“Great answer. You didn’t lie, but you didn’t betray me. Very good.”
“Are you horny at all?”
I choke on my food and pound my chest at the whiplash change in conversation. “’Scuse me? Come again?”
“Yeah, when’s the last time you came again?” Kimba’s grin is salacious smeared on a sassy bun. “I had back-to-back orgasms last week, and it was incredible.”
“Not counting Mr. Feelgood. Anybody can put in batteries.”
“Oh, no, honey. Not my vibrator. This was flesh and bone.” She waggles her eyebrows. “Lots of bone.”
“Who?”
“Don’t you worry about who.”
“Oh, my God, who, you shameless hussy?”
“That new corn lobbyist we met last month.”
“Oh, he was dreamy.”
“Yes, ma’am, and generous. He took care of ya girl.” She closes her eyes and sighs. “Woo child.”
“Well I’m very happy for you, but don’t worry about me.”
“Studies show that women who have frequent orgasms are significantly more productive.”
“Really?”
“No, but I betcha.”
“Out.” I point a finger toward the exit. “Be gone and leave me to my delicious, if solitary, meal.”
“Seriously, though, Lenn,” Kimba says, standing and walking to the door. “I know how much you value honesty. You need to have an honest conversation with yourself. Do you remember what it was like with Maxim?”
I bite my lip to keep from moaning. I relive that week in my wet dreams. Not just the first and best sex of my life, but everything else. An intimacy so sheer Maxim and I could see each other clearly, completely through it. Lying in a field of half-opened tulips. Our eyes meeting over an underground candlelit dinner. Racing through rain-splashed streets, chased by his heavy footsteps and the low rumble of his laughter.
My heart burns in my chest and I set my fork down, praying for indigestion, but afraid it’s something else.
“If you can forgive him,” Kimba says. “And I personally think you already have, but are just scared to risk yourself again—then don’t waste more time. He’s not dating Miss Teen USA now, but keep him waiting much longer, and he might.”
42
Maxim
“Ya by khotel sosat' tvoy chlen.”
I keep my surprised laughter low enough for only the woman seated beside me to hear.
“My Russian is patchy, Katya,” I murmur, slicing into the perfectly prepared lamb chop on my plate. “But I think you just asked to suck me off. Am I right?”
“You remember.” Her brown eyes smolder over a glass of Sangiovese. “I taught you well.”
“I actually remember very little from your lessons, but I do know enough to say nytet, spaseeba.”
“Turning me down?” Her sultry expression dives to crestfallen. “But we had so much fun in Moscow.”
She slides her hand under the table and into my lap, finding and gripping me hard.
I’m enduring the tedium of this dinner party in the heart of Georgetown to make connections, not only for Owen’s upcoming campaign, but for the legislation I want to push forward in the future. I didn’t expect the daughter of a Russian ambassador I met five years ago to be in attendance.
And yet here we are. My dick in her hand under a table beside the leader of the Budget Committee.
“Move your hand, Katya.” My voice is calm but firm. “Now.”
“You don’t mean that.” She slides her hand up and down. “Ah, see he wants to come out and play. Remember the night we had together? And then the morning?” A husky laugh drifts past her lips, and her brown eyes are dark with humor and horniness. “And the afternoon.”
“I won’t ask you again. Move your hand.”
Her hand slides away and she pouts. “You’re less fun in your old age.”
“I like to think wiser.” I glance over to find her lashes lowered, blinking rapidly, and the color high on her cheeks. “Hey. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just . . .” The truth will make her feel better. “Katya, there’s someone else.”
Her eyes flick up to meet mine. “You’re with someone else?”
I shake my head, an ironic smile tipping one side of my mouth. “No, I want someone else and I’m waiting for her to want me back.”
“That’s all very noble,” Katya says, her Russian accent thickening, sliding her hand back to my thigh. “But while you’re waiting . . .”
I catch hold of her hand and push it away, but offer what I hope is a kind smile. “Nytet, spaseeba.”
She nods and cuts into her own lamb chop. “So who is this madwoman who does not know what she’s missing?”
“Oh, she knows. She’s had it before, but I screwed things up.”
“You cheated?” she asks, her eyes condemning slits.
“No, I lied.”
Katya nods sagely, turning down the corners of her mouth and shrugging. “Lying is simply cheating on the truth.”
“Yeah, well I did that about something that was important to her. She’s with someone else for now.”
“You’ll take her from him, though, da?”
I shake my head. “She’ll have to leave him. I need her to come to me.”
Lennix freely given was the most intoxicating thing I’ve ever tasted. She spilled down my throat like wine, warm and wet and full-bodied. Unbuttoning her blouse, offering me her breasts. Leaned back on her elbows in my bed, morning sunshine beaming between her long, firm legs spread open. Begging me not to stop in the chill of night, in the rain.
Shit. My dick didn’t get hard with Katya’s little hand wrapped around it, but the thought of Lennix’s kisses from ten years ago has me stiff as a tree trunk.
“Someone’s taking photos for tomorrow’s papers,” Katya whispers, leaning over. “Let’s make her jealous.”
“What?”
Before I can stop her, she kisses me.
43
Lennix
“This will be fantastic.”
Millicent fairly glows reading the plans we’ve drafted to announce Owen’s exploratory committee on New Year’s Eve. Take-out cartons, coffee cups, laptops and iPads crowd the glass surface of our conference room table. The faces around the room look tired, but her response makes the hard work worth it.
“I agree,” Owen says absently. “Fantastic.”
He’s been reading the draft of a bill during the meeting, negotiating the challenge of still serving in the Senate while running for president. That will only intensify the further we get into this process.
Millicent gives him a heatless glare and rolls her eyes. “He’ll be no fun until that bill goes through. Now I do have some questions about the menu and decorations. It is still New Year’s Eve. It has to be festive.”
“It’ll be at our house,” Owen says, still not looking up from the massive stack in front of him. “Our Christmas decorations are up from Thanksgiving ’til St. Patrick’s Day. You don’t get more festive than that.”
“He exaggerates,” she says with a smile. “They’re down by Valentine’s Day.”