when she’s looking like that? That dress, with the neckline that dives so deep…
It’s a miracle I’d just gone for a kiss.
I wish things were different. I wish I could tell her the truth, that I want her. And not for the media’s benefit or my career’s. I want her because she makes me happy. Because she’s beautiful.
I don’t know if I’ve ever felt this way for a woman before. So deeply, so desperately. I need her, and-
No, David, no. Stop it.
Stop thinking about her. You can’t do this, you can’t catch feelings for her. Remember why you’re doing this. To save your career. Not to get laid. Not to fall in love. To save your career.
That’s why you took her to dinner at your favorite restaurant in DC. That’s why you slid your hand up her soft thighs. That’s why you kissed her hard. That’s why you’re grinning like a schoolboy.
Oh dear, it’s really too late, isn’t it? You’ve fucked up David, you’ve taken things too far. You’ve let things go too far, and now you need to reel them back.
I look out the window, at the press. They are why we are here. The parasites, leaching the humanity out of what could have been a genuinely beautiful moment between two people. But instead, it has to be an act. It has to be fake. Because if it were true…
Why can’t it? No, why can’t it be true? Maybe I can make it work. We would sneak around, just like I’ve claimed we have been. A quick kiss in the corridor when no one was around. A quickie during the five minutes between my meetings. Veronica sneaking into my bed, every night.
I feel a throb, and I harden slightly at the thought. I could have her then, anytime I want. I am the President of the United States, dammit. I should be able to have what I want, and if that’s Veronica…
Maybe I should just tell the media to go fuck themselves. Do the American people really care? Hell, I’d probably get a stack of new votes if people believed I was fucking Veronica in the White House. They would lap it up like the newest reality television show.
I could, then. I could have her like I want to. I could end this playing about, the presence, and replace it with the real thing. I could kiss her like that as much as I wanted. I could tear that dress off her and fuck her hard. I could make her scream for me and pump her full of me like she’s practically begging me to do.
I realize I am now rock hard and I flush slightly. Good thing I’m sitting down or one of the photographers might get a rather interesting photo of their president. And it wouldn't exactly be the type of front-page coverage I’m looking for.
I shake my head slightly. It’s all very well to think about how much I want her, how much I need her. What does she want? Does she feel the same way about me?
I could go for it, but so much hangs in the balance still. If she rejects me or takes it the wrong way, this house of cards will implode. If she goes to the press, I will be ruined.
No. I can’t risk my career and my position as president in an attempt to get my dick wet.
I can’t. I shouldn’t.
I check my watch. It’s been ten minutes now since she left. Was it the kiss? Have I scared her off, have I been too forward? Should I have waited before I kissed her?
Or is it something else?
I think for a moment. Maybe I should go check on her just in case. If something has gone wrong, it’s vitally important that the press doesn’t find out.
And it’ll also give us some privacy. We can talk in the bathroom, away from the press and the actors filling the restaurant.
Yes, I’ll go check on her. I’ll go talk to her. I stand up and walk towards the bathrooms.
I’m definitely not going there to try to fuck Veronica in a restaurant bathroom. That would be incredibly foolish. No, I won’t push her up against the wall, pull down her underwear and push myself into her. I certainly won’t cover her mouth with one of my hands so no one hears her moans. And there is no way I’m going to fill her with my cum, look her in the eyes and tell her