his white shirts, I went exploring—my mind dragging me back to last night. To that room below.
God, that room and all that went on within its walls. Those endless orgasms. Him taking me for the first time, making it as memorable as he’d promised. And that leisurely bath we’d shared during the wee hours.
Afterwards, feeling shaky and overwhelmed with so many emotions, I’d let him take my hand and lead me to his bedroom. He’d climbed into bed beside me and pulled me close. Spooning, we had slept together all night.
I’d woken up just after 7:00 A.M. to the sound of him showering, and decided to take a tour of the house.
A rush of excitement hit me when I walked into his impressive study. I’d stepped inside the reflection of a man, noting the simple modern desk surrounded by tall shelves of books covering a wide range of subjects. Reading some of the titles, I recalled that Damien had studied history at Yale.
He also had what looked like a full collection of Chuck Palahniuk novels on the far shelf, along with some Tom Clancy books, too. That was a nice surprise.
“See anything you like?” Damien was leaning against the doorjamb, his hands around a large mug.
He was already dressed in a white shirt and black slacks, looking so damn suave and fresh.
The memory of what he did to me caused me to shiver.
“I’m making myself at home.”
“I can see that.” He softened it with a smile.
“This is where it all happens for your dad’s campaign?”
He shrugged. “Actually, I’m hardly ever here.”
I gestured toward the books. “What is it they say?” I pivoted to look back at him. “If you don’t learn from the past, you’re destined to repeat it.”
“We always fucking repeat it. Same story. Different decade.”
“That sounds…”
“The truth sucks, as they also say.” He winked.
I smiled. “You went to Yale, right? I guess it was great.”
“Well, you needed a bike to get around.”
“I wanted to go to Brown University.”
“You’d have fit in.”
“What? No condescending retort, Damien?”
“That was one. You’re privileged. Lots of your spoiled friends would have joined you there.” His smile faded. “I’m sorry you didn’t get to go.”
“Were you raised by a strict governess? Because most of my friends were.”
“Point taken.”
“All my nightmares are set in my childhood home in Texas.” I’d never told anyone that before.
He hesitated and then gave me a look of sympathy. “We’ll make up for it.”
“How?”
He came over and placed his arm around me, pulling me into a hug. His lips pressed down on my head with affection, his body firm and warm against mine. I breathed in his soft cologne, feeling protected.
My escape plan was getting derailed by this man because he was becoming easier to be around. And I was craving more moments like this.
Figuring out how to extract myself from this arrangement had always been a mystery. I’d never factored in the possibility that I might want to stay.
It made me wonder if he sensed my scheming.
“Come on.” He turned to go. “Let’s have breakfast.”
We ate waffles and fruit at his round kitchen table while he read three newspapers at the same time, searching out stories printed on his dad.
I sat opposite him, sipping orange juice and reading news articles on his iPad.
He looked up knowingly. “It’s quicker for me this way.”
“You discuss what you’ve read later with your dad?”
“That’s right.”
“Can I help?”
“Sure.” He slid a newspaper toward me. “Let me know the tone of what you read.”
“Want to go see a play this week?” I asked.
He dragged his eyes off an article. “Um…yes, when all of this is over.”
“Are you going to keep me hidden?” I pressed my lips together in embarrassment for asking the question.
“That was the plan.” He took a sip of coffee.
This was like being punished for something I’d not done.
Changing the subject, I said. “It’s like turning a tanker during a storm.”
Damien raised his head and gave me his full attention. “You mean the campaign?”
“Yes, you read these—” I rested a finger on an article. “You adjust your reaction by a fraction. Too much and you’re admitting truth in the situation. Not enough of a response—”
“Could leave fractures that become fissures later.”
“This article,” I said. “In The Atlantic. The Senator is being accused of being out of touch. We’re too close to the election for articles like this to be ignored. The Senator needs to press home he cares about the small things.”
He gave a smile. “Valid observation.”
“I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“Well, coming