Page 69 of Tips and Trysts

“Yours,” Everett agrees, eyes now locked on my mouth. “Even if I’m dead asleep, it’s yours.” His gaze rises. “Can I kiss you?”

The question surprises me. Nearly every guy I’ve blown has avoided kissing me after, but Everett can’t even wait for a response. He presses his mouth against mine before sliding his tongue between my lips. His mouth is minty and familiar, and I wonder if he can taste his own cum.

If he can, he doesn’t give a shit.

I pull back, breaking the kiss. I straighten his tie. I smooth his lapels. I brush his hair from his forehead, even though he looks godly when it’s messy. I adjust him until he’s perfect—until he’s Everett Logan, congressional candidate. “Well?”

“Well, what?” he responds softly. He looks fuck-drunk, not focused, and I need him to get it together and validate what I’m about to do:

For the first time in years, I’m going to lie.

I’m going to lie to the entire world and pretend I’m not screwing the shit out of this guy every chance I get.

“Where’s my tip?” I ask.

A languid smile begins at the upturned corner of his lips and spreads across his face. He reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket, removes his wallet, and passes me an Amex Black Card. “Buy something for us to play with,” he instructs like he just asked me to pay off a utility bill.

I capture the card between my index and middle fingers and slide it into the pocket of my skirt before I pick up my sweater.

“Will you leave my cum on you?” he asks, stopping me with my arm halfway into a sleeve. “I want to know you’re sitting there, wearing it on your nipples. If I win, I want to lick it off. And if I lose—”

“You won’t lose, Everett,” I reply, which draws a smirk out of him.

I pull my sweater over my tits, feeling the fuzzy underside rub against the stickiness.

And I rise on my toes, cup Everett’s face, and whisper, “You don’t have to be perfect. You just have to embarrass the shit out of them,” before planting a kiss on his cheek.

Twenty-Two

CORA

People keep secrets underneaththeir clothes every day. Tattoos, birthmarks, scars, pen-scrawled reminders—they reside on our skin, classified to everyone but the wearer. These secrets say so much about us.

For example, the guy standing at the center podium in a lecture hall at the University of DC—the one wearing a custom-tailored navy-blue suit with a green tie that complements his mind-bogglingly pretty eyes—has a cock piercing. It’s been there for months, apparently, present at every pre-election event and every silly verbal sparring match with the camgirl he’s been forced to know. Nobody knew except him, but it was there all the same.

And here’s a better example: Underneath my sweater, I’m wearing the cum I drew from his dick with my mouth. It’s all over my tits, and I haven’t wiped any of it away because I wanted to wear it. I wanted him to look out at the crowded lecture hall, find me, and know I was covered in it—while I sat two rows behind his oblivious father.

Fantasy becomes reality at this very moment. Everett finishes responding to a question from the moderator, and while the audience applauds, his eyes lock on mine. His expression is smug, and I love it. He deserves to be smug. Hell, he deserves to be outrightcocky.

Because with the lights beaming on him and an effortless half-smile on his face, it’s glaringly obvious: Everett Logan was born for this shit.

Primary debates for a congressional seat with no voting rights aren’t interesting during most elections, but the room is packed. There are local news cameras here. Phones livestreaming. Reporters. So many eyes are on this benign election, and it’s because of Everett.

He rises to the occasion flawlessly. His responses are charming and practiced but not too rehearsed. Astute but not inaccessible. Relatable but not overly casual. He embarrasses the other three candidates handily—and from personal experience, I know he’s barely trying.

At the end of the debate, the lights brighten, the audience stands, and the candidates exit the lecture hall. Most of them shuffle off with their gaits less perky than when they trotted out earlier, but Everett strolls out—as he should.

“He did amazing,” Essie mentions. “He’s trending in local searches.”

Of course he’s trending; he won by a mile. Plus, he’s fine as fuck.

“I’m going to run the numbers on Forrester,” she goes on, bending over to fish a portable phone battery out of her gigantic tote bag. “Once I have that—”

“Hello, girls!” Alyssa, Dalton’s mother, chirps as she breaks through the departing crowd to reach Essie and me.

Alyssa Cavendish is exactly who I would want to be if I were born into indescribable wealth and privilege. She’s stunning,unbothered, and so elegant that I imagine royal households would be nervous to invite her over.

When we’re in grabbing distance, Alyssa hugs us. “I’ve missed you both. Cora, you’re looking absolutely gorgeous. Did you get the flowers I sent? And what about the basket—did you like the spa basket? I asked Dalton what kinds of things you like, and he responded with ‘books and stomping on men’s balls,’ so I figured pampering gifts might be your speed.”

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