Page 5 of Praise Me: President
And I made him come with the tip of my finger.
What does that mean? Were my endless fantasies…more of a manifestation? Or is the connection I always hoped to have with him…real? A real-life, happening-now type thing?
“Good morning, Mr. President.”
“Good morning.” He takes my bag. “Is this your only luggage?”
“Yes,” I respond, dazed by the beauty of his face in the daylight. “But you’re not supposed to be carrying my bag, sir. You’re not supposed to be here at all. I live in the opposite direction of the airfield. I was on my way to—”
“I wanted to see where you lived.” He scrutinizes the building over the top of my head. “You said it was safe, but I’m a see-for-myself type of man.”
“I know this about you,” I say, smiling to hide my full-body blush. He came to check on my safety. “Well. Do you agree with me that it’s safe?”
A grumble in his throat. “What apartment are you in?”
“2B. Why?”
Instead of answering me, he seeks out the nearest SS agent. “Take a few men up to 2B and make sure all entry points aresecure. Test the locks. And once we’re back on the road, run security checks on everyone in the building.”
The man wastes no time doing the president’s bidding. “Yes, sir.”
“Is this the kind of five-star service afforded all your cabinet members?”
“I think you know it’s not, Ms. Rogers.” A line snaps in his cheek. “Get in the car.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
I can feel him looking down at the top of my head as he follows me to the SUV. Stopping at the open door, which is being held that way by an agent, I remove my jacket and fold it over one arm, securing my tote bag to my chest and climbing inside, settling into the plush leather seat of the president’s luxurious Escalade.
He gets in beside me and the door closes.
There are men in suits entering my building, but I’m so overwhelmed by the heady presence of the president, I forget why them going inside my apartment is a bad thing.
“Oh!” I fumble to take the phone out of my purse. “My roommate is in there sleeping with her boyfriend! They’re going to have heart attacks!”
The president’s head turns slowly. “You didn’t mention a boyfriend.”
“He’s notmyboyfriend.”
Despite that assurance, the hard set of his jaw doesn’t budge. “You’ll give his name to the agency just to be safe.”
“Fine,” I say, pressing the ringing phone to my ear. “But he works in politics, too.”
“Even more reason to run a report on him,” he grumbles.
I giggle, despite the oddness of the situation, but the scream in my ear cuts me off.
The president and I share a wince, but his is way less sincere. “Hi, Catherine.” I attempt to make sense out her screeches. “The Secret Service is just securing the apartment. Isn’t that nice? We don’t even have to pay for it.” Looking up at the man beside me, I lower my voice to a whisper. “Right?”
“It’s on the house,” confirms Pierce, lips twitching.
“Try and go back to sleep,” I sing to Catherine, hanging up before she can shout any more epithets at me. “She’s not much of a morning person.”
“Areyoua morning person?” McAlister asks.
“Oh yes,” I enthuse. “Four am is my favorite time of day. Just before sunrise, when the world is extra quiet and everything is covered in dew.” There is a sense of tension building in the vehicle the longer we sit one inch apart without touching, the president making a visible effort not to look anywhere but my face, even though this black dress is just this side of inappropriate for work with its high hem and tight bodice. I haven’t gotten my first paycheck and most of my money goes toward rent, so I’m still wearing clothes from high school. My breasts and hips have filled out since then. “I would ask if you’re a morning person, but you grew up on a horse ranch,” I say. “You’ve probably never slept late a day in your life.”
He hums, nostalgia playing briefly on his features. “You’ve got that right.”