Page 146 of Bona Fide

She returns it. “Always.” She presses her lips together then says, “We’ll go ahead and—”

“Let me in!” Fists bang into the door outside, interrupting our peaceful meal, and, unfortunately, Demi's voice—it's hard to miss, even behind a heavy-ass door.

And, lucky for her, Francis—one of my Secret Service—is standing guard. The same man she slapped in the face over a month ago for not allowing her to interrupt one of my phone conversations with the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom.

Her ass isn’t getting through that door without my say so.

Even if she sucked his dick.

“I don’t care what he’s doing,” she bellows louder as Emmy sighs, reaching out to place her carryout container down.

“Don’t,” I order, remaining where I am. “I want you to eat and enjoy the show Demi is going to put on for us.”

“Wade—”

“Who’s in there with him?!” Silence filters through my study until she speaks again. “I don’t believe you. Move your fat ass out of my way, or I'm going to—"

“Are you going to put Francis through that shit again?” Emmy chides. “He’s already been assaulted.”

“He better if he’s supposed to take a bullet for me.”

“Is he fucking someone?!”

"Geezus," Em breathes, rubbing at one of her temples. "I told you three days away would make her go mad."

I shove a forkful of pasta in my mouth. “She’s just making herself look bad, and more people can observe that she really is a lunatic with mental issues.”

“But she’s also a physical pandemic when she’s screaming in people’s eardrums and slapping them in the face. She can take an eye out with her nails,” Emmy states through more of Demi’s hollering. “She’s a safety hazard.”

“She’s everyone’s pain in the ass.”

“I’m going to get you fired!” Demi screams. “You worthless piece of shit!”

“Wade,” Em warns evenly.

“Let her in, Francis,” I bellow from my spot, reaching forward to place my carryout container down on the table in front of us.

The door immediately swings open as Demi’s heels purposely hit the carpet. I peer over my shoulder to find her eyes burning holes into my head—so her standard look.

She’s out of place here in this office. The all-American decor standing for loyalty, honor, and justice—shit she isn’t deserving of. Her pink slacks and brown top keep her, what she calls, “still on the fashionable side of the spectrum like Jackie-O”. But I highly doubt Mrs. Kennedy was a conniving slut who forced herself into the life of her husband.

As if I’m any better.

Reagan compelled me weak as fuck when her warm mouth and the soft moans that left her lips.

It wasn’t part of the plan—it was a warning. One I never hand out.

But when her body melted with mine, when her tongue touched mine of her own free will and want—it confirmed everything.

She’s still affected by me.

And I’m still fucking obsessed with her.

Yes, I did it to myself.

Yes, I lied.

No, I don’t give a fuck.

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