Thirty.
That’s how many days ago Lance and I basically went from having sex before we realized that there’s something a lot more real to this relationship. It’s not just him fucking me. I mean, that night when I snuck into his room to keep him from going to Europe—we both sort of knew then. But aside from that one time, we never really talked about it. Until a month ago.
“How many women have you been in love with?” I asked him one day. We had just showered together. He had surprised me while I was in there. But I didn’t mind. I lifted my leg onto the wall and he took me while soaping up my tits. It was a good thing he held me, because when I came, my knees gave way. He ended up holding me as he fucked me, completely in control—treating me like a total sex object. I loved it.
But afterwards, as we lay in bed together and watched the sun rise to high noon, I wanted to know more about this young man. I already knew a lot. How his mother died when he was ten. How with no surviving relatives, his stepfather became his primary guardian. The courts allowed it and expedited the process—anything for an up and coming Congressman it seemed. But Lance quickly realized he got a guardian—not a father. His life was a series of boarding schools and visits to New York when photo-ops were needed.
I know about the wild period that Lance had, from high school through college. How he did anything at all to get attention, having been neglected his entire childhood.
“None,” Lance answers my question and pulls me closer to him. “I’m not the falling in love type of guy.”
“Everyone is at some point or another,” I told him. I can’t believe I’m asking him, a man 15 years younger than me. I sound like a teenager! I don’t know why I was so determined to hear him say that. I should be over such things.
“I agree,” Lance said, and looked into my eyes. “I’ve never been in love with any woman.”
I looked back at him, nodding. I could live with the fact that he just viewed this as sex, if it came to that.
“But I’m in love now,” he continued, apparently not noticing my near complete emotional collapse a second earlier. “With this amazing girl I know.”
And, yes, hun. He really did just call me a girl. Not a lady. Not a woman. A ‘fucking hot girl’.
I should have stopped him there, but he wrapped his arms around me and turned to his side. “She’s cute, and funny. She makes my fucking dick so hard I think it’s going to break,” he said to me.
“So romantic, geez,” I said back, rolling my eyes. But I was blushing.
“She’s sweet, kind, and makes me want to protect her,” he kept going, not bothering to care what I said or did in response. “And I want to be with her for the rest of my fucking life.”
“Do you kiss your mom with that mouth?” I asked him, smiling.
“No,” he replied to me and then grinned. “But I lick my stepmom’s pussy with it all the fucking time.”
I gasped. It still puts shivers down my spine as I imagine him telling me that. It’s sinful. But so delicious. It was noon. The sun was streaming in onto our naked bodies. And he was telling me he loved me.
But he was also smirking. And without another word, he pivoted his face lower, showing me with kisses as he traveled down my body.
He kissed down my breasts. And my stomach. Until he reached the folds of my pussy. I sighed. Then gasped.
All of a sudden, he stopped, and looked up at me.
“I love you, Jocelyn,” he said to me. And I still remember the giant smile that went through my face. “In case you didn’t get it from before. You’re that girl.”
I can’t remember much more after that because he made me cum so hard I think I blacked out for a few moments. But I do remember that. And that’s all I need.
Three.
That’s how many days ago Lance and I were out, having lunch at Per Se, when a reporter from the New York Daily Journal stopped by.
“You’re Mrs. Anders,” he said. “Mind if I take a picture with you and your lunch date?”
I know that it was a common term. Lunch date doesn’t have to mean a romantic date. Two people can enjoy lunch together and make a date of it. But is that how Michael would interpret it? Would it hurt the campaign?
All of a sudden, the feeling of absolute joy that I felt a month ago as Lance told me he loved me began to evaporate. Instead I saw the scandal. The newspaper headlines. Michael divorcing me. Running my name through the mud. One thing I knew for sure is that Michael excelled in the politics of personal destruction. And Lance. He would try to go after Lance. And Lance would fight back.
They say there’s a big reason you shouldn’t cheat. I honestly don’t consider myself to be cheating, hun. But I still lied, I think. And it made me feel sick.
I barely managed to excuse myself and make it to the bathroom where I ran into a stall and threw up, heaving until I was exhausted. It wasn’t till at least twenty minutes later I came out again.
One.