American Queen

I blush so hard that he laughs. “Stop,” I mumble, embarrassed and hot between the legs. “Someone might hear you.”

“You’re the one who started it. And do you really think I’d be the first world leader to fuck someone’s ass? There’s at least two or three English kings who’ve beat me to it.”

I slap his arm, trying to get him to lower his voice. “Well, they didn’t do it to their wives. And they definitely didn’t talk about it in public.”

Ash’s eyes sparkle but there’s a husky catch in his voice when he says, “We really need to raise your comfort level with sodomy. And I can think of a few ways we could start.”

“Also,” I continue in a low voice, making sure my voice doesn’t carry down the long candelabra-lit hallway, “you’re not allowed to stir me up. Because I’m not wearing anything under my dress.”

Ash stops walking, right there in the middle of the hallway. His entire body is a study in masculine interest. “What?”

“It’s for dress-logistic reasons, you pervert. But it does mean I need my body to behave.”

In the blink of an eye, I’m crushed against him, a large hand between my shoulder blades and the other on my ass, pressing my pelvis against his. With my heels, I’m tall enough to feel his swelling erection right against my mound, and it’s enough to make my knees weaken.

“What’s your safe word?” he asks, his breath hot against my ear. I feel the faint scratch of his jaw against mine—even only an hour after shaving, he has a five o’clock shadow.

“Maxen,” I swallow.

“That’s right. It’s yours to say, yours to use.”

I nod, feeling his face against mine, melting into his searing certainty, his undeniable lust. We’re alone in the hallway save for the Secret Service agents who are staring studiously at the entrances and exits and not at us.

“Good. Now that’s out of the way, know this: your body is mine, and when your body behaves? That means it’s obeying me. If I want your nipples so hard I can see them through your dress or your pussy so wet that you leave a mark on your seat, then you’ll do it. Got it?”

“And what if I don’t?” I murmur in a teasing voice.

He pulls back a little to gently search my eyes, and then squeezes me when he sees that I’m kidding and not trying to express a limit. “Then maybe we’ll revisit our sodomy conversation earlier than planned.”

“You can’t punish me with something I want.”

“Oh,” he breathes in my ear, “but isn’t that what makes it fun?”

He presses his lips to the sensitive spot behind my ear and then straightens up, taking my hand into the crook of his elbow and starting us down the hallway again. “Just wait until I tell Embry that you aren’t wearing anything underneath that dress.”

“What?”

Ash smirks. “You didn’t really think I’d keep that kind of amazing information away from him, did you?”

I stare at him, puzzled and horrified and—I know, isn’t this always the case?—turned on. “Ash…do you really think that’s fair?”

“Fair to whom?”

“Goddammit, fair to any of us. We still haven’t talked about—”

“And we’re not going to here. We will talk, I promise, and we will navigate all this history between us. But for now, don’t make Embry suffer for loving you. I’m not.”

“He doesn’t love me,” I protest. (A little weakly because, oh, how the thought of him loving me makes my heart beat faster.) And then I remember the men kissing under the mistletoe. Is that included in the history Ash is referencing?

I open my mouth to ask him, to tell him I know, but then we’re at the door to the ballroom and the moment is lost.

23

Melwas Kocur and his wife Lenka are the last to arrive. They sweep in grandly, like movie stars, and even I have to admit, they look the part. Melwas has dark blond hair and a square jaw, his wide face offset by a strong nose and arrestingly dark eyes, and Lenka is a human doll, bird-boned and delicate with a little pointed chin and bow-shaped lips. But also like a doll, she has glassy, vacant eyes, and when they come up to Ash and me for formal introductions, I see that she’s been crying.

I look back to Melwas and the way his fingers dig into her skinny upper arm, and I see all I need to know.

The introductions are tedious and time-consuming, because there are advisors and Vice Presidents and Cabinet members, and only a few of us speak Ukrainian and only a few of them speak English, and so almost everything has to go through translation. But I was raised to smile and pretend and find common ground and shake hands and quietly spy, and so that’s what I do.

And finally, thankfully, it’s time to sit down and eat. I’m seated next to Lenka, with Melwas on my other side, and Ash next to him. The idea, I suppose, was to give Melwas and Ash ample time to informally converse, but the effect is that I’m sandwiched between a human shell and a man I suspect is a monster.

It’s not pleasant, but again, I was raised for moments like this. I take a drink of wine to preemptively reward myself and then I turn toward Lenka. “Do you speak any English?” I ask.

Her eyes dart up to me, then back down to her plate. She’s barely touched her salad, and a soft roll lies buttered on her plate but uneaten. This makes me profoundly sad for some reason. No matter how dark my life has gotten, I’ve always seen carbs as one of life’s few real gifts.