Chapter Three
Then
I’m forty-one and working on my second re-election bid to the US Senate when I formally make the acquaintance of United States Secret Service Special Agent Christopher Bruunt.
I’ve seen him around DC, mostly at the White House, but sometimes as part of the Presidential Protective Detail out and about at events. I always found myself drawn to him. Brown hair,green eyes, six-three and broad-shouldered. Fricking gorgeous. Fills out a suit nicely, I can attest to that.
No wedding ring, but that doesn’t mean much.
I didn’t know his name, at first. I was too busy working to figure out a nonchalant way to ask about him without raising suspicions. The last thing I wanted was a ton of gossip hitting about me, or, worse, a sexual harassment complaint. I’vedated a few times, down-low flings with zero emotional attachment and little substance beyond getting me some dick.
I mean, I know how to give myself an orgasm, and I’m quite good at it, thank you very much.
What I miss sometimes is a warm body to help me out with that.
When I sought out adult companionship, I gravitated toward partners who had as much—or more—to lose as I did. Partners asdesperate to keep things discreet and down-low as I was. No social-climbers need apply.
Single, though. I didn’t want to get a rep as the “other woman.” That’d backfire on me in a horrible way and needlessly create more secrets.
I also have a distinct “type” of man who winds my clock. Dominant, a little dangerous, a man who is in complete control and who doesn’t mind letting me give up controlfor a little while. Said man needs to be perfectly okay handing back my control once I’m ready to return to my workaday life. I don’t want to be his little domestic diva, or be at his beck and call.
I want a rough and dirty roll in the hay with a side-order of spanking and a pinch of bondage—and pinching, and biting—some sweet dick without any worries about the guybeinga dick once it’s over.
I want to be Bondage Barbie to Kinkster Ken, and able to put both safely back in the box once playtime’s over, until I’m ready to play again.
You’d think most guys would be okay with a no-strings attachment like that, but you’d be wrong. Some guys’ egos can’t handle that kind of compartmentalization, even though they claim they’d love to have exactly that kind of relationship. I’ve had one-offsseveral times just because I could sense the man was okay being the one unattached, but he would get a little miffed if I wasn’t at least a tiny bit needy and wanting him.
So today when I see my mystery agent at the White House, I ask who he is and find out he’s not just an agent, but third in command of PPD.
Excellent. Believe it or not, that actually helps me out in terms of the vanilla reasonI’m contacting him.
I do a little research—thank you, Facebook—and find out Mr. Bruunt is probably single, a fellow Floridian, and apparently not one for excessive displays of his personal life, if the five-year-old picture of him posted on his profile is any indication.
It’s theonlything publicly viewable on his profile.
I send a message to him at work that I’d like a word with him in myoffice, if he has a moment that afternoon.
My pretense?
Well, I’m a senator from Florida. He’s from Florida. I sometimes get crazy messages and threats, the worst of which get reported as per procedure. But I’m on the road a lot now with my campaign, which will only get crazier, and the world is a rapidly changing place.
I could use some advice.
He stops by my office late that afternoon. SpecialAgent Bruunt and I talk long enough for me to start dropping subtext and hints into our conversation.
He’s professional, but from the way his right eyebrow does an interesting tango over some of my comments, I can tell he’s interested.
That’s when I ask him if he’d be interested in dropping by my townhouse that night to do a threat assessment for me there.
He is.
Veryinterested.
I kick offthatdiscussion by volunteering I like to struggle a little.
Christopher smiles and admits he likes it when his partner struggles, too.
I ask for a demo.
