French Silk(60)

"No, thank you," Yasmine replied, flashing her brilliant smile. "But you might ask my escorts if they would like something." She slid the slender strap of her lizard handbag off her shoulder and laid it in her lap.

"Escorts?" Alister asked thinly. Jesus, this must be a nightmare. How many people knew she was here? Had she led a frigging parade down Pennsylvania Avenue?

"Bodyguards, from the looks of them," Ms. Baines whispered. "I'm sure that because of who she is, she has to take them with her everywhere she goes."

Yasmine merely smiled placidly, letting the woman draw her own dramatic conclusions. The secretary, grinning giddily, backed out and pulled the door closed behind her.

Mister's hands were clenched into fists at his sides. As he approached Yasmine, he wished he could hit her very hard across her flawless face. "What the f*ck do you think you're doing?" He kept his volume low, but his fierce expression conveyed the full measure of his rage.

He had never used gutter language in front of her except playfully in bed. But in the neighborhood where she'd grown up, that was the vernacular and she wasn't intimidated by it. She came out of the chair like a shot, dumping her handbag onto the floor. The scarf slipped from her shoulder and also fell to the floor.

"What's the matter, sugar?" she sneered. "Aren't you glad to see me?"

"I want to know if you've lost your frigging mind. Are you trying to ruin me? Who saw you come strutting in here? Jesus, did the press get wind of this?" He dragged his hand down his face as one horrendous possibility after another flashed through his mind like a hellish slide show. "What are you doing here?"

"Making my campaign contribution." She unbuttoned the cuffs of her sleeves and, before he realized what she was about to do, peeled the bodice of her dress off her shoulders. It dropped to her waist, caught there by her wide belt. She smiled as she slowly withdrew her arms from the sleeves.

His anger metamorphosed into lust. His eyes moved down to her thrusting, conical breasts. The nipples were dark and pointed, arrogantly offered to him.

"I've been missing you so bad, sugar," she crooned as she slowly inched the skirt of her dress up her thighs.

Heart pounding, lungs laboring, palms sweating, blood rushing to concentrate in his loins, Alister tracked the slow ascent of her hemline with his eyes. Her hosiery came to midthigh, where it was clipped to the suspenders of a garter belt. He groaned involuntarily when she revealed the small triangle of lace that insufficiently covered her mound and its dense thatch of curls.

"Christ," he muttered. Sweat was oozing from his forehead and trickling down his face. "If someone walks in—"

"No one will. Even the president couldn't get past Hans and Franz out there. I told them nobody, but nof*ckingbody, was to come through that door."

While he stood transfixed, she hooked her thumbs beneath the elastic band of her panties and pulled them down her legs. After stepping out of them she twirled them around her index finger. "You'd better sit down, sugar. You're looking a little pale."

She gave his chest a light push and he toppled over backward, landing on the leather love seat—the gift from his wife. He didn't think about that. He didn't think about anything except the thundering desire in his cock. He reached for her.

"Not so fast." She stood in front of him, fists propped on her hips, legs slightly spread. "Why haven't you been to see me, you lousy bastard?"

"Yasmine, be reasonable," he panted. "Can you imagine what my schedule has been like? I'm campaigning, for Christ's sake."

"With your smiling wife at your side?"

"What am I supposed to do, leave her at home?"

"Yes!" she hissed angrily.

"Wouldn't that make everyone, especially her, a little suspicious? Think about it." He reached for her again, and this time she allowed his hands to fold around her derriere. "Do you think this separation has been easy for me? Christ, you're insane to come here, but you can't imagine how glad I am to see you."

"You didn't seem so glad at first," she reminded him. "I thought you were about to have a stroke."

"I was shocked, stunned. This is dangerous as hell, but… Ah, God, I can smell you." He leaned forward and burrowed his face in the cleft of her thighs, nuzzling, gnawing, kissing her madly through the giving fabric of her dress. "Too bad you can't bottle this."

Yasmine clasped his head between her long, slender hands. "Sugar, I've been miserable. Couldn't eat. Couldn't sleep. I lived for a phone call."

"I couldn't risk it." He raised his head to her breasts and took one of her nipples into his mouth.

"Yes," she moaned. "Hard, baby, suck hard."

He took a breast in each hand and squeezed hard while he suckled until his jaws ached. She straddled his lap and grappled with his clothes until his throbbing penis was sandwiched between her stroking hands.

He shoved his hands beneath her skirt, grabbed her hips, and brought them down hard as he thrust into her. She tore at the buttons of his monogrammed shirt, then sank her long nails into his chest. He grunted with a mix of pleasure and pain, and roughly scraped his chin against her raised nipples, burning them with his whisker stubble.

She rode him frantically, squeezing and pulling like a tight, wet fist, like a mouth. Through the fog of passion, he dimly heard the telephone in the anteroom ring and his secretary's muffled answer: "Congressman Petrie's office. I'm sorry but the congressman is presently engaged."