The Two Week Stand by Samantha Towle

twenty-eight

West

“West, I’m so happy you’re here. It’s been too long since we last saw you.” Catherine kisses me on the cheek.

“Happy birthday, Catherine.”

We’re at the White House for my stepmom’s birthday. She’s having a gathering of family and close friends to celebrate.

“Thank you.” Her eyes immediately go to Dillon, who’s standing at my side.

“Catherine, this is Dillon.”

“Hi, ma’am. Mrs. First Lady,” Dillon stumbles. “God, sorry. I’m so nervous. Happy birthday.”

She puts out her hand to shake, but Catherine leans in and hugs her and kisses her cheek.

My stepmom is a wonderful woman. Too good for my dad. Just like my mom was.

“It’s so lovely to meet you, Dillon. You’re from England. Whereabouts?”

“East Yorkshire.”

“I’ve been to England but only London. I’ve heard that Yorkshire is beautiful.”

“Yes, it is.” Dillon sounds so formal that it makes me want to laugh.

My father strides over, deciding to honor us with his presence. “Weston.” He sticks his hand out for me to shake.

No hugs from the old man. I can’t remember a time when he ever hugged me.

I take him in. It’s been a while since I last saw him in the flesh. He has more gray in his hair than he did before. I hate to admit it, but I do look like him. Staring at him is like looking at myself in the future. Except I can’t even imagine having his clean-cut hair and wearing a suit every day. The one I have on tonight feels like it’s choking me. Although I did like the way Dillon reacted when she saw me wearing it, and her eyes said that she had definite plans on removing it from me tonight.

“Dad.” I release his hand and watch as his eyes slide to Dillon. “This is my friend Dillon,” I tell him. I don’t know why I felt the need to call her my friend to him. Even after all these years, I’m still subconsciously choosing my words with him so as not to get the third degree over my life choices and how they’ll affect him. “Dillon, this is my father, President Mitch Oakley.”

“Hi, Mr. President. Gosh, it’s so wonderful to meet you.”

My father says nothing, his eyes doing that probing thing he does when he sees a potential threat. Dillon is a beautiful woman. That fact does not escape him. But even he will overlook beauty if it’s a perceived threat to his political ratings.

Maybe bringing Dillon with me tonight was a mistake.

With a few simple words, my father has the ability to make people feel like a bug he’s about to squish under his Ferragamos. Probably part of what makes him a great president.

I don’t want him to make Dillon feel shitty. I have to take his crap. She doesn’t.

“Dillon is from England, Mitch,” Catherine imparts happily. “Isn’t that wonderful?”

“Hmm. So, what brought you to our country, Dillon?”

No hello or nice to meet you.

God, he’s an ass at times.

“Oh, erm …” Dillon’s eyes nervously shoot to mine. “Holiday. Sorry, vacation. I’m here on vacation.”

She’s so nervous. I just want to pick her up and carry her out of here.

“How did you two meet?” he asks me.

I hold his stare. He’s checking to see if I’ve brought home another scandal for the press to run a story about. He’s not worried for my sake, but his own.

“On vacation.” I’m not making this easy for him.

His eyes go to Dillon. “So, you were on vacation first in the Maldives and now America?”

Dillon swallows. “Yes, sir. I, um … I was on vacation first in the Maldives. But when West suggested I come to America after my vacation ended there, I thought it would be a good place to get inspiration for my new book. I’m a writer. Author. I write books.”

“What type of books do you write?” Catherine asks Dillon. “Will I know them?”

“Oh no.” Dillon laughs softly. “I’m not well known at all. I self-publish my books. I write romance.”

“Oh, how wonderful!” Catherine beams at her. “I love romance books. Come with me, and we’ll get a glass of champagne and talk all things romance and books.”

She threads her arm through Dillon’s and leads her off, and I’m thankful to Catherine for whisking her away from the awkwardness of this conversation. I watch them go for a few seconds before turning back to my father.

“So, you brought home some random girl that you met on vacation?”

“No, I invited a friend to come stay with me for a little while. I’m surprised you didn’t already know about Dillon.”

He gives me a look. “Of course I knew. I just didn’t expect you to bring your latest fling with you here to Catherine’s birthday party.”

“She’s a friend.”

“Whom you’ve known for a few weeks. I’m assuming you’re screwing her. Do you really think bringing some hook-up back home with you was a good idea after the reason you went on the vacation in the first place?”

It’s hilarious that he’s giving me a hard time about having a fling when this man spent all of his married life to my mother—and maybe his married life to Catherine—fucking anything with a pulse.

I clench my jaw. “I went on vacation because of a video of something that I did when I was a kid.”

“You were seventeen and snorting coke off a random girl’s stomach.”

“Seventeen. Ergo a kid.”

“I had a job when I was seventeen. Not partying and stuffing drugs up my nose.”

“I was hurting over Mom’s death. I made a bad choice. I’m not proud of it.”

“Your mother had been dead for two years at that point. You can’t use her passing as an excuse for everything.”

I feel all the old hurt come rushing back, angering the fuck out of me. “It’s not an excuse, but not everyone could get over her death in point-three seconds after she died, like you,” I hiss.

His jaw clenches. “I mourned your mother.”

I laugh humorlessly. “Yeah, fucking your assistant must’ve really helped you to deal with the grief.”

“Is that why you do this shit? Bring some random girl you picked up on vacation here, just to get back at me for the past?”

“Believe it or not, Mr. President, not everything is about you.”

“Hi … um, I’m really sorry to interrupt.” It’s Dillon, and my eyes close on a sigh. There’s no way that she didn’t hear what he just said. “Catherine, um, I mean, the First Lady got taken away to greet some guests who had just arrived and she asked me if I would send you over,” she says to my dad.

My dad stares at me a beat. “We’ll talk later,” he says to me and then looks at Dillon. “Enjoy your evening.”

Dillon watches him stride away before she looks back at me.

“Any chance you didn’t hear any of that?”

She gives me an awkward smile. “He’s not keen on me, huh? I mean, I get it. It’s fine.”

“This really is a case of it’s not you, it’s me.” I reach out and take hold of her hand, tugging her a little closer. “My father looks at my choices in life not as how they’ll affect me, but how they’ll affect his approval ratings.”

Nothing I’ve ever done—or will do—is good enough for him. It’s always been this way, and it only got worse when he realized that I wouldn’t be going into politics and headed into the NFL instead.

It’s funny. Any other parent would be over the fucking moon that their only son got drafted into the NFL but not my father. He sees it as a disappointment.

She blinks up at me. “Did he really”—she lowers her voice—“do what you said … after your mum died?”

I sigh and nod. I also got the privilege of walking in and seeing him fucking her over his desk. My mother’s body was barely even cold. But then it shouldn’t have come as a surprise. He screwed anything with a pulse in all the years that they were married, so her death wasn’t going to slow him down.

“So … your full name is Weston?” She bites down on a smile.

I know she’s changing the subject, trying to lighten the mood, and I could kiss her for it.

“Where did you think West came from?”

“The compass.” Her lip breaks free from her teeth and becomes a grin. “Weston,” she repeats, musing. “Hmm … I like it. I think I’m gonna call you that from now on.”

“Please don’t.”

“Well, seeing as you asked so nicely, like I did all the times I asked you not to call me Double D and you did … then I’m definitely gonna keep calling you Weston, Weston.”

It’s my turn to grin. I move a little closer to her and lower my voice. “Have I told you how utterly fuckable you look tonight?”

Her breath catches. “You might have mentioned it once or twice.”

She’s wearing a full-length red dress, which her tits look amazing in. It has a slit up the leg to her thigh, which gives me easy access, and she has on these gold heels that have straps around the ankles, which make her legs look even longer. Her hair is down and curled, and I’m dying to get my hands in it. Preferably when my cock is either in her mouth or pussy. I’m not fussy; I’ll take whatever I can get from her.

An idea comes to me. “You want a tour?”

She blinks up at me. Just looking at her is making my dick hard. “Of the White House?”

I was thinking more my cock, but we’ll go with that for now.

“Yeah.”

She stares at me for a beat, and then understanding floods her eyes.

Yeah, baby, I want to fuck you right now.

She bites the corner of her lip. Her breathing gets a little faster. “Okay,” she says softly.

Taking her by the hand, I lead her out of the room filled with people and out into the large hallway. The Secret Service agents stationed in the hall acknowledge our presence.

“I’m taking my guest on a tour,” I tell them.

“No problem, sir.” One of them nods. “Enjoy your tour, miss.”

“I will. Thank you.”

We walk down the hallway. Her heels clicking on the floor. Just the sound of them … the thought of fucking her in those heels has my feet moving faster. She doesn’t complain though.

I stop at the first door I come to and open it up, checking inside. Empty. Perfect.

I lead her inside and shut the door behind us. The room is already lit by the lights in the glass display cases, so I don’t bother turning the light on.

I watch her walk into the room, looking at the items in the display case. I go and sit down on the round banquette bench in the middle of the room, just watching her.

She’s a fucking goddess.

I’ve known a lot of women in my time. None like her though. She is something else entirely. And I’m going to fuck her right here, right now.

She moves from one display case to the next, her fingertips pressing against the glass. “These look old.”

“They are.”

“Surely not as old as you?” She turns her head, resting her chin on her shoulder, and grins at me.

I raise a brow. “Just for that, I’m going to spank you.”

“That so?”

“Mmhmm.”

“And what if I don’t want to be spanked?”

“I’m sure you’ll be agreeable to it when you’re riding my cock.”

She turns to face me and leans back against the glass. “Such a dirty mouth.”

“Makes you wet though, doesn’t it? I bet your panties are already soaked, and I haven’t touched you.”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“I’m going to know.” I spread my legs and beckon her with my finger. “Come here.”

She holds out on me for a few beats, but then she’s walking toward me. She stops between my legs and stares down at me, brow raised, as if to say, I’m here. Now, what are you going to do with me?

Oh, baby, I’m going to do a lot with you.

I slide my hand up her thigh, but my fingers don’t meet bare skin.

“You’re wearing pantyhose.” I frown.

“I was coming to the White House. I wasn’t coming here with bare legs.”

So proper yet so fucking dirty. Gripping the flimsy fabric, I rip it from her leg and then do the same to the other.

“Feel better?” She’s trying to act like she’s pissed off, but the flush on her chest tells me otherwise.

“Much.”

Then, I slip my hand between her legs and press my palm to her panties. “Soaked, like I thought.”

She leans forward and presses her hand against my cock. “Hard, like I thought.”

Fuck, she’s hot.

Her brow is raised. Both of our chests are rising and falling.

Then, we’re kissing. Hard and fast.

I grip the backs of her thighs and lift her onto my lap, so she’s straddling me.

“I’m gonna fuck you so hard.” I yank down the front of her dress and capture her nipple with my teeth.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” she pants.

“The best one I’ve ever had.”

“What if someone comes in?”

“No one’s coming.” Except for us. “Get my cock out.”

Fingers fumble with my belt and zipper while I suck on her tit. When her hand wraps around my dick, it’s like fucking heaven.

She starts jacking me off. I yank her panties to the side and plunge two fingers inside her.

I catch her moan with my mouth. I don’t think anyone will hear, but I’m also not willing to test that theory. I want to fuck my girl, and nothing is going to stop me.

My girl.

Well, that’s a new thought.

Dillon’s head falls back, and she starts riding my hand. “Jesus … West, keep doing that, and I’m gonna come.”

I pull my fingers from her pussy, and she lets out a moan of frustration. I get a possessive kind of satisfaction, knowing how much she wants me … needs me in this moment. Even if only to make her come.

“Why did you stop?” she huffs.

“Because I need to be inside you when you come.” I grip the elastic of her thong and snap it, tearing it from her body. Then, I shove the panties in the inside pocket of my jacket.

She raises a brow. “You’re keeping them?”

“Souvenir. Now, climb up on my dick.” I slap her ass. “And ride me hard.”

“So fucking bossy,” she mutters but does as I asked.

She rises up onto her knees. I hold out my dick, and she slides down on him. Her sweet, soaked pussy grips my dick like she owns him.

Maybe she does.

When she’s full of me, her ass pressed to my lap, she shudders over me.

Our eyes meet. Her blues so wide. So trusting. So needy. I cup her face with my hand and glide my thumb over her lips. Lips that are painted red. I want that lipstick all over my mouth. Grabbing a handful of her hair, I tug her mouth down to mine and kiss her.

Her tongue sweeps over mine, and this sudden, intense urgency to have her, to be even closer to her, hits me out of nowhere.

It’s like a thirst. A hunger I need to sate.

I need more of her. All of her.

What’s happening to me?

I feel dizzy. Hot. Needy.

I tug my tie loose and unbutton the top of my shirt. “Fuck me,” I groan into her mouth. “I need you to fuck me.”

She rides me hard, but nothing feels enough right now. I feel insane. Like I could fuck her forever and I’d never get close to getting everything I want from her.

All my senses are filled with her. The sounds she makes. The way she smells … the way she touches me.

She’s taking over me. I feel out of control.

What the fuck is wrong with me right now?

Maybe I just need the control. I need to be the one fucking her.

Shifting forward, holding on to her, I take us down to the floor. I shove my pants down my ass, and I start fucking her hard. My hands planted on either side of her head on the floor, I pound into her over and over.

When she starts to come, she bites her lip to contain the curse and cries that I know she wants to make. I watch her come. Her eyes slam shut, ecstasy covering her features, and nothing has ever looked more beautiful in this moment than her.

Nothing has ever been more beautiful than her.

I feel this tightening in my chest and that fucking dizziness again.

What the fuck is going on?

Maybe I’m having a heart attack.

Well, what a way to go.

West Oakley, player for the Ravens, dies from heart attack while fucking his girl.

There I go again with this my girl shit.

Dillon isn’t mine. I don’t have a girl. And I don’t want one.

I move my hips again, but I don’t go hard this time. My movements are slower. I bring my mouth to hers and kiss her. Her fingers slide into my hair, pulling the tie from it. My hair falls around my face.

“Come for me,” she whispers.

I increase my tempo a bit but not much.

If someone were looking in from the outside, they might say I was making love to her right now. But I’m not. Because I don’t love her.

Fuck, my head is messed up tonight. It’s the fight with my dad. Seeing him always messes with me.

Shutting my eyes, I bury my head into her neck and start to fuck her again. Hard. And harder.

Her arms come around me, holding on.

The sound of my skin slapping hers and the feel of her tight, wet pussy gripping my cock drive me exactly where I need to be.

When I’m done emptying myself inside of her, I lift my head, needing her mouth.

Our eyes meet before our lips do, and something happens in this moment. I don’t know what. But there’s something.

Shutting down whatever it is, I kiss her, and I keep kissing her until we can’t stay there any longer and we’re forced to clean up and rejoin the party.

But I’m off-kilter all night. Like something isn’t right.

And it isn’t until I’m lying in my bed later that night with Dillon’s body curled around mine that I realize what’s wrong with me.

I have feelings for her.

I’m starting to feel things for her. Real things. And I can’t because I can’t be the man she needs. That she deserves.

I know that I need to end this thing between us. For both our sakes. But selfishly, I’m not ready to do it yet.

I just need a little more time with her.

Then, I’ll end things with her.