“I don't either,” I confess. “But I'll have my guys look into it. If she's local, then this is just a fling, probably Kirkman seeing an opportunity to trying to get his name on social media. If she's not from here, and she's following him around the country, that's another kind of problem.”
“So what kind of problem is it?”
“Well, what kind of problem do you think it is? Use your instincts.”
I cross my arms and wait for her to think it through. She knits her brow, chewing on her lower lip as she puzzles through it.
“Did Kirkman ever seem really concerned about this? Like ever?”
I smile, I can’t help it. I wrap my arms around her and press her long, naked body to mine, loving how solid she feels, how perfectly she fits me.
“You have beautiful instincts, Dahlia,” I tell her. “How about you come work for me?”
“What? Are you serious?”
“As a heart attack,” I answer. “Now get dressed. We have got work to do.”
I try not to watch her get dressed. She tiptoes around the room, laying her dress out, arranging all the little vials and tubes that she uses to make herself even more beautiful. I could get swept up in this. I could just sit here and watch all the mysterious things that she does, the rituals she created for herself.
But suddenly I feel self-conscious, remembering that for the past three years I have trained myself to absolutely not do that. Now, with just the smallest bit of her permission, all those desires come flooding back. I realize that I've been denying myself something profoundly satisfying as I am watching this beautiful creature being herself.
After slips her dress over her head, she looks at me shyly over one shoulder, smiling.
“What are you doing over there?” she asks me.
I look around, hoping for an excuse.
“Oh, just checking Twitter, Facebook… you know. The usual.”
She walks over to me on her tiptoes. At the very last second she spins around and pulls her hair up off the back of her neck.
“Zip me up?” she asks.
“Of course,” I mumble.
She kissed the air and thanks and skips away again, finishing up with small humming noises as she does so. It's like watching a fairytale character. I half expect cartoon birds to pick her towel up off the counter and put it back on the rack.
After a while she comes out and slips into her shoes, then tucks her phone into her pocket. She does a little half turn in each direction.
“Is this all right?”
“You look outstanding,” I tell her, smiling. She's wearing a sleeveless blue dress with a tie at the waist, subtle pockets hidden in the seams on the sides. It's both feminine and practical at the same time and she's wearing flats instead of heels, I notice.
“I see that you don't dress like a Secret Service agent,” she observes. “I thought I would go for something practical but pretty, you know?”
“I think it's perfect. Once we get you firearm training, you should probably have a holster on your thigh.”
Her eyes go wide. “Are you serious?”
I have to chuckle at her enthusiasm. “One thing at a time,” I smile.
“I wore flats, in case I need to chase someone,” she says. “And my dress… it has pockets.”
“I think you should start calling me boss,” I tell her.
She sidles up a little bit closer, thrusting her chin in the air stubbornly. “You think I should call you boss? Really?” she asks me playfully.
I take her hand and draw it to the front of my pants so she could feel how hard I am through the fabric. She draws in her breath and bites her lower lip.