Chapter 72

Amelia

The sun hadn’t risen yet, but the sky was beginning to blush gray when I slipped out the side entrance of Richard’s estate. My footsteps were light, every breath caught tight in my throat. I stuck close to the stone wall that lined the outer courtyard, ducking beneath windows, moving through shadows like I belonged to them. My shoes dangled from one hand, my other fisting the sleeves of the jacket I’d pulled on in a hurry, his jacket. Too long, too big, too unmistakably his. It smelled like him. Cedar, smoke, and power. The scent settled into me like a second skin.

I avoided the main hallway, ducked through the laundry corridor, and crept out the back garage just as I heard voices near the kitchen. My heart pounded against my ribs as I slipped through the perimeter gate and onto the tree-lined trail that led toward HQ. I didn’t stop until I was far enough away that I couldn’t smell him anymore.

Every step reminded me of him. The ache between my legs. The rawness of my throat from gasping his name. The way his hands had gripped my hips like they were the only thing anchoring him. The way he had looked at me afterward, like he had no idea what we’d done, only that it had wrecked him. And god, I’d wanted to stay.

At HQ, I snuck in the back. The halls were quiet, early still. A janitor glanced up as I passed, but I didn’t meet his eye. The staff stairwell felt endless, my calves burning as I climbed, but it was the only way to avoid the main lobby.

I reached my office and locked the door behind me. Pressed my forehead to the wood for a beat before finally moving to my desk. My reflection in the window was flushed, wide-eyed, my mouth still swollen from kissing him.

I should’ve washed him off me. I didn’t.

Instead, I peeled off the jacket slowly and changed into the spare clothes I kept tucked in my bottom drawer, simple black pants and a clean turtleneck tank top, but I couldn’t bring myself to fold the jacket away. I draped it back over my shoulders like a shawl, wrapping it tight around me so I could still smell him. Cedar and smoke and something that had started to feel like home.

I tried to work. Answered emails, reviewed canvassing plans, highlighted donor reports without really reading them, but I couldn’t stop thinking about him. About last night. About the heat in his voice when he told me not to go. About the moment he pressed into me and groaned like it broke him open.

Just before noon, I took a walk to clear my head. Or that’s what I told myself. Tablet in hand, jacket left behind, I headed toward the records room.

And there he was.

Turning the corner fast, brows drawn in focus.

He saw me.

His eyes didn’t linger. Didn’t acknowledge me. He passed so close our arms brushed.

His fingers grazed mine.

It was nothing. Less than nothing. The kind of touch that could be explained away. And maybe I would’ve thought it was, before last night. Before his mouth was on my skin and his body was pressed inside mine and I saw what he looked like when he unraveled. But now I knew better. I saw it in the smallest glimmer of his eyes, the barest flicker, and I knew it was intentional. A silent spark thrown into kindling, designed to drive me insane.

But it lit something low in my spine.

I didn’t turn around until he was gone. When I did, there was no one in sight.

But I smiled like a fool, and even though I couldn't see him, I knew he was smiling too.

That night, the building emptied out. Most of the staff was gone by ten. I stayed behind, dutifully reviewing edits to Richard’s economic talking points, but my eyes kept flicking to the door.

Ten-thirty. Eleven.

Still nothing.

And then I saw it.

A folded note had been slipped beneath my door.

No envelope. Just my name in sharp, slanted handwriting.

Inside: 11:40 p.m. — Storage B-3.

I stared at it. Heart in my throat. Then I stood up, legs shaking, and didn’t even bother with my reflection. Just went.

The hallway outside the storage rooms was dim, overhead fluorescents buzzing faintly. I knew the security code. Entered it with trembling fingers. When the lock clicked, I pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The room was cold. Boxes stacked to the ceiling. The scent of old ink and dust.

I barely had time to shut the door before arms wrapped around me from behind.

I gasped.

Then his mouth was on mine. Hungry and wordless. I turned in his arms and kissed him back like I was starving. Like we hadn’t touched in years instead of hours. He backed me into a shelving unit, lips trailing down my jaw, hands already unbuttoning my pants.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” he breathed against my neck.

“I’m still sore,” I whispered.

“Good.”

His belt clinked. My panties hit the floor. He spun me around, bending me forward over a low crate of campaign buttons. His hands gripped my hips and he wasted no time getting inside of me.

I cried out, my hand flying to my mouth to keep from screaming. He reached around, covering it himself, teeth grazing my shoulder.

“Quiet,” he growled.

I could barely breathe. My body clenched around him, every inch of me too tight, too desperate.

He thrust again, harder, deeper. My knees buckled, but he held me firm, one arm around my waist, the other fisting in my hair.

Each movement was filthy. Perfect.

We didn’t speak. We didn’t have to.

When I came, it was like falling off a cliff. Everything went white.

He came right after, groaning into my neck, his whole body shaking.

Afterward, he turned me around and kissed me slow. Soft. His lips were tender, his hands still rough on my hips.

We fixed our clothes in silence. My hands trembled as I rebuttoned my pants, still catching my breath. He watched me quietly as he adjusted his belt, his chest rising and falling with sharp, shallow breaths. There was something almost reverent in the way he looked at me.

"We're never going to stop," I said softly, still not meeting his eyes.

He stepped closer. Not touching, but close enough that I could feel his warmth again. "No," he agreed, just as quietly. "We’re not."

I finally looked at him. "It’s so much more dangerous now."

His lips twitched into something almost like a smile. "Because now we know what it’s like."

I swallowed. "Because now I’ll want it all the time."

He nodded. "So will I."

It kept happening.

He gave me a clearance code. Something new. Something undetectable.

“Your old card leaves a record,” he said, his lips at my ear. “This one doesn’t.”

I used it three nights later.

Found him in the archive wing, alone, pretending to read a briefing.

I locked the door.

He looked up, expression blank. But I could see it in the way his jaw tightened.

I walked toward him slowly.

“You wanted to go over the donor list?” I asked.

He nodded once. Said nothing.

I looked at him, cocking my head, voice syrupy and slow. "Where should I sit? Here?"

I straddled his lap, kissed him slow, then rocked against him until he was hard. He didn’t stop me. His hands gripped my hips like he was trying to stay still.

"The preliminary numbers from the Northeast precincts are leaning in our favor," he said stiffly, his voice low and forced, his hips fighting to thrust upward.

I started to grind down against him, slow, steady. I felt him twitch beneath me, his body trying to stay composed.

"Fifty-eight percent approval in the western district," he continued, each word sounding more brittle than the last. "Which, uh, positions us well to—" he stopped, exhaling hard through his nose as I rocked my hips.

His hands dug into my waist. "Amelia," he warned, his voice wrecked.

"I’m listening," I whispered, pretending to glance at the notes over his shoulder.

"You’re impossible," he muttered, his head tipping back.

"And you’re so hard for me," I shot back, smiling as I kissed the corner of his mouth.

He let out a low, helpless groan. The paper slipped from his fingers and landed soundlessly on the floor.

We moved slow that time. Deep. Deliberate. He made sure I felt every inch.

A week later, Emma brought it up.

We were eating on the terrace, the sun high and unforgiving.

“You’re acting different,” she said.

I blinked at her over a forkful of salad. “What?”

She smirked. “All dreamy. Glowy. Are you seeing someone?”

“No,” I said too fast.

She tilted her head. “You sure? You’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“The kind people get when they’re being regularly destroyed in bed.”

I choked.

Emma cackled. “Oh my god, Amelia.”

“I’m not—I’m not seeing anyone,” I said, trying to compose myself. “I’ve just been... sleeping better.”

“Uh-huh.”

She didn’t press. But she didn’t look convinced.

And I knew, deep down, this wasn’t sustainable.

Someone would find out. It was too good to keep getting away with.