Campaigning for Christopher (19 page)

As the elevator ascended from the lobby to the fourth floor, he stared at her back. She stood in front of him, facing the closed doors, her posture rigid, and he could tell she was second-guessing her decision to join him. And although every fiber of his being wanted to reach out and take her hand, soothing her with lazy circles in her palm (he had noticed how much she liked that), he had promised not to touch her . . . yet.

He cleared his throat. “Watching you this week has been . . .”
The biggest turn-on of my entire life.
“. . . fun.”

“Fun?” she asked, looking over her shoulder at him with wide black eyes. “What do you mean?”

“You were like a kid in a candy shop, Jules, and I think Washington’s your favorite sweet. What you told me in the car about hating to leave? Not a surprise. You came alive here.”

“I did,” she said, laughing softly. Her shoulders relaxed a little as she sighed, turning to face him. “But I felt stupid too.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I didn’t understand half of what was going on.”

“Sweetheart,” he said, leaning close enough to smell the sandalwood behind her ear, but not quite close enough to invade her personal space, “neither did I.”

She leveled him with her serious eyes. “Sweetheart?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know how to say it in Lakota yet.”

“Worlds collide,” she said under her breath.

“What do you mean?” he asked as the elevator stopped and the doors opened.

She stepped into the corridor, then stopped to look at him.

“I’m your sweetheart in
that
world,” she said, pointing to a window in the hallway that had a view of Georgetown. “Not this one.”

Maybe you’re my sweetheart in both
, he thought.

“In this world? Where we’re real?” she continued.

“Yeah?”

“I’m not your sweetheart. I’m just . . . Jules.”

Jules.

It occurred to him that
Julianne
was one person—the person who had drugged him and betrayed him, the woman who had tried to sabotage his dream and ruin his reputation. But Jules? She was born from the ashes of Julianne’s destruction—fully formed, ripe and sweet, complicated and righteous, constantly evolving, endlessly fascinating.

“You’re right,” he said. “You
are
Jules.”

She took a deep breath. “Where’s your room?”

He gestured to the left. “End of the hall.”

Without saying anything else, she turned left and started walking purposefully, like if she stopped moving, she’d lose her nerve. And while part of him was amused by her jitters, most of him just wanted her to relax.

“Can I ask you a serious question?” he said as he stepped in front of her and slipped his key card into the door.

“S-sure.”

He held the room door open, but she stood in the hallway, looking up at him with huge, uncertain eyes.

“Would you prefer a steak or a burger?”

Her face brightened, and she laughed softly, her rigid shoulders relaxing once again as she preceded him into the room.

***

She didn’t know why she was so nervous.

He had promised not to touch her
unless she asked him to
. And there was the problem. She wanted him to. She could barely think about anything else but how much she wanted him to touch her. And it was making her a nervous and distracted wreck.

She could feel him behind her in the elevator, aware of every breath, every shift, the heat of him, the strength of him. Did she want dinner? No. She wanted his hands on her body, his mouth stealing her breath, his hardness pressed flush against her curves.

“I wasn’t kidding,” he said from behind her, flicking on the hotel room light. “Those are your choices.”

They were in a sitting room with a couch, two chairs, a small dining table, and a galley kitchen. She immediately relaxed, relieved that there wasn’t a bed in sight, and then disappointment washed over her . . . because there wasn’t a bed in sight. And just about then, she realized she was probably going loony.

“Steak or burger?” he asked again.

“What if I’m a vegetarian?” she asked, sitting down on the couch.

“Kick off your shoes and stay a while,” he said, loosening his green and navy striped tie before pulling it from his neck and unbuttoning the top two buttons of his shirt. “And you’re not.”

There was an intimacy in watching him partially undress, and she was surprised to discover that it didn’t make her more nervous. It made her heart race, yes. But it didn’t make her want to go. It made her want to stay forever.

“I’m not what?” she asked, toeing off her shoes and curling her bare legs under her body. Her skirt rode up a little, and she didn’t adjust it.

“You’re not a vegetarian,” he said, his eyes slipping to her thighs, then slowly to her breasts, where they lingered before sliding up to her face.

Moving her fingers to the V in her white silk blouse, she pretended to scratch an itch right over the valley of her cleavage. “How do you know?”

He licked his lips. “How do I know you’re a carnivore?”

She nodded, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth.

“Because when you eat red meat, you sigh.”

Her lip was released with a very unsexy pop.

“What? I do not!”

“The filet mignon on toast points at the embassy today?”

“Ahhhh,” she breathed, giving him a dreamy smile. It had had some sort of tart, white cream on it that was the nectar of the gods.

“The burger after the Botanic Garden on Tuesday?”

She leaned back against the couch and moaned softly. “It had bacon and fried onion bits.”

“The steak frites at Parc Brasserie,” he said with a note of triumph, staring at her body with dark, hot eyes.

Her stomach growled loudly, and she winced before giggling.

“I’ll take a burger.”

“Two burgers it is,” he said, picking up the phone and dialing room service. “Fries or salad on the side?”

Her lips twitched, and her college lover’s admonition about her weight circled in her head. “Salad.”

“
What?
That was a joke! You love fries!”

“I do! I love them!”

“And . . . Uh, yes. Room service, please. Two burgers with bacon and fried onions. Fries. Ummm.” He narrowed his eyes at her for a moment before snapping with his free hand and smiling. “Two beers. IPA. Cold. No glasses. Great. Thanks.”

She beamed up at him. “You’re good.”

“
So
good. Impressed?” he asked, covering the mouthpiece of the phone.

“Very.”

“Yes. Charge it to my room, please. Thank you.”

He hung up the phone and sat down beside her. Though there were two chairs free and a whole couch to share, he sat about two inches away. Not close enough to touch, but close enough that she could see the way his nostrils flared and how he clenched his jaw before turning to face her.

“It’ll be here in thirty minutes.”

“Oh,” she murmured, her gaze dropping to his lips.

He turned away from her, facing the small, dimly lit hotel parlor. His voice was low and gritty when he said, “Just tell me when, Jules.”

“When?” she squeaked.

“When you want me to touch you,” he whispered, still staring straight ahead.

“Chris . . .,” she breathed, barely able to hear her own voice over the hammering of her heart.

“Yeah?”

“I want . . .”

“Say it,” he growled.

“Touch me.”

In an instant, he’d shifted, and his hands were cupping the sides of her face. His lips, hot and needy, landed on hers, burning them, owning them, parting them and sweeping his tongue inside her mouth to claim it too. He wasn’t slow. He wasn’t gentle. He was desperate and hungry, his fingers threading back into her hair and tilting her head how he wanted it, kissing her, consuming her.

She reached for his shirt, frustrated by the buttons until he dropped his hands from her face, took the two halves of the shirt in his fists, and ripped it open. The soft ping of buttons hitting the carpet distracted her for the moment that he reached back and whipped his T-shirt over his head, and then his mouth was claiming hers again.

Flattening her hands on his bare chest, she touched the skin she’d kissed once before with blood-red lips, remembering the dark line of hair from his pecs to his abs and following it with the pads of her fingers. His muscles tensed and hardened underneath her searching hands as their tongues touched and licked, his teeth nipping at her lips as she moaned softly into his mouth.

“Say it again,” he said through panted breaths that scorched her cheek.

She slid her hands from his chest to his arms, then down his arms to his hands. She pulled them to the V of her blouse and whispered, “Touch me.”

He growled softly, kissing her again as his fingers worked quickly on the silk-covered buttons, opening one after the other until she felt the cool air of the room touch her skin. She shrugged the shirt from her shoulders, and Chris reached for her, drawing her into his arms, her bra the only barrier to feeling his skin pressed flush against hers. One of his arms was around her waist, holding her, while his other hand stroked her shoulder, her chest, finally cupping the weight of her breast through her bra and groaning into her mouth.

“Jules,” he said, his voice drunken with lust, “I want to touch you. I want to see you. I want you in my bed all night long. I want . . . Oh God, I
want
you.”

She arched her back, pressing her flesh into his hand, then reached for his face, palming his cheek and kissing him, urging him to learn her curves and contours. His thumb flicked over the thin material of her bra, and her nipple hardened on command, pert and tight.

“Do you like having your tits sucked?” he groaned, his lips sliding down her neck, nipping and licking, scorching a path to her chest.

“My . . .,” she whimpered.

“Because I’m dying to taste you.”

“I . . . I don’t . . .”

His thumb stilled. “You don’t . . .?”

“Um,” she panted, eyes closed, leaning into the touch of his hand on her breast, hoping that if she ignored her nerves, they’d go away. “I think I would. I m-mean, I do. I like, um, having m-my, um . . .”

Suddenly she felt his hands gently clasping her upper arms. His voice was soft but sober as he said her name. “Jules?”

She opened her eyes, taking a moment to focus on him. “Yes?”

He cocked his head to the side, like he was trying to figure something out. “Jules. Are you . . .?”

His words trailed off as he stared at her. His eyes were dilated and dark, and his lips were slick from loving hers. But his expression was curious, thoughtful, almost worried.

“Am I what?”

“Sweetheart, are you a virgin?”

Her breath caught.

“No,” she said carefully, then grimaced and added quickly, feeling heat seep into her cheeks, “But . . .”

“But what?” he asked, still holding her arms with his hands, which rubbed her bare skin gently.

“I’ve . . .” She cleared her throat. “I’ve had s-sex. Um. But only once.”

“Once.”

She nodded, her cheeks utterly on fire. “Uh-huh.”

“Oh, wow,” he murmured, sliding his hands down her arms and breaking contact before sitting back on the couch with a long sigh. “Okay.”

She felt confused and a little embarrassed. Why was he pulling away from her? Had she done something wrong? Was she undesirable now that he knew she was inexperienced?

“Okay,” he said again, putting his arm around her and pulling her against him. He lifted his socked feet to the coffee table in front of them, and she leaned her head on his chest, just over his racing heart.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly.

“For what?”

“For pushing you.”

“You didn’t,” she insisted, draping one arm over his chest to hold on to him. “I wanted you to touch me. I asked you to.”

“You also asked me not to play with you.”

“Oh.” She stiffened a little. “Was this . . . was this going to be a one-night thing?”

“I don’t know.” He rubbed her back soothingly. “No.”

“No?”

“I don’t have all the answers, but I know I don’t want just a one-night thing with you.” He sighed. “I know things are confusing between us, sweetheart, but I’m not with anyone else right now. I’m . . . I don’t know. I’m only interested in you.”

She smiled against his chest, pressing her lips to his skin, willing away memories of the first time she’d done the same. Her heart was bursting with happiness—she’d known that he wanted her, and now she knew he was interested in her too. He’d called her remarkable. He’d called her sweetheart. Maybe he didn’t love her yet as she loved him, but he cared for her. She was sure of it, and her heart—