Thief: A Bad Boy Romance (26 page)

I’m in a trance as I pull the dress
slowly
down her body, taking
far
more time than I normally would. I realize I’m holding my breath as I linger with my fingers on the hem, almost like I’m stalling, before I give it a tug down over the swell of her hips.

She steps away then, quickly pulling her dress down over that tiny black slip and over the lace tops of her stockings as she shoots me a furtive look, her eyes wild.

“So, uh-”

It’s a moment. This is a
moment
, and for a half second, we’re frozen like that; motionless, eyes locked, and breathing heavy in the heat of the room.

The room with the closed door, no cameras, a big bed, and just her and me, with no one else in the world coming to worry about her so long as I’m here.

You keep thinking like that and you’re going to have a VERY bad time with this job.

It can’t happen, and it’s not like it's
going
to happen either, it’s just my overactive libido and the effect this girl seems to have on it. This isn’t some conquest, or some rich sorority girl I can flash my war wound to and have her panties around her ankles in a second.

This is the
job
; the job I’ve wanted for a long fucking time. The Secret Service is
hard
. Period. And even if it's all going to end when I’m barely through the gate thanks to my dad’s pick in women, that doesn’t mean I’m going to give up yet. The job is
supposed
to be a challenge. Okay, sure, it’s supposed to be a challenge in the sense of watching for outside threats, being vigilant, and keeping weird hours, not telling your cock to shut the fuck up about wanting to go balls deep in your charge.

Or your stepsister, for that matter.

But there she is, standing not three feet away in that navy blue dress. Just like the cream one from the other day, this one is doing a
shit
job of looking demure, or conservatively elegant.

It just looks plain
hot
on her. It looks like it was tailored for her exact figure, and yeah, it probably
was
, but that ain’t helping things one bit. It hugs the swell of her tits
perfectly
— almost
too
perfectly to be appropriate if you ask me — and it grips the curve of her hips in the exact way my hands are
dying
to.

But really, it’s that I know what’s on underneath — or maybe what’s
not —
that has me gritting my teeth and thinking all manner of dirty,
dirty
sinful thoughts about her and that four post bed beside us.

The beast inside of me
roars
as I take a step towards her, and before I can stop myself, my hand is on her hip, sliding around and pulling her towards me. She gasps, and those big green eyes go wide, but she doesn’t stop me. She doesn’t stop me as I slowly pull her against me, or when my other hand slides up to cup her jaw, tilting her head up to mine.

“We-” She swallows thickly, blinking rapidly at me as the pink flush creeps up her neck. “We should go,” she whispers.

And just like that, the spell and the momentary
insanity
is broken, and I quickly drop my hands and move away from her, blinking in the reality of the moment.

“Yeah, yep.” I nod quickly, frowning as I jerk my wrist up and glance at my watch. “Yeah, lets go.”

T
he tent is gorgeous
, all lit up like a crystal ball sitting on the lawn of the White House. It’s surreal to say that, and truth be told, I don’t think it's ever going to
not
be surreal saying that. The White House;
I live at the White House.

Hunter was grumbling about security stuff earlier, but after the close call — the encounter — in my room, he’s silent as he leads me out the side door and across the lawn to the tent.

I want to forget what just happened; a lapse in judgment, another moment of temporary insanity where I let him get too close and let myself be taken in again. But it’s hard. It’s impossible, actually, because he’s
there
, physically, right next to me the whole night.

I’m trying to forget it, and trying to pretend the lingering feeling of his hand on my hip, his lips so close to mine for one brief second, the heat of him surrounding me, isn’t everything I’m thinking about as I smile for reporters, and Congressmen, and Senators. But it’s impossible.

It’s his touch on my arm for half a second as he leads me. It’s his voice in my ear when we move from the house to the lawn tent. It’s his hand at the small of my back, helping me through the crowd and into the glittering lights of the tent past the throngs of people there to smile and shake my hand.

And it's how
damn
wet I am, and how it won’t go away. From that moment in my room, to the silent walk through the house, to the move across the lawn to the tent. Even as he sits me at the banquet table at the front of the room, I’m utterly, completely, and hopelessly turned on.

And it’s because of
him
. I want to deny it; I mean I
really
want to deny it, but there’s no avoiding the wicked thoughts going through my head or the raw heat between my legs.

You’re sick, or feverish or something. You should go lie down.

Except the thought is immediately followed by
who
exactly would be
taking
me back to my room, and back to my bed, and the heat immediately flashes in my face.

It’s like this horrible thing, and I want to ignore it or push it away but there’s no ignoring this. There’s no escaping the effect this man has on me; an effect no one else has ever had over me.

I can still picture him that night, the way he moved me, the way he invaded every facet of me, and the way he
dominated
me. I feel my face burn as I bite my lip at the memory. He was both nothing and everything I was looking for there in that dark room, if I even know what it was I
was
looking for that crazy night. Meaningless, casual fun sex, I guess. One night of freedom before everything changed; one night of escape before there was no escape.

Except no sex I’ve ever had had been like that. No one had ever talked to me like that, and moved me like that, or made me feel like that, and that’s the worst part. I want the memory of that night to be
average
, or
fine
, not fucking
mind-blowing.

The situation we’re in is bad enough, and horribly scandalous as it is, without also having to remember that time with him as, by far and away, the most memorable, powerful sex I’ve ever had. The way he growled, the way he demanded, the way he held me down and
fucked
me like I’d never been fucked before.

I can feel the heat in my cheeks creep down my neck, and over my chest in that embarrassingly splotchy way I know I get. And then I realize I’m staring right at him, and what’s worse, he’s looking right at me, and
grinning
, like he’s reading my thoughts; like he knows
exactly
what dirty little thoughts were just roaring through my head.  

Yeah it's thoughts like that make it so I can barely talk straight all night. It’s why I only
barely
manage to get through a conversation with Angela, Vice President Reed’s wife who’s sitting next to me at the dinner, with no recollection of what we even discussed. It’s why I’m barely cognizant of walking around the room later, smiling and dishing out the canned “Oh, I’m here to explore opportunities in Washington the semester” response to the CNN correspondent asking me why I’m not still in Chicago getting my law degree.

It’s thoughts like that that have me shivering when I feel his hand at the small of my back, guiding me back through the crowd. Dirty, wicked thoughts like the ones about Hunter Ryan running through my mind are why I can practically hear my heart beating in the silence of the elevator with him, back up the living quarters of the house. And it’s why I basically blurt out the world's quickest “goodnight” before I’m pushing him away and shutting myself away in my room.

It’s thoughts like that why I don’t even get my dress off  before I’m hiking it up and laying back on my giant, cream-white, four post bed, and moaning as my fingers find me wet and ready. I’m sliding a finger inside, moaning at the fantasy as I lay sprawled on the bed; my regal, decent, D.C.-formal dress very
in
decently pushed up around my waist with my legs spread wide and my breath coming in gasps. I want to pretend it’s anything else in the world but him that I’m thinking about, but I can’t fool my body or the sinful thoughts rushing through me. I’m writhing as my fingers seek release — sweet, aching
release
from the horrible spell this man has on me.

The terrible, wicked, and disastrously horrible spell that my
stepbrother
somehow has on me.

And it’s inappropriate, scandalous, and wicked thoughts of Hunter Ryan, and all the things he did to me that night, that I’m thinking about as I go crashing over the edge, screaming my climax into the pillows as my whole body explodes.

“
H
unter
, your cell phone.”

I glance up from my coffee to see my dad nodding at my phone pinging on the kitchen counter. He frowns and gives me a look. “Pretty sure you’re not supposed to have that on active duty, son.”

“Huh, strange, I thought we were just having a little family breakfast,” I say with fake smile, mimicking his words from earlier when he marshaled Dexter and me over here from our apartment quarters in the other wing.

Dex snorts as my dad gives me another glare. “Watch it, Hunt.”

The phone pings again and I rise to snatch it off the counter. I glance down at the screen and groan.

I was wondering how long it’d take
her
to manage to weasel my new number off of some poor sap. “Her” being Anya, the ex. Ex with a capital E and the attitude to match. Anya the total psycho. Anya the poor little rich girl from the same circle of idiocy and shitheads I left behind when I joined the Marines.

I lied before, when I made the offhand comment to Maddie about “military family, dad served, I served”, because really, that's all bullshit. Well, yeah, my dad is obviously who he is, but where I come from, kids basically ride their parent’s coattails until that trust fund starts kicking back. I didn’t have to join the Marines at all. In fact, dad was actively against it the day I made the announcement just a week after we’d buried mom.

But fuck that, and fuck being one of the douchebags I went to private school with. Fuck being just one more rich kid son of a public figure, free to piss away my life doing whatever. And so I joined, and I did my tour.

But Anya is a throwback to those days before. Just one more daddy’s girl whose father works in the political machine of D.C. That whole privileged class of kids whose parents run things; the untouchables, the carefree.

Like I said, fuck that; I need direction and something good to hang on to. Except Anya is anything
but
“direction” and pretty much the opposite of “something good”. Party girl, rich girl,  all around disaster.

That all said
, I’m more tempted to call her back now than I ever have been since the break-up.
Extremely
tempted after last night and the near constant hard-on I’ve had ever since I walked in on Maddie in those fucking stockings.

There’s a mumbled “good morning” from the kitchen doorway, and the temptation roars like a fucking lion inside of me as I look up to see her shuffle into the kitchen, pajamas, bathrobe and all.

I mean, shit,
that's
how hard-up and pent up I am right now. A girl in a fucking bathrobe has my cock fully at attention in my suit. Yeah, I should
definitely
call Anya back, if for nothing else than to fuck tempting, untouchable, and
totally off-limits
Madison Adams out of my Goddamn system.

Except…
shit
. Except I know she’d be nothing
like
Madison. I know what that particular forbidden fruit tastes like —
literally
, actually, I think with a wicked grin — and everything else pales to it. I know Anya would be
fun,
but ultimately a ridiculous waste of my time.

‘Course, it's not like I can fuck Maddie either, so I guess I’m up shit creek right now.

Madison ignores me as she brushes past me without so much as a second look. She’s irritable looking, in wildly adorable way as she pours coffee and then starts poking through cupboards and slamming drawers.

Her mother sharply puts down her
Post
and pointedly clears her throat. “
Looking
for something,
dear
,” she says sharply.

Maddie sighs dramatically as she slams drawer shut. “Yeah,
where
is the sugar?”

“The table,” I say, grinning at her as I lean back against the counter across the kitchen from her. She shoots me a quick sneering look before she stomps over to the breakfast table.

“I apologize for my daughter’s behavior, boys,” Eleanor says, arching a brow at her scowling daughter before turning to smile at me.

“I’d say she’s in good company,” I grin, nodding at Dexter, who’s got his head down on his arms on the table and who very well might
actually
be sleeping right now. This time it’s
my
parent who clears his throat and kicks at Dexter’s feet with his polished shoe.

“Okay,
so sorry
for not knowing where
anything
in this giant house is,” Madison says with a roll of her eyes as she sinks into the bench around the table and sips at her coffee. Jesus, fluffy pink robes should
not
be that fucking hot on someone. Stupid, fluffy pink
mom
robes should not fit across her tight little ass so perfectly, and should not ride up above her knee so high when she sits that it’s taking every ounce of restraint not to let my eyes drag up those perfect stems of hers.

I briefly imagine her wearing the same black lace bra and slip underneath it that she wore last night.

“You know,” Eleanor says, putting her paper down and breaking my spell. “You’re right, you should know your way around this place since you’re going to
be
here for the next few months.”

I catch Maddie sending a quick glance my way and hold it, wagging my eyebrows and grinning at her until she hurriedly looks back into her coffee.

“Hunter?”

I jerk my head up to the beaming Madame President. “Ma’am?”

“Why don’t
you
show Madison around?” She says with a warm smile. “I assume you know this place quite well by now, what with the training exercises and all.”

I mean, she’s right. You know how they say cab drivers in London have to know the name and whereabouts of every street in the city? Well I know
every
single inch of the White House. Every window, door,
secret
door, safe room, weapon’s cache, alarm, strike point, and guard post. By
heart
. Can’t wait to let that wealth of knowledge go to absolute shit when I’m forced off the job.

Eleanor smiles at me before she turns to raise a brow at Maddie. “I’m sure she could get a
great
tour and lay of the land from you.”

I grin hugely while no one but Maddie is looking my way, and mouth the word “lay” salaciously with a wicked look in my eye, loving the way she goes bright red and shoots me a murderous look before taking a big gulp of her coffee.

I mean, this is a
terrible
idea. Alone time, with
her
, with the knowledge
I
have of secret, un-monitored places in this giant house? Yeah, horrible idea, given my raging hard-on and sinfully inappropriate thoughts about her.

But I smile broadly at the President, acutely aware of Madison glaring at me from behind her mother. “I’d be happy to, Madame President,” I say formally.

She sighs and makes a face. “Oh, Hunter, I’m so sorry for the formalities, you know.”

“No, I know, ma’am.”

She smiles at me. “Give it a few months, both of you, and then ‘Eleanor’ will work just fine.” She puts an arm around her daughter. “Once we’re all one big family.” Her daughter all but
audibly
groans as I do everything to hold back the chuckle in my throat.

“So!” I say gleefully, rubbing my hands togethers. “Ready for that tour?”

* * *

“
S
o
, how was your night?” I’m honestly asking just to make small-talk, since she’s insisted on giving me the fucking silent treatment ever since her mom got me to take her on this little tour of the house. Except then she
blushes
, and suddenly, my cock grows a little tighter in my pants.

It’s not like she goes bright red, but it’s
just
enough of a pink glow to her cheeks, and just the smallest hint of a smile on those lips that she doesn’t quite hide fast enough that suddenly has my full and fucking undivided attention. Because I’m
not
actually a mind reader, but I’d know how this girl looks when she’s turned on
any
day. Any day, or say, last night, for instance.

It’s the eyes that gave it away, really. It’s the way she looked around with that glassy sort of
intense
look in them. Then of course there was the pink flush, the way she shivered whenever I took the liberty of putting my hand on her, or the way her breath would catch whenever I caught her staring from across the tent.

Yeah, she was turned on last night, and the sudden blush
now
at my small-talk questions has me
way
more interested in what went on last night after she slammed the door in my face.

“Oh,
that
good, huh?” I grin as she whirls at me, her mouth wide open, a look of horror on her face.

“I was
not!
”

“Not
what,
I didn’t say anything.”

The flush grows deeper then, and I only grin wider knowing that my suspicions have weight to them. “So, that’s a yes on you breaking in the Lincoln bedroom on a solo mission?”

“You are
disgusting
, has anyone ever told you that?” She’s glaring at me, her face looking impossibly cute with that adorable little scowl on it. She’s pouting that mouth and those lips at me, but it’s not working as intended. If she’s trying to convey disgust, it ain’t working, because all I want to do is mash my lips against hers and press her up against the wall behind her until she’s moaning into my mouth.

“At times, definitely, but I’m not wrong, am I?”

She rolls her eyes and blows air out her lips. “
So
wrong, on every level.”

“Liar.”

“And just what am I lying about, Hunter?”

I grab her wrist as she tries to waltz on ahead, and she gives this cute little gasp as I yank her back a step. “You’re lying that you
didn’t
run into that bedroom last night, lock the door, and think the
dirtiest
things you could think about yours truly while you put your fingers all over that adorable little pussy of yours.”

I worry for a second that I’ve
actually
gone too far at the look of absolute shock and disbelief on her face at my words; that is, until she seems to catch herself, and suddenly the corners of her mouth are curling up in this wicked little grin. “Oh,
Hunter
, what’s the matter? Jealous?” Her eyes flash at me, and I can feel my dick twitch a little under my uniform.

I give her the grin right back though. “
Insanely.
” I jerk my head to a door next to us in the quiet hallway of the East Wing. “You know, I happen to know this office is open and camera free, if you’d like to show me the highlights.”

She grins and purses her lips, shaking her head at me sadly. “Oh Hunter, Hunter,
Hunter
; my
pussy
is actually none of your concern.” She winks as she turns to walk away again. “However
adorable
it may be,” she tosses over her shoulder.

Well shit, little Maddie Adams has a pair, it seems.

And the fact that this girl can toss it right back has me very,
very
intrigued. Far more intrigued than I should be.

…Like
anything
going through my head about this girl so far is anything close to appropriate.