Page 15 of Praise Me: President

“You’re having dinner with your boyfriend, Eloise.”

No, I didn’t hear that right. There’s no way. “I’m what?”

He reaches over and frames the side of my face in his hand. “You heard exactly what I said, angel.” His head drops forward on a dry laugh. “Hell, maybe I’m getting ahead of myself. The right thing to do is ask if you want to be my girlfriend.” He pulls my chair closer, wedging me and the seat between his outstretched legs, his mouth pressing in against my ear. “Do you want to be my girlfriend, beautiful Eloise? Out in the open?”

The word “yes” is perched right on the tip of my tongue. I’ve only ever been attracted to one man in my life—Pierce McAlister. And I’m attracted to so much more than his physical appearance. His work ethic, his strength and his integrity are traits I’ve always admired from a distance, but having been up close and personal with the president, I now adore him for his protectiveness, too. How he doesn’t just pay lip service to his respect of women, he’d delivered today in front of the senator.

This is the man of my dreams. But I have more than myself to think about.

“Are you sure?” I whisper, worrying the napkin in my lap. “What if people twist us into something perverse and it hurts your image so early in your term?”

“Then we have four years to change their minds.” He studies my worried face for a beat, then sighs, pulling me out of my chair and sideways into his lap, his fingers strumming up and down my spine. “Eloise, they will spend five minutes getting to know you and wonder how I made it a full two days without asking you to be mine. I’m wondering myself.” He kisses my bare shoulder. “How are you single at twenty-five, I’ll never understand.”

“You’ve set an impossibly high standard, Mr. President.”

“I think it’s time you start calling me Pierce, angel.” He rubs his open mouth side to side against my ear. “That’s the name I want to hear when I’m fucking you tonight.”

He stamps his mouth over mine to absorb my shuddering moan, his palm skimming up the outside of my thigh to squeezemy hip, to play with the lace waistband of my panties, as if he’s strongly considering taking them off right here at the table. Unfortunately, the sound of footsteps approaching forces him to remove his hand from beneath my dress and halt the kiss in its inception. He keeps me on his lap, however, which is my new favorite place to be in the whole world.

“This is an honor, Mr. President,” says the chef as he enters, carrying a tray full of food. At least five plates, assorted entrees and appetizers that make my stomach growl, incurring the realization that I haven’t eaten since breakfast. “You earned my voteandyour supper,” he laughs, showing no reaction to the fact that I’m sitting on Pierce’s lap.

I’m just getting excited about the food when another man sweeps in with a white towel draped over his arm and a bottle of wine in hand, immediately pouring two giant glasses for me and the president.

“Oh!” I twist in Pierce’s lap and he grunts, holding my hips still. “I don’t drink.”

“You must drink with the pasta, young lady,” he scoffs. “Please.”

“Maybe a sip or two,” I hedge.

A mistake I would…or wouldn’t regret less than fifteen minutes later.

“And that’s why the Fourth of July is my favorite holiday,” I say, peering into my empty wine glass. “Hey, my drink is missing.”

“You finished it yourself, angel.”

“I did?” Alarm swims in my belly and I set the glass down. “No telling what might happen now.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to let you organize a sit-in,” he chuckles. “Not tonight, at least.”

“That wine is a lot nicer than the one I drank in college.” I’m kissing the president’s chin, his cheeks, nuzzling our mouths together with happy sighs and my brain is commanding none of it. The wine is in charge now. “Maybe there will be different results,” I murmur, tracing the seam of his mouth with my tongue. “Maybe I’ll be a good girl tonight.”

“Somehow I doubt that,” he says hoarsely, his hands all over my thighs, stroking up beneath the hem of my dress, his fingers coming within a breath of my panties. “But you need to be a good girl for a few minutes while they clear these dishes. Can you do that?”

“Yes, Mr. President,” I whisper, closing my eyes and folding my hands in my lap.

While rubbing circles onto my back, Pierce gives a sharp whistle, and I hear the door of the wine cellar opening. “Ask them to take these dishes, please,” he says.

Within moments, our dinner plates are cleared, carried off along with Pierce’s compliments to the chef. Before his agents can leave the room again, he says, “We’ll need privacy now. I’ll call you when we’re ready to leave.”

“Yes, sir.”

We’re alone in the room once again, and God, I’m feeling intoxicated in more ways than one. The wine hasn’t made me drunk, only languid and loose. Eager to be alone with the man whose company I’m truly drunk on—and whose lap has become my permanent throne. Every time during our meal where I attempted to return to my own chair, he only tightens his hold and frankly, looks offended that I’m trying to skedaddle in the first place.

I giggle out loud.

Skedaddle is a funny word.

“Eloise,” says the president, picking me up around the waist and throwing me up onto the table in front of him, making my mouth drop open. “You never answered me,” he says, untying his bow tie, stowing it in his pocket and proceeding to undo the first few buttons of his white dress shirt. “Do you want to be my girlfriend?”

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