Best Friend's Ex Box Set

But as the kisses kept pouring over me, as Xavier’s nose dove between my breasts, my thoughts flitted away, and I gave over to feeling. He was unbuttoning my blouse, allowing my skin to shine beneath the lights of the Oval Office. I opened my legs to him and rose over him, rubbing at his dick. I sighed as he kissed me further, harder. This was where I was meant to be, in this moment.

Beside us, as we continued kissing, touching, nearly fucking—but never quite getting there—the papers for the upcoming campaign were strewn about, reminding us of our purpose. But we didn’t care about all that anymore. All we cared about was being in each other’s arms, knowing that the rest of the United States of America could wait.

After all, they needed us.

About 30 minutes later, Xavier started tapping at my back, at my ass. I peered up at him. I’d been laying on his chest, allowing my mind to drift away. I felt like I was in a sort of meditation zone, not really aware of my surroundings. I blinked toward him, my eyes exhibiting such admiration for him. “What is it?” I whispered.

“I have a meeting,” he whispered back, yawning a bit.

My eyebrows rose. “Oh? Is that so?”

He nodded, but he looked far more serious than usual. I righted myself and began leaning over to gather the papers, allowing my breasts to bounce forward in the air. The papers were strewn about, so ominous, reeking of the outside world.

“I’m sorry, Amanda. It’s the president of France. I have dinner with him tonight.” He tapped at his forehead.

I nodded, understanding. I realized I had already known that, that I had lost track of time. I was always losing my mind when I was around him. I pictured the four of them together then: the French president and his wife; the American president and his wife. I shuddered. There was something missing.

But what was I saying? I was the one who’d insisted that Xavier remain with his wife.

I brought my arms toward him and lifted a hand to his cheek. I kissed him lightly. “I’ll see you Friday, Xavier,” I whispered.

He nodded. “Friday it is.” He winked at me and sent just one, final flash of a smile my way.

I put myself together once more and strutted out of the room.

But on the other side of the door stood Xavier’s wife. Camille.

My jaw dropped.

Camille was arguing with the Secret Service agent. She was pointing at the door and yelling at him in a hiss. “You can’t just disallow me from entering the Oval Office. That’s my husband.”

“He’s also the President of the United States, Mrs. Callaway. He’s dealing with important business.”

Suddenly, they both noticed me. Their heads lurched toward me. The agent looked shocked for just one moment before concealing it qui

ckly beneath his stoic expression. Camille gazed at my youthful face, at my long brown hair. She scoffed at my thin waist. I could see her inspecting every single part of my body. “I see,” she murmured. “Important business indeed.”

I frowned and lifted the papers in my hand, as if I was alerting her that yes—we’d been poring over important documents. “Good evening, Mrs. Callaway,” I stated with all the calm confidence I could muster.

“Good evening,” Camille stated then, lifting her chin. “I expect my husband is ready for our dinner with the president of France?”

I nodded, bowing my head. “He’s preparing himself now; our meeting ran long. My apologies.”

I excused myself and soon I was racing down the hallway, feeling my heart beating so fast in my chest. I could hear Xavier greeting his wife and I could feel the anxiety coursing through my veins. When I reached my desk, I collapsed into the chair, feeling the sweat pouring over my eyebrows, over my temples. Across the room, I noted that Jason was sitting there, smirking at me. Waiting for me to break.

Chapter Eight

After I composed myself at my desk, I knew I needed to get out of there, to go home. I grabbed my coat and pounded out the door. I heard Jason’s cackle as I passed him, and it pulsed through my body, making me so fearful and weary. It seemed like everywhere I went, I was reminded of something terrible that was happening—something that was haunting me.

I snagged a taxi and told him to take me to Rachel’s house. I couldn’t even imagine entering my apartment once more, knowing that all the while, Jason was watching me. He knew where I was, what I was doing.

He knew everything.

I pounded up the steps to the apartment and yanked at the knob. My elbow cranked, but the door wouldn’t budge. I realized, then, that I’d come home a bit early—that Rachel wouldn’t be home from work for another half hour. Feeling the strain of this course through me, I pushed my back against the wall and glided down, down, down to the ground. I shook my head into my hands, feeling like nothing was working—like nothing would ever work again.

I tried to think good thoughts about the earlier afternoon, about kissing the president on his couch, about making plans for our weekend. Unfortunately, the entire time, all I could think about was that Camille was lurking outside, her eyes so watchful and certain that her husband was cheating on her. I hated it—I hated this feeling. I began to cry, feeling the tears course down my cheeks.

Finally, I heard them: the clatter of Rachel’s heels up the steps. I lurched up into a standing position, ready for her to appear on the other side of the wall. And that she did: eagerly smiling at me, swinging her satchel from side to side. She waved her hand toward me, and I felt my heart nearly explode in my chest. “Rachel! God, it’s so good to see you!”