Prime Minister (Frisky Beavers #1) Page 9

  “What kind of outfit are you looking for?” She throws open her closet door and steps back. Our apartment is nice enough in general, but Sasha’s room is awesome, and the best part of it is the walk-in closet.

  That’s because it’s supposed to be a study. It has a window and everything. But who has a study off a master bedroom? That’s weird. And since Sasha’s clothes take up a lot of space and her computer is a laptop that fits in her purse…

  No brainer.

  “Just a blouse,” I murmur, looking for something white, maybe. Classic. “I only have like four of them, and I’ve worn them all a fair number of times already.”

  “Well, take whatever you want. I’m making tea.” She disappears and I start to move hangers down the rod. No, no, no…

  Oh my God.

  In front of me is a pretty close facsimile of the black and white polka dot blouse from Secretary. I can’t not wear it, right?

  It’s silk. It looks expensive. I look at the label. Moschino. I don’t even want to think about how much this blouse cost.

  I’ll be so, so careful with it, I tell myself.

  And hands shaking, I lift the hanger off the rack.

  This is the perfect thing to wear tomorrow. I just need to wait for an opportunity. And if one strikes—when one strikes, because power of positive thinking and all that—I’ll do my best to see if maybe I can inspire some spanky-panky with the PM.

  15

  Gavin

  We arrive at the rink twenty minutes before our game and Tim leads us through the building to one of the two locker rooms designated for our rink rental. On the digital board it says, Private. All other slots for the day have a team name or last name attached, but it’s still pretty low-key. I’m getting pumped.

  Lachlan is already there, and given all the guys we’re playing with have been carefully vetted beforehand, we walk right in.

  Lachlan raises his hand and motions for us to join him. “Max, Gavin, glad you could join us.”

  Activity stops, but not for long. Apparently these guys are more interested in getting on the ice than taking selfies with the PM. I’m actually relieved. I really needed this to be a place where I’m just Gavin. Then I realize, Lachlan has already figured this out.

  While Max and I are getting ready, Lachlan starts putting names to faces. “Tate’s our centre and Derek plays right wing. You’ll meet our goalie, Corinne on the ice. I play left wing and you two newbies are on defence. Don’t fuck up.”

  I grin. Yup. Just Gavin.

  Despite the fact that Tate turns out to be Tate Nilsson, captain of the Ottawa Senators, the game is played at exactly my speed—a little rough, a little fast, and rules are really just suggestions.

  Like a lot of adult pick-up games across the country, we don’t have refs. No such thing as a penalty, but everyone wants to go to work tomorrow with all their teeth.

  I’ve got the easy end of the ice for the first half of the game. This isn’t a bad thing. It’s been months since I’ve been on skates, a couple years since I played consistently. Max plays once a week back home, and even he’s sweating by the break at half-time.

  Then Tate switches himself out for one of the substitute players waiting on our bench, a friend of his who obviously likes his beer more than his ice time, and my game gets a hell of a lot harder.

  Suddenly the other team is constantly in our defensive zone and I barely catch my breath before I’m hustling to block another attack on our net. With each burst of activity, each burn of my muscles engaging to just fucking do it, stop him, get the puck, my worries over Ellie and our kiss get pushed further and further from my mind.

  An hour later, I’m tired, sweaty, and ready for a nap.

  The concern about Ellie slams back with a vengeance, but that’s to be expected. I can’t hide on the ice forever.

  Back in our change room, I thank the players for coming out.

  “Anytime,” Tate says, shaking my hand. “I’d have done it anyway for you, of course, but Lachlan’s been a good friend to me since I joined the Senators.”

  My security chief waves him off with an easy grin. “I pride myself on making sure that people are taken care of.”

  “Ha. Right. You’re the go-to guy for a lot of things that are hard to find.”

  Lachlan gives him a weird look. “And I get to play with some half-way decent talent over the summer, so it works out nicely.” He turns his attention to me. “Tim’s outside. I’m going to get the cars pulled up at the back, as there are more people in the building now than when we arrived.”

  I thank him and start packing up my bag. When I’m done, I glance over at Max, who’s still just wearing a towel. Fucking exhibitionist.

  “So what else can Lachlan hook people up with?” Max waggles his eyebrows as he leans his arm against the wall next to Tate. “I like resourceful people. And I’ve got a lot of…hard-to-accommodate interests.”

  I groan. “Max. Boundaries.”

  He throws his foul-smelling socks at me. “You’re no fun.”

  “Yeah, I know. It’s like playing hockey with your dad.”

  Max turns back to Tate. “Maybe one week I’ll come and play with you guys without this one, and you can give me all the dirt on Lachlan.”

  “Out,” I order, and we wave goodbye as Tate leans back against the painted brick wall of the locker room, still chuckling.

  We can’t talk about whatever Max picked up on in the car, and by the time we make it back across the city to 24 Sussex, Stew is waiting for me—we have a scheduled phone call with the Premier of Saskatchewan.

  Monday morning I arrive in the office to find Stew has moved Ellie back to her desk in Centre Block.

  "She's figured out what makes you tick," he says to me when I ask him about the change. “She’s the best fit since we’re down a speechwriter and she seems to read you better than anyone else.”

  I am not happy about this at all. I’ve spent the better part of the weekend obsessing over the events of Friday night and what I need to do about it. I’m leaning heavily on the do nothing option. I think my feelings for her go beyond lust and are well on their way to…something else. I need to rein that in because the way things are going, I’m on the road to political suicide.

  I pick up the latest version of my fundraiser speech from my desk and start reading. Damn, Ellie’s really good at this. If only I didn’t have a relentless hard-on for her, I’d seriously consider hiring her on as my speechwriter. I briefly toy with the idea of doing it anyway, but dismiss it for the ridiculous notion it is.

  Not that she'd want it. She made it pretty clear on Friday night that she's looking forward to returning to her research at the university in September.

  I'll miss her, but it's for the best. Six more weeks, and then it'll just be me lusting after a former intern.

  I wince. The optics of that aren't any better.

  I’m nearly done reading when there’s a knock at my door. I look up and see Ellie. She’s wearing a slim black skirt with a slit off-set in the front and white blouse with little black polkadots. It’s got a high neck and long sleeves. A lump forms in my throat and my cock grows thick and heavy. It's been a few years, but I'll never forget Maggie Gyllenhaal in Secretary.

  Ellie wears it even better, and I'm quite certain it's a deliberate thing she's doing, because it's unlike anything she's ever worn before.

  It’s the last thing I expected to see today—or ever—and it turns me on in a dozen inappropriate ways.

  The little minx is cosplaying a BDSM movie. In my office.

  And I have this urge to recreate a scene or two.

  She saunters in and closes the door behind her. Fuck.

  “I was just wondering if you’ve had a chance to go over the speech so I can get to work on the changes,” she says, wide-eyed and innocent.

  Yeah. She's figured out what makes me tick all right.

  I return my gaze to the papers in my hands. “I’m nearly finished. Just a couple more pages t
o go.”

  “Shall I wait, Sir?”

  I make a point of not reacting even though I can practically hear the capital ‘S’. “Yes, yes. Have a seat, I just need another minute or two.”

  I don’t look up. I can’t. I need to focus on the way forward. Pretend like Friday never happened and remind myself that we are not compatible.

  I watch her from the corner of my eye as she sinks gracefully onto the chair in front of me and places her hands, palms up, on her knees. Then she bows her head.

  Fuck. Me. It’s like she’s spent the entire weekend studying One Twue Way: Rules for Submissives.

  I struggle to read through the last of the speech because I’m a combination of amused, flattered, and horrified by her behaviour. It’s all I can do to ignore it. Because not being able to clarify to her what Dominance and submission mean to me is like being forced to sit and watch my house burn down.

  The Secretary thing is really hot, though.

  I slog through the final paragraphs as fast as I can because if someone comes into my office, I’m not sure she would adjust her pose to something more appropriate.

  “There’s not a lot that needs changing.” I don’t look up as I slide the papers across the desk. “You’ve done a great job, and I appreciate all your hard work. Once you’ve finished the revisions, you can send it on to Stew for approval.”

  I immediately pick up some random piece of correspondence from my desk and pretend to read it, hoping she recognises she’s been dismissed.

  “Oh…yeah…okay. I mean, yes, sir.” She’s flustered and that ‘s’ is no longer capitalised. She picks up the speech and slips silently from my office, closing the door behind her.

  I feel guilty for making her doubt herself, but I need to focus on the greater good. Now, I’m no longer sure what that is.

  I bury myself in work, but that capital Sir keeps bouncing around inside my head like a pinball and big red letters keep flashing TILT. She’s thrown me off balance.

  I don’t see her again until the afternoon when I meet with her and Stew to finalise my speech for Friday night.

  She’s back to calling me Gavin and I hate it. I also hate that she no longer has that little glint in her pretty grey eyes. It’s like she’s gone dark.

  My chest hurts and guilt gnaws at my gut.

  Regardless of whether she’s actually interested in exploring the darker side of my desires or just tire-kicking, she’d taken a huge chance this morning.

  I totally shut her down. And not gently, and not just once.

  Ellie is damn brave, and I have to do something to make this right.

  Act in haste, repent at leisure. Yeah, sounds about right. I’m so twisted up in knots when it comes to Ellie, I can’t seem to act rationally.

  When I get home, Max is sitting in the living room with papers spread all over the coffee table.

  “Looks like you’ve had a rough day. Sit down, I’ll get you a beer.”

  I throw my things on the nearest chair and park myself on the sofa. I pick up one of the sheets and read the notes he’s added.

  He returns and hands me a beer. I hold up the paper in my hand. “This one?”

  He glances at it and nods. “Yeah. That one screamed buy me the minute we got there, but I didn’t want to be hasty. It’s a pretty big spend.”

  “When are you putting in the offer?”

  “Already done.”

  “Then why are you still comparing houses?”

  “Because if this doesn’t go through, I need a backup plan.”

  “You really are going through with this move, then?”

  “I really am. Now, what’s going on? You look like someone just set fire to your favourite flogger.”

  I can’t tell Max what Ellie did this morning. Even though he’s my best friend in the world, this is private. But I need advice. I tap my finger on the bottle I’m holding while I think about what I want to say.

  “It’s Ellie.”

  He gives me a rueful smile, but says nothing. I’m grateful. I’m not up for cheeky comments right now.

  “Something happened today and I didn’t handle it well.”

  Max shifts to the edge of his seat and leans forward a little. “What did you do?”

  “No details. All I can really say is when it comes to Ellie, I’m not in control of myself. I keep making mistakes and handling them badly. I act before I think. And it’s hurting us both.” I take a long sip of my beer. The cold liquid soothes my aching throat. “I made a decision and then a thing happened and made me question it. But my reaction was immediate and based entirely on my original decision without taking more recent…developments into consideration.”

  “Sounds to me like you’ve got a lot more thinking to do. There’s no shame in changing your position when something isn’t working out for you.”

  Nodding, I toe off my shoes, then lean back in my seat. “What’s for supper?”

  “I don’t know. What are you making?”

  That night, I lie in bed replaying the morning’s events. Searching each detail for clues as I try to find the real explanation for her actions.

  Was she honestly trying to tell me she’s interested in more than one flavour? How am I supposed to be able to tell?

  I delve further back—to Friday when I had her bent over my desk…

  And I’m an idiot.

  I was so caught up in my own bullshit this morning, it didn’t occur to me that by telling her we weren’t compatible, coupled with my behaviour, I’d unwittingly sent her to parts of the internet where no amount of eye-bleach could scrub out what she'd seen behind those doors—if it horrified her.

  And if it didn't?

  I realise the choice I’d made was the coward’s way out of the situation I’d found myself in with Ellie. It was time I put on my man pants.

  The next morning, I summon Ellie to my office. I see she’s back to her regular wardrobe. I realise her choice of clothes is not all that different from what she’d worn the day before, except somehow, it is, in a vague way I can't name. I’m such a man when it comes to women’s fashion.

  “You wanted to see me?”

  “Come in and shut the door, please.” I use my Dom voice. Slightly lower, and far more commanding.

  I watch her throat bob up and down as she swallows. The latch clicks and she starts across the room.

  “Did I do something wrong, Gavin?”

  “Sir. Did I do something wrong, Sir?”

  She swallows again.

  “Did I do something wrong…Sir?”

  “Actually yes, Ms. Montague.”

  Her eyes go wide, and she fiddles with her hair. Yeah, I’m so fucking gone.

  I pull out a page from her speech. “There is a typo.” I point to the spot I’d circled in red. Fuck, it had taken me forever to find one. There was a point where I thought I might have to make one up. But she went to all that effort yesterday. I owe her at least double in return, and this is the safest option for the middle of the work day. “It should be than. You’ve put then. Do it again.”

  “Yes, Sir.” She keeps a straight face, but the glint is back in her eyes and there’s no missing that capital ‘S’.

  A weight lifts off my chest. I want to reach over my desk and pull her in for a long, hungry kiss. She touches her lips, like she knows what just bulldozed through my head.

  “I want the corrected copy on my desk first thing in the morning. Now, off you go.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  There’s a bounce in her step as she leaves that has me grinning like a fool. I only have a few minutes to tame my erection before my first meeting, so I slide my joy aside and focus on the doom and gloom report my finance minister wants to discuss.

  The next morning, I meet with Ellie first thing. She’s tried to second guess me and added a new typo. She seems to be under the misguided impression I intend to follow someone else’s kinky road map.

  The only reason I’d gone with a little Secretary roleplay yest
erday was so she’d understand we’re in the same library. We’re just not in the same book. Yet.

  I pull the yellow highlighter from my drawer, draw a line through her newly developed typo, and slide it across the desk to her.

  “When we meet tomorrow, I expect a three page essay on why it is unacceptable to purposely add typos to my speech. That is all, Ms. Montague.”

  She wants to argue. I can see it. But she holds back and gives me the response I crave. “Yes, Sir.”

  I pick up the finance report from yesterday. Nothing like mind-numbing negative forecasting to kill a perfectly good hard-on.

  Thursday morning, she smiles wide as she hands me her essay. I skim it first and am thrilled to see she has a basic handle on where she went wrong yesterday. I flip back to the first page to read it more thoroughly and she starts to sink into a chair. “No, I’d prefer you stand, today. At that window, looking out.”

  I may have made a tactical error. It’s hard to concentrate on giving her essay a thorough reading when her perfectly delectable ass is taunting me at eye level. I make a valiant effort. If there’s a mistake, I can’t find it. Time for her reward.

  I get up from my chair and move in close behind her, not quite touching, but my body still knows how soft she is and aches to press against her. I don’t give in to that. Instead, I bring my lips close to her ear. “Excellent job, Sprite. Take tomorrow off and have a nice relaxing day so you’re well-rested for the fundraiser—and all it entails."

  16

  Ellie

  When Sasha wakes up and I’m still in the apartment on Friday morning, she asks if I’ve been fired.

  “No! I’ll be working late tonight and…I got the day off.”

  “Spa day!” For an uptight academic, Sasha really likes going to the spa. She’s already on the phone. She has two of her favourite places on speed dial. “What do you want done?”

  “Uhm…manicure?”

  She wiggles her index finger at my face. “And your eyebrows, right?”