“I’ll mail you the key,” I tell him after I inform him all my things are gone.

“You don’t sound like a girl who just got home from her honeymoon,” Grandpa says gently. “Are you that sad to leave the townhouse?”

No, Grandpa, I was kidnapped and nearly raped last week, and I think your other granddaughter might be responsible, I want to tell him, but it would only bring him unnecessary pain. There’s nothing he can say that will undo what Melwas has done and there’s no comfort he can give me that would be any more perfect than what Embry and Ash have given me. And I still haven’t found the courage to talk to Abilene since I got home, so I can’t say with certainty that it was her who betrayed me.

So instead I say to my grandfather, “Just adjusting is all. I’m not teaching any classes this summer and I’m still settling into the First Lady stuff. It’s a new life. I’m not sure how I fit into it yet.”

“I can’t turn on the news or pull up the Internet without seeing how much this country is obsessed with you, so I’d say you’re doing just fine, sweetheart.”

“Thanks, Grandpa.”

“You know, I remember when Luther and I were first elected, I felt the same way. Like everyone was watching and I didn’t know what to do with myself. But then there was that nastiness with the Iranians and I had no choice but to step up. Before you know it, you’ll be pressed into real service and you won’t have the luxury of stage fright.”

I sigh quietly. He has no idea, but I love him and I know he’s just trying to make me feel better. “That’s encouraging to hear, Grandpa.”

“And I’ll be coming to visit next month. Maybe you’ll spruce up the Residence a bit, hmm? President Colchester’s taste is, well, a little spare for my liking.”

I do smile at that, thinking of Ash’s clean, minimalist bedroom.

A bedroom that’s mine now too.

We say goodbye, and I head back to the Residence, stopping by my office in the East Wing to say hello to the staff that now reports to me—the social secretary and my personal press secretary and my senior advisor. Tomorrow we will meet to talk more about my chosen initiative as First Lady (sexual assault prevention, something I chose months ago and I now get clammy even thinking about), and to work on the White House’s social agenda for the next year. And then I shoot Belvedere a text, asking him if Ash is busy.

Just looking over some things for tomorrow, Belvedere texts back.

And so I go to see my husband at his office.

It’s not the first time I’ve been in the Oval Office, not even since Ash and I started dating, but something about it feels different today. It’s the first time I’m walking into this room as his wife, as the First Lady, and even Ash seems to feel it, looking up from his desk as I walk in.

“Little princess,” he says huskily, his eyes following the lines of my sundress as it hugs my chest and waist. Belvedere makes a discreet exit back to his desk, closing the door as he goes, and we’re alone in the room. Ash spins in his chair and pats his thigh.

“Come here, angel,” he says.

I glance at the windows where I can Secret Service stationed outside, facing out toward the Rose Garden.

“They won’t look,” Ash assures me. “And if they do, all they’re going to see is the President holding his new wife. Taking a quick break to shower his new bride with kisses.”

I straddle his lap and sit, noticing how Ash spreads out my skirt as I sit. “And is that all that you’ll be doing? Showering me with kisses?”

“Not even close,” my husband says calmly, reaching down under my skirt to unbuckle his belt and pull out his cock. His other hand tugs my thong to the side, probes my hole to make sure I’m wet enough for what he wants, and then I’m nudged up to sink back down onto him. My nipples harden, goose bumps erupt everywhere, and I feel his thick cock pushing up, up, up. He coaxes me back down so that I’m sitting again, his cock pressing against my deepest parts. I shudder and feel my cheeks and chest flush with heat as he wraps his arms around my waist and grinds me down against him.

“I’ve had a long day,” Ash says, still calm, as if he’s not affected in the least by our covert fucking in front of these huge windows. “And I need to come inside of you. And what will you say when I do that?”

I struggle to find the words, all the air being driven out of my chest by the deep, subtle thrusts of his cock. “I’ll say…ah…I’ll say thank you.”

“Not good enough.” He punctuates this with a sharp thrust upward and I nearly cry out, stifling the urge just in time.

I know what he wants. “I’ll say thank you, Mr. President.”

“That’ll do nicely.” And then with infinite control, he shoves up and holds himself there, leaning in to kiss me as he fills me with his orgasm. He holds my hips down as he pumps into me, finishes, and then lifts me off of him. Like he was merely relieving a physical need, like he was taking a drink of water or stretching a sore neck, and once done, he’s back to business. Indeed, I’m still smoothing my skirt down as he turns back to his desk and picks up the paper he’d been reading.

“Thank you, Mr. President,” I say, feeling a little confused and not a little hot between the legs at the idea of being used like this. It’s unbearably arousing, even as it adds to the lonely sense of displacement I’ve felt all day. Is this what married life will be like?