PARANORMAL ROMANCE: Bear Naked Satisfaction (Fantasy Shapeshifter Alpha Male Romance Book 3) (Contemporary New Adult Billionaire Steamy Romance Short Stories) (33 page)

Chapter 6

              “Lay your seat back all the way.”

              After he says it, I realize I have no clue of how we’re going to pull this off. I’m not exactly driving the largest of vehicles, and I’m no puny girl. My 2010 Honda Civic is a two-door coupe, and Congressman Orange is well over six-feet tall.

              This could get awkward.

              I shoot for not killing the mood, so I begin on my seat as he removes his coat. In such a tight space, I’m grateful I’ve worn my high-waist, shaper briefs. The undergarment quickly transitions from modest compression apparatus to crotchless, sex-ready lingerie within seconds. All I have to do is figure out how to gracefully pull my dress up, reach between my legs, and release three very conveniently placed snaps.

              “Aah!” I feel a rush when he pushes his way in, penetrating the tightness of my pussy. I’m not in the most comfortable position, one leg up, one leg down, but it’s not such a big deal that I can’t enjoy the fact that I’m totally getting nailed by my boss right now.

              My thoughts are random: Genoa from Neiman Marcus; this amazing thing he keeps doing with his hips; what I would say to the press if we get caught; the message he left the day he hired me, telling me to come back to his office because he knew very quickly that he wanted me for himself.

              And now, here I am, getting completely rammed by him in an empty parking lot.

             
Hot.

              I slip my hands into the back of his pants, holding onto his ass, feeling the motion of his hips as he thrusts against me.

              “Ooo…” I can’t hold back.

              “You feel so good,” he replies, thrusting faster, harder.

              The force of him presses my body over the back of the seat. If my head weren’t against the back seat, I’d practically be upside down.

              “Aaaah!” My moans grow longer and louder, drowning out the not-so-subtle squeak of the car. I spill out of my strapless bra, my breasts moving in large circles under my dress. He tugs it down, uncovers them completely. My nipples are more taut than I’ve ever remembered them getting. I didn’t even know they could poke out like this.

              He grabs hold of my boobs immediately. He doesn’t stop fucking me as he tightens his grip, flicks his tongue over one nipple, then the other, a sensation that communicates directly with my clit… I’ve got full on stimulation in three places at the same time. He’s straight up about to send me into orbit.

              “Oh my God, like that. Don’t stop…” I have a million other things I’d like to say right now but seem to fall silent. I’m about to come.

              “That’s it, give it to me,” he says digging deep.

             
Auuuugh…!

              Did I yell? I just yelled. Oh,
wow…

Chapter 7

              “We can’t stay here all night, sir.” I try to say something responsible as I check my hair in the mirror—which is a disaster. I look like I’ve been struck by lightning on one side of my head—and the flower? Forget about it, I have no idea where it’s gone.

              “Why don’t we head to the office. I have a few things I still need to wrap up before calling it a night.” He contemplates something, hesitates then, “I mean, if you want to.”

              “Yeah, of course. Totally.” I sound ridiculous—so my age. When will I learn that indifference doesn’t work when trying to play it cool?

              I turn the ignition and shift into reverse, my body still outside of itself. If in fact this is all happening, I am ill-equipped to comprehend the very intoxicating implication that Congressman Orange is into me. Either I’ve had one epically long day and have no idea I’m hallucinating, or I’m totally having an office affair with my boss, an elected official, who also happens to be the most eligible bachelor to ever call Central Florida his home.

****

On the way to headquarters he takes a call from his campaign manager who, as I’ve gathered from his incessant apologizing, has been trying to reach him all night.

              He places his hand on my knee, strokes it with his thumb, “Yes Bryn, I know, I’ve been…” his grip tightens then releases, “busy.”

              He leans my direction, glances and smiles over at me occasionally, reassuring me he’s right where he wants to be. He tells Bryn he’ll give her a call as soon as he gets to the office.

              I’m humbled that he slips off his shoes, sets his things on my back seat. These actions provide a sense of comfort for me. It calms me to see him relaxed in my world.

              “How are you feeling?”

              “Confused, maybe surprised…” I say honestly.

              “About?”

              He shuts down his phone, is genuinely interested in my thoughts.

              “I mean, what’s actually happening right now, why are you doing this?”

              “I’m not sure what you’re asking.”

              ‘Girls like me just don’t get picked by guys like, you,’
I wish I had the nerve to say. There’s no way to clarify my apprehension without sounding completely insecure.

              I shrug. “I don’t know. This night has been just all so… unexpected. I’m not sure that this is even happening.”

              “Me neither,” he admits.

              The conversation between us grows very human the closer we get to the office.

He says his feelings have been difficult to come to terms with; but a combination of the timing being right, and how beautiful I looked tonight, it really forced his hand. I ask him how long he’s been feeling this way about me,  and I wonder how someone so outspoken, so unafraid to confront people could hide something like this for so long. He says it was for all of the obvious reasons. Some people would find his association with me taboo; maybe even frown upon how unpopular or unbecoming it is of a man with his influence to venture so far away from the mainstream norm.

              “There are people in this world who really do judge you for things like that. It’s scary to be bold in this way—especially when you want to be taken seriously in some circles. I’ve worked very hard for the things that I have. I’m not the most brave person in the world. My style is to do things safely, conduct myself within certain boundaries to make the most of high-risk situations. That includes my personal life.” He points out that it takes some serious courage on his part to go against the grain in more ways than one. Not only am I a black woman, I’m not the stereotypical mold one associates with beauty. He admits to finding himself attracted to women with curves. “Voluptuous women just do it for me,” he affirms.

              Taking a deep breath, he turns down the A/C, and tells me the real reason he wanted me at the event tonight. He just didn’t want other staff there; he needed to be alone with me and saw an opportunity. He goes on to explain that he saw how much this community meant to me, and wanted to be there not just to thank them first hand, but to show me that he wasn’t a dick.

              He says his campaign staff is always up his ass, that I’m the realest person in his life. That all of these years he’s trusted my judgment, grown increasingly impressed with how honestly I approach my work, and is inspired by my insight.

              “Really?” I say, completely at a loss for words. I’m stunned by his admission, his humility. He’s exactly who I thought he was, and more.

              “I don’t know, Chantelle. You just have a unique way of helping me see clearly. When you come into my office every morning, your radiance reminds me of why I got into politics in the first place. Real people can do remarkable things if you truly see them as your equal, and learn from one another. You remind me to consider other perspectives when I lose sight of what’s important. I truly love that about you. You’re…” he glares at me quizzically, trying to find the right adjective I suppose.

              “I’m…?” I try not to blush.

              “You’re a brilliant woman. My status, for want of a better way to say it, doesn’t intimidate you—nothing does. I admire that.”

              “Thank you, sir.”

              “Please, stop being so formal with me.”

              “It’s difficult not to.”

              The sound of our laughter loosens the seriousness, as I pull up to the ticketed lot adjacent to our building.

              “Why are you parking here?”

              “This is where I always park.”

              “Well not tonight. Pull around to the reserve garage.”

              “Won’t they tow me?”

              He scans me with eyes that make me shiver, “It’s my building. They won’t tow you if I tell them not to. In fact, park in my spot.”

              I pull up to the long yellow arm stretched across the garage entry marked RESTRICTED. Congressman Orange hands me a card key from his jacket pocket. I wave it in front of the tiny black box mounted outside of the guard shack.

              “Access granted,” a woman’s robotic voice announces as the arm lifts.

              “Fancy,” I say, eyeing him.

              “Welcome to the other side.” He takes my hand. He kisses the back of it quickly, releasing it in just enough time to remind me to stay to the right. His spot is the first one we come to, closest to the glass doors leading directly to the elevator lobby.

A black granite sign with raised gold writing reads: RESERVED – David E. Orange. It’s the only one like it. The other spots are just numbered with red and white towing sign warnings posted for violators.

              “My car looks weird here.” My 2010 Civic doesn’t belong in front of a sign as fancy as his.

              “It’s fine.”

              “Oh wow, look at that,” I say, pulling into his spot carefully. “Now
that’s
a reserved parking car.”

              He half smiles, partially listening, as he waits for his iPhone to power up, and slips it into his pocket, “It’s mine.”

Chapter 8

              “Congressman Orange. Miss,” a security guard greets us with a nod. It’s the first time I’ve walked into this building and been acknowledged by anyone other than the homeless man who stands at the street entry every day, holding the door open for people in exchange for spare change.

              The thought makes me glance to the main doors at the other end of the lobby. To my surprise, he’s still out there, sitting in the corner reading a crumbly-looking old newspaper. It’s yellowing; it can’t be current.

              “Hold on one second,” I say to the Congressman, making my way over to the main entrance. In my workbag, I always keep copies of the latest publications. I do try to stay in-the-know as it relates to his re-election campaign. While technically I’m not on his campaign staff, I enjoy staying up-to-date on what he’s doing in and around the community. It helps me do my job well. Stay a step ahead, so to speak. If I’m going to be a good office manager and assistant, it’s just smart to know what’s going on in his world. At work, he tells me what I need to know; but as an assistant, you try to learn your boss’s habits, personality, preferences—you do your dandiest to keep them happy.

              “Excuse me, sir?” I say, pushing the front door to the street open. The homeless man sits up, is somewhat taken aback, maybe because someone is in the building at this hour.

              “I’m sorry, ma’am, let me get out of your way. I was just leaving.”

              “No, don’t leave. I just wanted you to have these.” He takes the small stack of publications I had in my tote.

              “And this.” A large, familiar hand reaches out from behind me holding a folded hundred-dollar bill. I whip around.

              “Sir?” I say, unable to hide my surprise.

              “Is-isn’t this you?” The man’s eyes grow humongous. He holds up one of the publications I just handed him. An Orlando Sentinel featuring the Congressman on the front page.

              “Indeed,” he acknowledges, pulling me back into the lobby by the elbow. “You have a good night, sir.”

              “God bless you, man—and you too, lady!”

              “Good night!” I wave as the door retracts shut. Orange grips the brass handlebar, jiggling it to make sure the door locked back.

              “You have to be careful,” he says, spinning us around to the elevators.

              “He’s out there every day. He’s harmless.”

              “Still, you just never know.”

              “Oh you’re the one to talk. Who walks around town handing out hundred dollar bills?”

              “Billionaires.”

              The word rattles me.
Billionaire.
Jesus Christ.

              The elevator dings opens, “After you.”

              Everything seems so sparkly and marble-y because I’m with him. I’ve never thought that money makes the world go round—still don’t—but it sure does make the world seem more shiny and glittery.