Fuck.
It’s obvious the persistent assholes aren’t going away. I rise from the couch, and as I head for the foyer I angrily snatch my T-shirt from where it’d landed on the arm of the sofa. Whoever this is will wish they hadn’t bothered me today. I’ll blast them and—
A thought pulls me up short.Shit. No, ifthey have a camera, I’ll end up all over TMZ.
Again.
Resigned to this confrontation and knowing I will probably have to call the cops to forcibly remove my unwelcomed visitor, I sigh.
When I peek through the viewfinder, I’m stunned to see Senator ShaeLynn Samuels standing there, with a suit-clad man positioned directly behind her and facing away from my door, obviously scanning my quiet streetfor any threat to her. I assume from his demeanor that he’s Secret Service.
What the actualhell?
Looking again, they appear to be alone. The unfamiliar black Lincoln sedan sitting parked in my driveway appears empty.
Hmm.
When I interviewed her, what, a couple of weeks ago, she didn’t have Secret Service with her. I mean, Iassumethe man with her is a Secret Service agent. I can see he’swearing sunglasses, a well-tailored black suit, and he’s taller than my five-eleven, well over six feet, with broad shoulders. He’s probably fucking gorgeous, but I can’t see his face, only his neatly styled short, dark brown hair, and a sliver of his profile from how he’s positioned.
I always did have a thing for guys in suits.
My heart races as I stare at the man’s back and try to shove downmemories. No matter where I am in DC, I have a knack for picking out the Secret Service agents.
But I’ve yet to run into one particular one.
Dummy, you should have called him.
I hear Queen’s “Too Much Love Will Kill You” in my head, one song in a persistent and specific soundtrack that I will never forget. Not for as long as I live.
Even though I’m watching her, it startles me when she reachesout and knocks again, rapping on my door with all the authority of someone working on her third term in the Senate.
She’s obviously not leaving, either. I know the woman’s tenacious and driven and not about to abandon whatever quest has brought her to my front door today.
How thehelldid they get through the gate?
At least it’s not a reporter, though, meaning the fastest and likely easiestway to rid myself of the tenacious senator is by talking with her.
Resigned, I unlock the door and open it a little, enough to speak with her and hopefully shield myself in case someone is hiding out there, somewhere, ready to snap a picture of me.
At the sound of the door opening, the man turns, and I lock eyes with someone I haven’t seen in over twenty years, a man who’s been a constant companionin my fantasies.
Ohhhh…fuuuck.
Christopher Bruunt.
That Spring Break remains indelibly etched in my mind because we ended up spending most of it alone together in my hotel room with a lot of alcohol.
And lube.
Lots andlotsof lube.
Including stuff that technically wasn’t meant to be lube, but we made do so we didn’t have to leave the room.
We crammed a lifetime of experience into thatweek, and it left me with memories and knowledge I know I can’t ever forget.
The tiramisu.
He was my first man, my first Dom.
