FOUR
ELLE
“Why were you working at a place like 202?”
Although I should’ve expected this question the moment we sat down at the intimate piano bar on Pennsylvania Avenue over an hour ago, it catches me off guard. One drink had turned into two, and I hadn’t been able to pull myself away from the force that is Graham Delaney. Looking up from the green onyx tabletop, I see that he’s rubbing his chin thoughtfully, the candlelight casting an amber glow on his face. In the background, the pianist plays a moody version of “Do You Think I’m Sexy.”
I pretend I’m more interested in humming along with the melody than answering his question. “I love this song.”
He’s not having it. He leans as close to me as the table between us will allow. “You don’t know shit about this song, so stop acting like you care just so you can get out of answering me.”
“They catch a cab to his high rise apartment,” I croon, but the flash in his eyes makes me swallow the next line. Lust. That look is definitely lust, and I regret choosing that particular line to sing.
“Careful or I’ll think you’re issuing me an invitation. Just so we’re clear, I don’t even know where my remote is, so there would be no movie-watching.”
I blink. Then glimpse the other way to gather my thoughts. I’m not innocent, but when he says things like that—in a growl that makes me feel like he means every word of what he says—warmth floods my body. “It wasn’t a lie. I really do like this song.”
“You’re the only twenty-one year old in this city that does.”
“DNCE does a cover of it, and I’m twenty-two,” I say. “For what it’s worth, your thirty-three-year-old ass could learn a thing or two from my eclectic musical tastes.”
His lips do that sexy, smirking thing, the one he needs to trademark, STAT. “We’ve talked about everything from my apartment in Manhattan to your Zuma Beach article published in “Destination Surf” last summer. We even talked about your love of blackberry cocktails.” He circles a long finger around the rim of my nearly empty glass, his movements drawn out to give my imagination something new to go crazy over.
“You’ve told me at least ten times you should get home, and I’ve told you all ten you’re full of shit.” He touches his finger to his lip, tasting my berry drink, before returning it to my glass. “But not once have I mentioned my age. Have you been doing your homework on me, Ms. Courtney?”
“For starters, stop calling me Ms. Courtney. It makes me feel like my mother.” I picture my mom, Stepford Wife smile and all, and shudder at the thought. “Secondly, your age is public record.”
“Public record you thought was important enough to research.”
So, I’d looked him up, once, after the night he asked me to grab his check at 202. I read enough to learn he’s the son of a filthy rich real estate developer, that he’d followed his father, grandfather, and great-grandfather’s footsteps when he graduated from Harvard Business, and that he’s independently wealthy thanks to smart investments and a no-nonsense attitude. My research also confirmed what I already knew just by looking at him—having just turned thirty-three a couple months ago, he’s the youngest senator in his party.
The youngest senator, period.
Now that I put all that in perspective, I could write a Graham Delaney research paper and ace it without even trying.
Prying my glass from his fingers, I tip it to my lips and polish off the last splash of the vodka bramble. “I was curious, and I might have Googled you. No big deal.”
“You looked me up, Elle? I find that to be highly...”
He’s been doing this since we sat down. Trailing off. Leaving me to fill in the blanks and try to figure out what he means to say. In this case, it could go several ways. Highly flattering. Highly creepy. Highly adorable in a sort-of-stalkerish way. Returning my glass to the center of the table, I tap my nails against the tea light centerpiece.
“Do you do that on purpose?”
“Do you really want me to finish?” he demands.
I carve my hand through my hair in frustration. “I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.”
“Why were you working at 202?” He crosses his arms over his broad chest. “There’s no need to lie to me.”
I suck on the inside of my bottom lip then release it and a sigh. “Because I’m a journalism student, and this is—was—an assignment.” Needing something to grasp as I lie to his face about my financial woes, I grab a cocktail napkin.
His eyebrows draw together, and I decide he looks even sexier when his strong features are worked into a scowl. He must do that. A lot. “Your assignment was to jiggle your ass and pass out drinks to horny fucks in business suits? And I’m guessing the travel portion of that specific assignment was to find a destination you’d have never stepped foot in otherwise?”
When he words it like that, my explanation just sounds pathetic. “Forgive me for sounding like a dick, but you’re still feeding me a load of bull. Tell me the real reason,” he says.
But I won’t divulge that because, in spite of his public image and the last hour we’ve spent together, he’s a mystery. Graham is simply a handsome face and nothing more. His Wikipedia profile isn’t enough to tell him about my father cutting me off. I can’t tell him how my brother’s love life doesn’t match my father’s beliefs or his platform, or that Dad has convinced himself I’m supporting Zach just to break whatever’s left of his heart and trash his flawless image.
My nostrils flare because just thinking about his embarrassing tirade during Thanksgiving dinner a couple weeks ago boils my blood. Glancing down at the table, I realize I’ve twisted the napkin to pieces.
“Must be one hell of a—” Graham clears his throat. “—journalism assignment to bring out that kind of reaction.”
I open my hands and let the shreds tumble to the table. “Believe whatever you want,” I respond coldly, narrowing my eyes, “I’ve told you all you need to know.”
“You’re really something when you’re pissed, did you know that?”
“Who said I’m pissed? I only answered your question.”
“Oh, I heard you. My balls are still thawing from all the ice you dripped all over them.”
I swallow hard. Does he have to bring up his ... gear so blatantly? “So what about you? Why are you a senator?”
He rubs his thumb over his lips, luring my attention to his mouth. He’s doing it on purpose, trying to make me want to kiss him. And he’s succeeding. I have an intense desire to reach across the table, dig my hands into dark hair that’s still disheveled from the wind, and pull his face to mine. He has to be a good kisser. With the way he makes me feel just from words and looks, there’s no way he can’t be.
“World peace,” he finally says. “That’s why I’m a senator.”
I scowl. “That’s not something you joke about.”
“Maybe if I were heir to an arms dynasty it might be a joke, but I promise I’m being sincere.” A seductive glint creeps into his brown eyes, and I hold my breath in anticipation of what he’s about to say next. “So, now that you’ve been given the boot at 202, what next for your ... ‘journalism project’?” He does air quotes. Senator Sexy-Ass actually does air quotes to mock me.
And here comes the fun part of telling a lie—following through. Even if he knows my story is a crock of shit, I’m not going to give him the satisfaction or the fuel to gloat. “I guess I’ll find something else for next semester.” As our waiter walks by, I wave to him, pointing at my drink. “May I please have another?”
Graham said the tab is on him, so I might as well drown my misery with one more since he’s decided to interrogate me.
“No problem, beautiful.” He grabs my glass and then looks expectantly at Graham. He lifts a hand and moves his head from side to side.
“Just the check.” Once he’s gone, Graham slides forward on his side of the booth and rests his forearms on the table. His rolled-up sleeves ride up and give me a front-row peek of sculpted muscle. “I bet your dad has some connections and might be able to get you an interview at some place like Monroe’s,” he says, mentioning a reservation-only restaurant that’s only a couple steps from Capitol Hill. It’s one of my parents’ favorites, which means it’s out of the question.
“No!” It’s almost a shout, causing Graham to raise a thick, dark brow. “I mean, I don’t do that. I don’t like using who he is to get me ahead. It just seems ... wrong.”
He relaxes his expression, and there’s now approval in his striking eyes. It sends a strange wave of pleasure through me. “Good girl,” he says.
When the waiter brings my cocktail and the receipt, I drink in silence. The song has changed—now the pianist is playing “Dress You Up”—and it’s the perfect background to the unapologetic way he studies me. The wavy dark locks hanging around my face. The blue eyes and my lips. My breasts.
I can’t take it anymore and blurt out, “What are you thinking?”
“You know this song, too?”
“Yes. From Glee,” I admit.
“What the fuck is a Glee?”
“It’s—” I stop myself, shut my eyes, and shake my head. He doesn’t care about my Netflix queue. “That’s what you’re thinking about? Whether or not I know a Madonna song?”
“No.” His smile, the politician’s flash of perfect teeth with a hint of secrecy behind it, issues me a warning. “Do you want the filtered version, dove?”
“Dove,” I repeat and he chuckles, a rough and sexy rumble that jolts my heart.
“Because you’re the purest thing I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting. So sweet and soft and—”
“You don’t know that.” Squaring my shoulders, I don’t think before I say, “No filter, Graham. Do your worst.”
“I’m thinking about fucking you.” He doesn’t blink. My drink goes down the wrong way, choking me. “Not what you expected to hear?”
I cough. “Excuse me?”
This time he goes a little further. “I’m thinking about fucking you with my tongue.”
Dear Lord, did he really just say that? I scrape my palm across my burning chest. “Why on earth would you tell me that?”
“Because you asked what I was thinking, and then you told me to do my worst. That wasn’t, by the way—not even close.”
My mouth drops open, but he continues, “You’re beautiful. And you’re smart and mature enough to handle the thoughts going through my head. I would’ve never come back to 202 if I hadn’t laid eyes on you.” He keeps a straight face as he tells me this like he’s dictating his daily schedule to an assistant and not flat-out propositioning to go down on me.
“Don’t look so surprised, Elle. I’ve spent the entire night not calling you out like I should just so I could watch your mouth move. Because all I can think about are your lips clamped around my cock and the way your cunt will taste—and I can forgive any shit you give me for images like that.”
Oh. My. God. Nobody has ever, ever, said anything like this to me. His words instantly affect me. An unexpected heat wave spirals between my thighs. Wide-eyed, I grab my drink. “You could’ve warned me we’d be discussing privates when you asked me out. Isn’t it a little crude for someone in your position to talk like this?”
“It’s crude for anyone to talk about pussy at the dinner table, but I’m a politician, not a priest.” One side of his lip jerks into a sardonic smile. “In fact, I’m the opposite of a priest.”
“Believe me, I can tell.” Standing, I tug on my coat, my fingers trembling as I reach for the buttons at the bottom of the navy wool. He regards me skeptically as he reaches into his back pocket for his wallet. Even though the bar is virtually empty, I add in a low voice, “And as you can tell, I’m not interested in your tongue. Thank you for the drinks, Senator.”
“Don’t lie.” I turn around at his words, as he peels a crisp hundred out of his wallet and tosses it on the receipt. I glance down at the total bill. Just under sixty bucks. My redheaded 202 comrade was wrong—shitty tipper, my ass. He gets up, returns his wallet to his pocket and stares me down like he can see right through me. Given everything he’s said to me tonight, I wouldn’t be surprised.
Maybe that’s a superpower that comes along with being rich and powerful—X-ray vision. It would explain why my dad always seems to know everything.
“If you weren’t interested, you wouldn’t still be here, and you sure as hell wouldn’t be moving so goddamn slow to get away.” He bends his head to mine, and I stiffen when his scent washes over me. I bet every female on his staff goes home at night and douses their pillows in his cologne. Eau De Hot Asshole.
“You’re already wet, and I haven’t touched you yet, dove,” he points out.
I’m starting to hate that nickname already, and to my humiliation, he’s right. There’s an undeniable pressure between my thighs, and it has everything to do with Graham Delaney and his nasty mouth. “I should slap you.”
“It would only get you wetter.” He straightens his back, and I release the breath I was holding. “You can’t deny being curious.”
I lift my chin higher and fist my hands. “Just because I’m physically attracted to you doesn’t mean I’m going home with you tonight and jumping in your bed.”
His fingers graze the small of my back, the friction from his touch sending a jolt through the pit of my stomach. Guiding me toward the bar’s exit, he brushes his lips against my ear. “You misunderstood me. I never said anything about taking you to bed tonight. I only said I was thinking about fucking you. There’s a fine line between wishing and fulfilling.”
I frown at his teasing expression. “Then what was the point of telling me?”
“Masturbatory fodder.”
We step outside, and I’m relieved the crowd has thinned. Nobody seems to notice when he turns to me on the sidewalk, grinning. What a dick. A horribly sexy dick that’s succeeded in getting me hot and bothered in mere minutes.
“I’m going to walk you to your car now, Elle. I’m going to leave you with my number, and a few days from now, you’re going to call me because you won’t be able to help yourself.”
“Well, aren’t you a cocky bastard.”
“Shockingly enough, my parents were very much married when I was born. And if you keep that shit up, I’ll tell you everything on my mind. Trust me, it only gets more colorful.” He edges closer, narrowing the space between our bodies so we’re touching. Framing my face in his hand, he brushes his thumb over my lips. Tingles burst across my skin. Unintentionally, I lick them away.
“Three days from now, you. Will. Call. Me,” he says.
It bothers me that he thinks that. Expects it. “Whatever. Goodnight, Senator.”