me to the bed, looming above me. “You look ten years younger.”

I wiggle my wrist free so I can slide my palm over his very firm ass. “Not at all.”

“Don't distract me with compliments about my butt. You called me old.”

“Technically the teenagers at the concert called your music retro, which you interpreted as meaning old, and I just turned it into a thing. Hashtag retrosexual. Hashtag DILFs of Ottawa. Hashtag…”

“What’s a dilf?”

“I’m really not telling you.”

He wraps his hand around my upper arm. “I’ll spank you.”

“Promises, promises.”

He rolls over and pulls me into his lap. He lazily swats at my bottom.

“Oh come on, put more into it than—ah!”

The sting of a proper spank always gets me wet. It also effectively ends all teasing, because he alternates each strike with a lazy, commanding stroke between my legs. After three swats, he pulls off my panties with rough efficiency, and continues to spank my bare flesh until I’m swollen and shamelessly grinding my mound against his thigh.

“What does dilf mean?” he asks again, his voice rough now.

“Dad I’d Like to Fuck. D-I-L-F,” I spell out breathlessly.

His palm slows to a stop. “Do you have a list of them?”

“Just one name on it.” I twist around and climb up so I’m kneeling, straddling his lap. “Stewart.”

He groans as I trace a finger down his happy trail.

When I reach his boxer briefs, I slip my fingers into the waistband. He falls backward, bracing himself on his elbows, and I whisper for him to lift his hips before I slide the boxers part-way down his thighs.

Crawling back up his body, I pin his wrists to the bed, then lean down and kiss him. I rock my hips as I hover over him, my clit gliding over the tip of his erection, barely touching it.

He arches up, but not fast enough. I swallow his moans as I rise with him, never losing contact, but also never giving him the pressure he craves.

It’s a heady feeling having the nation’s most powerful DILF at my mercy.

But I want him inside me. Torturing him is torturing myself, and that wasn’t on the menu for this weekend. I press down a little and slide up and down his cock for a few strokes, to sate my appetite, then I’m back to skimming it with my clit.

He grunts in protest, and as he pushes up again, I move with him, breaking the kiss as I do.

“You’re only making this harder on yourself,” I tease.

“I’m sure I’d have a witty comeback for you if my dick had left me any blood for brain-function.”

“Don’t worry,” I say sweetly. “It’s not your brain I need functional right now.”

I nip his earlobe…his neck…his shoulder.

The tendons in his wrists flex as his hands clench into fists, and he moans as he makes a half-hearted attempt to break free.

I know he’s bumping up against the limit of his self-control because I am, too. Yet he doesn’t try to take charge.

This is my Stewart—putting my wants and needs ahead of his own when he can. Because more often than he’d like, he has to put the needs of the prime minster, and by extension, the country ahead of all else.

Taking pity on both of us, I ease all the way down on him, increasing the pressure as I glide back and forth from root to tip.

I have the urge to work my way down his body and take him into my mouth, taste myself on him, and swallow him whole.

But I’m not that benevolent.

Not tonight.

Tonight, I want feel him deep inside my body.

I slide back up his cock, and this time I cant my hips until the tip of him is at my entrance.

I grin at him as I sink all the way down and grind my hips a little.

On the upstroke, I lean forward and kiss him, then pump my hips in short, fast thrusts over the head of his cock. When his fists clench and his wrists strain against my grasp, I plunge down, taking him as deep as I can.

I’m close and I want him to be inside me when I come.

As I bottom out, I grind my clit back and forth against him. Up, down, grind, grind. Stew pushes up against me, adding more delicious pressure exactly where I need it most. My control of the sex slips as he moves even more, driving into me now. We’re both so close.

Then his hips jerk up and he pushes hard against me, the first pulses of his orgasm triggering my own.

And I’m lost.

Releasing his wrists, I collapse on his chest.

His heart beats fast and strong beneath my ear as he wraps me in his arms and kisses the top of my head.

I couldn’t ask for a more perfect night. Or a more perfect husband.