Let's
Make It Twice in Sixty Years
“I don’t think you’re
doing this subtle thing right,” she remarked as she passed him on the way to her bedroom closet. She
was cloaked in her terry bathrobe and bare feet. She looked about ready to turn in for the night. He knew
better. He heard the creaking of cedar hangers as she pulled yet another pantsuit from limbo and began to dress again.
Four months into re-election and she was already back to the old routine, like it was just a year ago and not four.
He sighed and turned the page of the Wall Street Journal he hadn’t gotten to read this morning.
“Honey, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Of course you don’t,” she jibed, leaning out of the closet door to look at him that way.
“Moving to stand between me and Mike Easley was the most discreet display of possessive behavior I’ve seen since
Indiana 2008.” She finally stepped out of the closet fully in her undershirt and pants with her jacket in hand.
Evan was immediately distracted by the triangular area of cleavage exposed by the v-neck. It really did appear to be
ripe for a kiss. He stood up as she continued to talk, though he didn’t actually hear her by then. He
slid his arms around her waist and backed her up until she was pressed against the closet door.
She wasn’t talking anymore.
He kissed the tip of her nose and followed the crease of her cheek until he encountered that place behind her ear where
she sprayed her perfume every day. He kissed every inch of skin her could reach and hold onto with her squirming underneath
his mouth.
He was leaving goose bumps under her shirt with his hands. He smirked against her collarbone when she emitted a ragged
moan. By the time he’d reached the delightful dip between her breasts, she was panting and flushed. She whimpered as
he pulled away. He blew across her damp skin and she shivered.
“You should probably finish getting ready for the fundraiser tonight.”
Eyes still closed, she nodded solemnly. He backed away because he couldn’t bear to look away from the picture
of Hillary as she was right now. Her bottom lip was swollen from the slow, concentrated biting of it she’d done to keep
control. Her cheeks were red and her chest heaved as it had with his lips against it.
She finally opened her eyes; they were dilated and foggy. She wet her lips and, though he’d already tasted them
four times today, he wanted to taste them again. He ended up twisted with her against the door, his knee
between her thighs, his hand under her shirt, her mouth under his. He lost track of time in that embrace.
The satisfied exhalations he could count, but the minutes were a mystery.
“I should probably get ready to go now,” she murmured once he’d finally pried himself her body.
He nodded when words failed him. She staggered past him with a pleasant smile. Her hair was a mess
and what she wore of the night’s outfit was in disarray, but he couldn’t deny that she looked positively sated.
He didn’t think he’d ever tire of putting that look on her face.
Smiling a bit goofily himself, he sat back down to the table with his Journal and his now cold, cold coffee.
The stories weren’t particularly interesting but he filed them away for discussion later. Hillary would want
to go over them at some point and he could never anticipate what might come up in a press conference. The least he could do
was be prepared.
Just as he was contemplating how a day so filled with annoyances and inconveniences had ended so well, he heard, “Damn
it, Evan!” from the bathroom.
Hiding
his smirk behind the newspaper, he guessed she’d found the little reminder he’d left on her neck.
That’d learn Mike to keep his hands to himself if nothing did. He smirked even wider.
Then,
he grimaced. At least until she got her hands on Evan.
Hillary
was not a fan of being branded.
~!~
Aside from arguably-visible love bites, there were many things that Hillary didn’t like. Liars and surprises
were high on the list.
Her luncheon with the Democratic Women of North Carolina would have been a blockbuster if she hadn’t shown
up. From the moment they’d been seated at the same table, Hillary had been assured that there was no direction for her
mood to go but down.
She had long ago buried hatchets and sent grudges across the waters beneath the bridge. She had recovered and moved
on from pretty much everything that had happened during the primary in 2008. She’d won and had a
prosperous term. She’d nearly died, but hadn’t. She really was over it.
That didn’t mean that she would have chosen to sit next to Michelle Obama on any day of the week. Especially,
not this week.
It seemed that Barack Obama was becoming something of a serious challenger—again. His polling
average was on the rise and so was his fundraising intake. He was back and he was a problem.
His wife was just the messenger. Hillary spent most of the luncheon reminding herself of that.
They were both here to campaign and that was absolutely fine. I don’t have to exclusive right to North Carolina’s
Democratic women. We’re all Democrats here. She’d never smiled so fiercely in her life
as when Michelle stood up to speak before her. It doesn’t matter that I’m the President
of the United States. We’re all Democrats here. Her mantra was a failure and they were serving
tea when gin and tonic was her craving.
She sighed inwardly.
The President could have been having a better day today.
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