American Queen

I sit next to Ash on the sofa, the motion deliberate and precise. Ash watches me carefully, taking me in, the thoughtful furrow in his brow growing slightly deeper.

“This is a very beautiful dress,” he says, reaching out to run a finger along the neckline. It’s not scandalously low, but the corseted bodice pushes the swells of my breasts over the top and his finger follows the sloping curves. I let out a shuddering breath, almost a moan, and then I hear Embry scramble to his feet.

“I should leave you two alone,” he says, making for the door.

“Embry,” Ash calls after him.

But Embry doesn’t look back, just tosses a half-wave in Ash’s direction. “I’ll see you downstairs,” he says, and then he’s gone.

Ash’s profile is thoughtful when I turn back to look at him. And I think I should tell him now, explain about Chicago and Embry and all about that night, but I don’t know how to start. And I don’t know how to finish either, because if I tell that story to Ash, he’ll be able to see in an instant that Embry still affects me. That my feelings for him aren’t over with. And there would be no way to verbalize that my feelings for Embry don’t at all cancel out my feelings for Ash. They are related and intertwined, they are layered on top of one another, they are both and together and all at the same time. Even I don’t understand how there’s room for both inside me—how could I expect Ash to?

There’s another moment of silence, and then Ash reaches for me. He easily pulls me onto him, until I’m a ball of embroidered silk perched on his lap, and he lays a light kiss on the exposed nape of my neck. One hand is splayed against my stomach, holding me close against him, and the other one is digging in my skirts, skating up past my smooth legs to my thighs.

I part for him with a happy sigh, and I feel the wide pads of his fingers probing my pussy through my lace thong.

He hooks it with one finger so he can investigate further. “Wet,” he confirms in a rasp. “You’re already wet. Is it for me?”

“Yes,” I moan, shivering as his fingers graze my clit. “It’s for you.”

“Because this pussy is mine. Only mine. It gets wet only for me, is that right?”

It’s not a lie when I breathe, “Yes, yes. It’s your pussy. It’s wet for you.” And it’s the truth, somehow, because even when I crave Embry, even when my body keens for him, it’s bound up with Ash. Even when I gave my virginity to Embry, it was because of Ash. My body can’t separate wanting the two.

There’s a nip at my neck and a playful smack on my cunt. “Keep yourself wet for me,” Ash orders as he withdraws his hand from under my skirt. “And then, after the dinner, I’m going to spend the rest of the night taking care of my pussy. How does that sound?”

I sigh. “Like dinner is going to take too long.”

The dinner goes much as I expected. Ash and I walk down to the dining room together, and there’s a frenzy of cameras and questions, a buzz of interest running through the guests. I feel a little like Cinderella in the blue silk gown, with my thin crystal headband nestled into my updo. Abilene tried to coax me into something a little more daring, saying I needed to maximize my entrance onto the political scene, but once I saw this ball gown, I knew it was the one. And the way Ash steals glances over at me, I know I chose correctly.

After the staircase, Ash presses a kiss to my cheek—to the delight of the crowd—and goes to formally greet the Polish president. I join the other guests, hoping to melt anonymously into the crowd without the President by my side to draw attention.

This fails—magnificently.

First, there are the reporters, and then there are the guests themselves—politicians and their wives, notable Polish-Americans, high-ranking military officials. Most of them want to schmooze and make themselves known to me, assess firsthand how important I am to the President and how I might be useful to them in the future. I know how this game is played, so I smile and laugh and shake hands and give them nothing, but do it so sweetly that they don’t realize it until they walk away. A few are more daring, more salacious—is it serious with the President? How long have we been together? Wasn’t it so lovely of me to comfort this noble, stoic man still reeling from the death of his wife?

Then there are the speeches—one from the Polish president and one from Ash—and Ash’s is so rousing that the applause doesn’t stop for almost five minutes afterward.

And then there’s one more encounter after that, one that leaves me a little shaken. It’s during dinner, and even though I’m supposed to be seated next to Ash, he’s been waylaid by dignitaries at the other end of the room, leaving me alone with the other guests at the table. I’m fairly adept at the political small talk, but I don’t enjoy it, and when the main course of roasted duck in apple appears, I’m grateful for the silence that falls over the table as we eat.

It’s then that the woman next to me turns and asks, “So, are you fucking him yet?”

Years of practice keep me from dropping my fork, and those same years of practice make me glance over at her. Raven-black hair. Pale skin. Green eyes. She looks to be in her late thirties—elegant and beautiful and smooth-skinned—and she reminds me of someone, although I can’t quite decide why. I look down at her place setting.

Morgan Leffey, Sen.

I’ve been intentionally avoiding politics since I came to Washington this summer, but after seeing her name, I’m able to dredge up a thin biography of Senator Leffey: