“That’s all right. May I come in?”
“Of course, Mr. President.”
Andrew stepped through the door and closed it behind him.
Jessie could see he was tired — extremely so — and he obviously needed to talk. Inside, she smiled at the opportunity being presented to her. She could almost visualize the president standing on a silver platter as he took his first few steps toward her desk. “What can I do for you, sir?”
The president sat down on a leather couch placed to the right of her desk against the wall. The leather made a whoosh as his weight settled in among the comfortable cushions. “I wanted to get out of that situation room for a minute or two.” He rubbed his eyes. “And ask you a few questions.”
Jessie walked to the couch, and stood. She didn’t want to appear too eager.
The president patted the cushion beside him. “Sit down, Jessie. Please.”
She moved with feline smoothness, nearly slinking onto the couch, sitting to his right. She immediately crossed her legs, right over left, being sure to allow her skirt to rest atop the middle of her right thigh, her right calf flexing as she pointed her foot slightly toward the floor. She was presenting herself in full splendor, and it took so little effort to do it. She was pleased when she saw the president quickly look at her legs and then look away. Like a shy schoolboy sneaking a glance.
She tucked her red hair behind her left ear, making sure he could look unobstructed into her luminous green eyes. She didn’t speak. She wanted him to speak first. To give her an opening to exploit. A crack to reach into.
“Jessie, I know this may seem a little out of the ordinary, but I trust your judgment. I wanted to talk to you alone, away from the situation room.” He paused, obviously struggling with his words. “I need some feedback.”
“Sir?”
“You and I—”
She smiled inside as she saw the crack start to form.
“—we’ve been through a lot together.”
“Yes, we have.” No sir this time. No Mr. President.
“You’ve been an incredible source of counsel for me, something I’ve appreciated more than you can know.”
She knew he was thinking about his wife’s death. She’d been there for him, trying to comfort him in little ways, as he dealt with her death. Oh, if he only knew who was behind his wife’s death. “Thank you. I know it’s been hard.” Her voice was soft, smooth. As smooth as the skin of her delicate hand, which she placed over his. It was a bold move, but she knew it was time.
She tried hard not to smile openly when he took her hand in his.
“Jessie.” He was looking into her eyes as he spoke. “I don’t know how to say this.”
Andrew was trying to fight back an urge he was almost certain he wouldn’t be able to ignore any longer. The last few days, he’d needed the kind of emotional sounding board his wife had provided for him throughout their years of marriage. Every struggle, every crisis, she’d been there. Her soft words and soft touch had kept him steady.
Holding Jessie Hruska’s hand in his, he felt the same kind of attachment he’d once felt with his wife. Not just physical — even though the touch of her hand was having an electric effect on him that he couldn’t ignore — but emotional, as well. He’d come to realize that he wasn’t the same person without his wife by his side, and he needed that touch, that connection, if he were to continue to function effectively through this crisis.
But it wasn’t just the crisis. It was his heart and soul. When he’d buried Kate, he’d buried a part of himself with her. A part of him was now empty, a black void in his being that cried out to be filled. To be alive again. To feel.
As he stared at Jessie, sitting on the couch just inches from him, her warm, soft hand in his, he felt the void starting to fill once again.
Maybe she was the one.
Having a relationship with someone in his administration — someone in his direct chain of command, to use Navy terms — was not something he took lightly. Admiral Smith had kicked people out of the Navy for doing much the same thing.
But now, things were different. His wife was dead and gone, even though he didn’t like to use those exact words. “Dead and gone” seemed much too harsh… but it was true.
Jessie squeezed his hand, ever so slightly. Her eyes were soft, alluring.
Kate was never coming back.
Jessie’s perfume was pleasing, almost relaxing in a way.
It had been a long time now—
Her lips were full and red, slightly moistened.
— and Jessie Hruska was right here.
He wasn’t at all surprised when he felt the warmth of her lips against his.
It was meant to be.
He wasn’t surprised either to find himself leaning into the kiss, enjoying it, tasting it, feeling every single moment of it, and he wasn’t surprised when she responded to him, her hands stroking his face, sliding down his chest, her touch soft and gentle. Timid, yet purposeful.
He felt an incredible sense of relief wash over him, as if a giant weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
A part of his past life had quietly slipped away with a simple kiss; a part of his life that he’d so dearly loved and cherished, a part of his life that had choked him with unimaginable, unbearable pain, slid away into the past by the simple human touch from the beautiful woman sitting on the couch with him.
He was no longer burdened.
He was a man again.
Their hands began to move within the restrictive folds of clothes, stroking, touching, exploring. Their mouths opened, tongues deeply darting and tasting, bodies pushing against each other with an urgency that was quickly rising in their breasts, hearts beating rapidly, lungs taking short raspy breaths quickly, when they could. Piece by piece, their clothes fell to the floor, to lie in a heap on the plush carpet in the office of the national security advisor to the president of the United States of America.
To Andrew, the lovemaking that followed was one of the most moving experiences of his life.
He felt free.
To Jessie, the necessary physical act — although pleasurable — was the silver platter.
He was not free. He was hers.
As the president of the United States lay on top of her, sighing with an orgasmic shudder, Jessie knew he was pounding nails into his own coffin.
She dug her fingernails into his back, like a lioness gripping its prey right before it sinks its fangs into the doomed animal’s neck.
She climaxed quickly. More than once.
CHAPTER 40
The steel ammo box had served its purpose well but didn’t look as if it could hold the demon inside very much longer. Its sides were dented in places, but not like your normal everyday ammo box. It was dented from the inside out.
The thing trapped inside had slammed its powerful body against the sides, trying desperately to escape, with enough force to bend steel. For the pilot of the Strike Eagle, who’d been forced to fly with the thing sitting in his backseat, just a few feet away from his own hind end, the flight had been just a little too long. Screaming along at over Mach 2 hadn’t been fast enough for his liking.
Even through their protective environmental suits, they could hear it: talons scraping against steel, gnawing teeth clicking and clacking against the heavy lid, low grunts vibrating through the floor as it slammed its body against the side of the box.
The thing wasn’t the least bit pleased to be stuck in the ammo box. As a matter of fact, it was downright pissed.