Page 68 of The Shield
“Same,” I said, and Flapjack flicked his ears as if he agreed with me.
We let the horses stretch into a gallop across the wide lawn, the world flashing in streaks of green and gold, and when we pulled up, breathless and laughing, Ethan looked over at me like the whole day could end right there and he’d be satisfied.
But it didn’t end.
By noon, we were cleaned up and sitting at Granddaddy’s kitchen table in Holly Hill, plates of fried chicken and potatoes between us.
Granddaddy poured sweet tea like it was communion wine. “You’re going to win,” he said, matter-of-fact, passing Ethan the cornbread basket like they’d done this ritual for decades.
Ethan took it without flinching, which still surprised me. He’d come to Holly Hill weeks ago, endured zoning arguments disguised as small talk, and even won over my father in the paint-splattered studio. Somehow, the Montana boy fit, like he’d always been meant to sit here, part of us.
“He already belongs to us,” Granddaddy had muttered once after supper, loud enough for me to hear. Today, he didn’t need to say it. The way Ethan laughed at his story about a zoning commissioner who couldn’t tell the difference between asphalt and aggregate said it for him.
“After lunch,” I said, nerves fizzing under my ribs, “we head to the polls.”
“Make sure your lipstick isn’t crooked,” Granddaddy said dryly, and Ethan kicked me gently under the table like he’d volunteered to check for me.
The polling station buzzed like a hive when we arrived. Reporters crowded, cameras already live. I cast my vote with Ethan at my side and Granddaddy watching like a hawk, hislinen jacket pressed and his pride carefully hidden under the brim of his hat. People clapped when I dropped the ballot into the box. Some shouted my name. A little girl tugged my sleeve and whispered, “Make the streets dry.”
“I will,” I promised, bending down to eye level, and Ethan’s hand steadied the small of my back as if he were casting the vote with me.
We waited for results at Kimmy’s borrowed office downtown, a space strung with too many cords and not enough chairs. Sandwiches sweated in plastic wrap on the table. Pearl paced like she was still my nurse. Granddaddy pretended to nap in the corner, but I saw his foot tapping time. Ethan sat close, his thigh warm against mine, his arm heavy and protective around my shoulders.
When the first results rolled in, I thought my heart would pound straight through the floorboards. Precinct after precinct—blue check marks next to my name. The cheers rose, fell, rose again. Kimmy cried into her laptop. Owen hollered so loud someone brought him water.
And then it happened. The networks called it:Natalie Kennedy, Mayor of Charleston.
The room exploded. Arms around me, voices in my ear, phones recording. Granddaddy pulled me into a hug so tight I squeaked, then shoved me toward Ethan. “Go on,” he said gruffly.
Ethan caught me, kissed me hard in front of everyone, and the room howled like a football stadium. “Forward only,” he whispered against my mouth.
“Only,” I said, tears hot and happy on my cheeks.
This was heaven. Or some version of it.
City Hall smelled of old wood and polish when they led me into the mayor’s office later that night. The cameras had finallyleft, the speeches done, the handshakes fading. It was mine now—the desk, the chair, the weight of the city.
Ethan closed and locked the door behind us with a quiet click. The office felt too big until he crossed it and bracketed me against the desk, his hands strong on my waist.
“Madam Mayor,” he murmured, lips brushing my ear.
“Mr. Dane,” I breathed, already dizzy from the heat in his eyes.
We didn’t bother with ceremony. He lifted me onto the desk, the polished surface cool under my thighs as he pushed my skirt up. His mouth crushed mine, all hunger and heat, while his fingers stroked between my legs until I was wet and aching.
“Ethan,” I gasped, pulling at his belt, desperate for skin.
He freed himself, his cock thick and heavy in his hand, then pushed inside me in one long, claiming thrust. I cried out, clinging to his shoulders as he drove deep, the desk rattling under us.
This wasn’t the kind of slow, reverent lovemaking we’d save for quiet nights. It was fast and fierce, celebration turned into motion—my skirt bunched at my waist, his shirt still half-buttoned, papers skidding to the floor like confetti. We were laughing and swearing between kisses, breathless with victory and relief, meeting each other hard because the day had earned it and our bodies knew exactly what to do.
“Mine,” he growled, pumping hard, each thrust a promise and a brand.
“Yes,” I panted. “Yours.”
He shifted my legs higher, his hands gripping my hips, slamming into me until stars burst behind my eyes. I came hard, shuddering around him, but he didn’t stop—kept pounding, relentless, until sweat slicked his chest and his breath tore ragged from his throat.
Somewhere in the blur of the last weeks he’d rewired my body so thoroughly that climax felt like a default setting. He gave me orgasms the way other men gave compliments—easily, often, like he couldn’t help himself—and it was almost funny to try to remember the version of me who’d ever gone without.
