“I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride,” the reverend proclaimed with a wide smile.
Everyone in the church seemed to hold their breath as Jake Hammer lifted the veil and met his bride’s gaze. He palmed her elbows covered by long, white gloves that set off her light brown skin.
Make it good, he told himself, painfully aware of the hundreds of guests waiting for him to seal the deal. Setta blinked up at him with kohl-rimmed charcoal eyes he couldn’t read. No wedding day jitters for her. The woman was as steady and true as a compass. And he had just the magnetism to send her needle spinning.
All in good time.
He nudged a foot forward, lowered his head, and dipped in for a kiss—their very first. As their lips met, Setta inhaled deeply enough for the nearby cameramen to pick up for the nightly news. She snaked her arms around Jake’s shoulders, one hand holding a bouquet of calla lilies, the other fumbling softly through his product-encrusted black hair. She gave the wedding guests and reporters just the right dosage of awkward innocence paired with a splash of passion. The roar of applause and whistles confirmed the world approved.
Jake stepped up the kiss, shouldering in closer, scooping his arms under hers, and lifting her feet from the ground. She laughed into his mouth. Gazing lovingly at him, she whispered, “You can put me down now, asshole.”
“One more.” He mouth-tackled her again, grazing her tongue. She tensed in his arms as he squeezed her tighter than necessary.
When their lips parted, she cooed, “You do that again, and you’ll come away without a tongue.”
“Only the deepest kisses for my wife,” he chided and set her down.
As they lifted their hands in unison to wave and smile at the sea of clapping black tuxedos, military uniforms, and formal gowns, Setta toed the wide hem of her dress over Jake’s foot and ground her four-inch pointed heel into it, hiding her treachery behind a red-carpet smile. Through clenched teeth, he bit out, “Temper, temper,” and yanked his foot away, grinning at her.
“I now present Mr. and Mrs. Jake Hammer,” the pastor shouted into the microphone, “your future president and First Lady of the United States of America!”
The ensuing cheers knocked the time-space continuum off its path with no fewer than eleventy thousand camera snaps and chants of “Hammer nailed it!” At least the blinding flashes blotted Setta from his sight. Normally, he wouldn’t think twice about nailing a beauty like her, but after getting to know the real Setta Moreno over the course of six months, the last thing he wanted to do was fuck his wife.
Maybe Buddy could find him some porn to take out his frustrations on later. With all the scrutiny placed on a president-elect, he couldn’t cheat—not that he would, even though his contract with Setta allowed it. Along with his wedding vows, he agreed to play nice, which was not typical of his ongoing commitment to making the United States a safer place. No, nice guys ended up walked over. Or dead. And guys like Jake took it upon themselves to ensure they kept breathing while the other guys … didn’t.
Jake wound Setta’s arm through the crook of his elbow and guided her down the aisle. They laughed and waved and pointed and looked perfect like all newlyweds do. The faces blurred past. The only one that stood out was his longtime friend and cohort, Buddy McDonald. Buddy lifted his chin at Jake, an alpha-bro gesture they’d exchanged a thousand times.
When they reached the exit, Jake turned to Setta and whispered, “Well, I’m glad that’s over. Now I can get to work and pretend this never happened.”
“January can’t come soon enough,” she mumbled as her father approached and hugged her.
A short, portly man, Mr. Moreno had a fierce fire about him where his daughter was concerned. The US Ambassador to Colombia, Moreno was one of the few men in the world who actually scared the shit out of Jake. He once had a dream that Moreno was a Colombian drug lord, and though he had no reason to believe it, he sometimes wondered. His daughter was a ball-buster too. Like father, like daughter.
Moreno offered his hand to shake. Jake accepted it solemnly. “I promise to take good care of your daughter, sir.”
“You’d better,” came his father-in-law’s reply, slathered in a thick Spanish accent. Those eyes. Blacker than oil. Jesus, they could suck the soul from a blind, newborn puppy. Jake resisted the urge to swallow, opting instead for intensifying his grip on the old man’s hand.
A good president never shows fear and always assumes the position of power.
Mrs. Moreno eased in beside her husband and smiled graciously. A fine web of crow’s feet highlighted the blue of her irises. Setta’s Colombian dad might’ve contributed to her temper and exotic complexion, but her mom’s blond Swedish genes carved out Setta’s curves and the edgy lines of her face. Hell of a DNA combination. Too bad their mash-up produced such a cold mannequin—pretty on the outside, no warmth inside. Setta was like a priceless piece of art you couldn’t touch for fear of getting zapped by all the alarms surrounding it.
“I’m sure Jake will give her many children to fill up the White House. He’ll make Setta the happiest woman alive, won’t you, dear?” Mrs. Moreno asked, pinching Jake’s chin. He barely suppressed his flinch.
It wasn’t the first mention of kids, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. In the months leading up to the election, the Morenos had a way of slipping the topic of grandchildren into every interview they granted. Family was important to them. Too bad it wasn’t important to Jake.
“He already has made me happy, moder,” Setta interrupted, eyes flashing.
Her father patted her cheek. “It was a beautiful ceremony. Attend to your guests. We’ll catch up later.”
She pressed a meaningful look into her father’s face before her parents moved down the line to greet the onslaught.
A slap stung Jake’s back through the haze of bulb flashes. “Congratulations, you two.” With a barely noticeable limp, Buddy wriggled between Jake and Setta, draping his arm around his friend’s shoulder. Setta tensed and diverted her attention to a reporter asking her to pose for a picture for the Times.
“It’s too bad you won’t get to spend your first night as a married couple at the new digs on Pennsylvania Avenue, eh?”
“Yeah, a damn shame we have to wait till January,” Jake said between fake smiles for the cameras spanning the never-ending receiving line. Christ.
Buddy glanced around at the paparazzi and grunted. “When I’m the head of the Secret Service, I’ll keep this kind of bullshit to a minimum.”
“I have no doubt. Just a few more months.” Jake clapped his friend’s hand above their heads.
As she turned away from the photographer, Setta caught and held Buddy’s gaze a second longer than was customary. He gave her a terse smile before he untangled himself and limped off to speak with an unaccompanied gorgeous blond.
What was that about? Jake cocked his head to the side. Leaning down to her ear, he taunted, “Methinks the lady is trolling for a Buddy sandwich.” He was joking but intuitive enough to know he might actually be right. He’d seen women give Buddy that look before. He didn’t like it on her.
“Shut up.” She straightened beside him as she greeted the next batch of guests, some dignitaries from the United Kingdom that her parents probably knew.
“Lovely wedding, Setta,” the old chap said.
“Yes,” his wife interjected. “We were beginning to wonder if the White House would be accommodating its first-ever live-in bachelor. So glad you came to your senses, Mr. President.”
Jake bit his tongue behind a terse smile. “I’m not the president yet, but thank you. I couldn’t have asked for a more beautiful wife.” He strummed one of Setta’s long black waves of hair and curled its end around a finger. God, how he loved making her uncomfortable.
Poetic justice.
“Let’s not forget intelligent,” the woman scolded. “Still waters run deep, do they not?”
“Indeed,” Jake agreed, lifting a brow.
Setta blushed. Funny how she could do that on command. For all her professionalism and distance in private, she really was a great actress in public. Which would make living with her even more unbearable. Resting bitch face at home; supermodel charm in the spotlight.
Four years. Just four years.
Eight, max.
He slid an arm around her waist and clutched her to his side, meeting restrained resistance. “Smartest woman I know,” Jake declared.
“You flatter me,” Setta replied with a coy swat to his chest.
“There’s the man.” A guy wearing a dark gray tux with a red cummerbund interrupted the sycophantic barf-fest, nudging the Brits on their jolly way. Ah, Christ. One of the names on the shit list he hadn’t gotten to yet. Congressman Jonas Jenkins. He’d only met the guy a couple times in person, but Jake knew Jenkins’s work well. Something about this guy threw his hackles up every time they’d breathed the same air. Jake’s wedding day was no exception.
“Thanks for coming,” Jake said, clasping Jenkins’s sweaty hand and patting his elbow. He casually wiped off the thin, wet film left behind as the guy withdrew.
“Jonas Jenkins,” he said to Setta. He took her hand and kissed it, floating a lascivious glance at her breasts. What a fucking scumbag. Jake’s fist curled. “I’m a congressman from Chicago. Got a lot of things to hammer out with this guy in the coming session. Get it? Hammer out?” He chuckled at his stupid pun.
Laughing gently, Setta was all grace despite the twitch in her cheek. She must not like the guy, either. Jake would have loved to deck him for visually groping his wife, but here in front of hundreds wedding attendees—many of them members of the press—wasn’t the time or place.
“But seriously,” Jenkins continued, “we’re gonna have to do something soon to loosen up these gun laws.”
Jake frowned. It was no secret the gun manufacturers and their lobbies courted Jenkins. He opposed background checks for weapons buyers, he favored the sale of fully automatic assault weapons to non-military citizens, and he claimed that keeping guns out of the hands of those on the No Fly List was “an affront to every American’s God-given Second Amendment right.” A real take-it-to-the-streets kinda asshole.
Jake had no problem with guns. He had plenty of problems with nihilists whose only method of getting off was shooting up entire cities for shits and gungasms. Not only was Jenkins one such wack job, he was also rumored to have conducted dealings with a pair of Irajian brothers who murdered countless innocents, many of them children, in their quest to arm entire nations. But the proof of such activities had yet to be uncovered.
Soon.
“Your state has a weapons problem, Mr. Jenkins. Your hometown in particular. As president, I’ll execute laws that are in all people’s best interest. Putting more guns in the hands of criminals is a recipe for disaster.”
The smug smile left Jenkins’s face, and a shadow settled in its place. “The press was right about you. If you had your way, you’d abolish the Second Amendment.”
If Jake had his way, there wouldn’t be a need for it, but for now, he was thrilled to have unfettered access to a plethora of weapons. It made his other job a hell of a lot easier.
“The Second Amendment isn’t going anywhere on my watch,” Jake deflected.
“Can I quote you on that?”
“Absolutely.”
“I look forward to working with you, Senator,” Jenkins said.
“You as well, Congressman.”
“There’ll be plenty of time to reach across the aisle and talk shop in January, Mr. Jenkins,” Setta piped in. “I hope you’ll join our reception shortly.”
Jenkins glanced to Jake with a furtive glint in his beady little eye. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
As the shifty bastard floated away on a cloud of sulfur to pollute someone else’s air, Jake and Setta exchanged cautious looks.
“Rude much?” she said under her breath.
“He’s pissed because I helped block a bill he proposed a year ago to abolish background checks.”
Setta shrugged. “All this talk of politics bores me. It’s not appropriate for a wedding.”
“I’ll try to keep it to a minimum,” he agreed.
The receiving line seemed to go on forever. Politicians galore, friends, family, members of the press—everyone had to stop and get a handshake with the president-elect.
“Mr. President,” they called him.
“President Hammer.”
When one of the Supreme Court justices addressed him as “Commander in Chief,” reality hit him with both barrels. Winning the election had been one thing, but coming face-to-face with accepting the mantle as the leader of the free world would soon be upon him.
Millions of citizens entrusted their lives to him at the polls a few weeks ago. Sure, he’d saved his share of people in his other life, but in small batches, a few at a time, not on a global scale. The thought of possessing nuclear codes that could end the world never crossed his mind until now.
“You all right, darling?” Setta flung his racing thoughts asunder. “You seem distracted.”
Hell yes, I’m all right. I’m a motherfucking badass.
He looked down at the ball of their hands and brought her fingers to his lips. “I’m great, thanks to you, Mrs. Hammer. This is the happiest day of my life,” he declared loudly for the nearby press.
Camera snaps followed a chorus of “Awww!”
I’m about to become the goddamn president of the United States of America.
And he’d be the best president this country had ever seen.
The ultimate alpha male.
Alpha Prez.
Jake smiled. He faced Setta, swooped in, and laid a heavy, demanding kiss on her. Her eyes popped with surprise, and then she melted into his embrace like a hungry lover denied access to her vitamin D by the annoying presence of strangers and decorum and protocol. She practically crawled up his spine. Whether her behavior was genuine didn’t matter. The guests’ perceptions did, and the whistles suggested Mr. and Mrs. Hammer were putting on a convincing show. Shit, she might’ve even convinced him. Maybe he could stand to get lucky tonight after all. She was a fine piece of ass, if also a royal pain in the ass.
A roar of applause lit up the church’s front steps, and someone shouted, “Save it for the master bedroom at the White House!” Appreciative laughter followed.
A president should always appear strong, manly, and in control of his woman. Jake broke the arousing kiss with a pleased grin, leaving Setta’s chest heaving. Heat splashed up her throat. She bore the steamy expression of a woman in desperate need of a man.
Mission accomplished.
The wedding planner ushered the remaining guests away. “The reception follows at Park Place. Mr. and Mrs. Hammer will greet you there shortly after their wedding photos are finished.”
Jake suppressed a groan. “Pictures. Reception. Endless chatter.”
Setta’s resting bitch face returned as if the kiss and all the hunger she exuded mere seconds ago had been a divine wet dream robbed of completion at the last moment.
“Sometimes extraordinary people have to perform ordinary deeds.” She smacked his chest and dragged him toward the waiting photographer.
“Like cleaning toilets?” he gibed.
“Exactly. Plunger up, Mr. President. Everyone’s a hero in their own way.”
He whipped around to face her. Surely she didn’t know about—
She halted her steps and studied him. “What?”
He shook his head. “Nothing. Just remembered I left the toilet seat up at home. I suppose I’ll have to break the habit now that I’ve got a,” ball and chain? “wife to consider.”
A lazy grin drifted across her sharp features. “Raised toilet seats aren’t a problem.”
God, he hoped she didn’t piss standing up.
* * *
Eight hours later, his face still sticky from the wedding cake Setta slathered across it, Jake guided his bride to their limousine and flopped onto the seat beside her. The door shut, and the driver whisked the pair away to the home they’d share until he took office in January.
Setta tore the veil from her head and tossed it into Jake’s lap. He jumped at the impact, imagining it was her hand for a fleeting second. No need for those kinds of distractions. He had plenty of work to do before sunrise.
Although …
He turned to her, relaxed against the seat as the car bumped over potholes and manhole covers. “Nice wedding. I’m looking forward to the honeymoon,” he prodded, hoping to get a rise out of her.
Setta’s gaze flickered to the driver on the other side of the glass wall. He seemed oblivious to their conversation. “So am I,” she agreed. “I plan to deepen my tan and visit some designer shops in Dubai. All those Latino voters I rounded up for you in the election will love seeing a woman of color sitting pretty like a brown Jackie O in the White House.”
The verbal slice cut straight to his spine. Sharp as the words were, he couldn’t deny their truth.
“What do you plan to do on your little vacation?” she continued.
“I figured we’d make a few public appearances as a couple and then do our own things.” He looked out the window. The bright streetlights flashed along the trek home, illuminating Setta’s face in the glass’s reflection.
Damn, she was a stunner.
Setta quirked a brow and cocked a smile. “Like that adorable assistant of yours?”
“Jealous? So soon?” He traced the outline of a white flower on her gown.
She barked a laugh. “Hardly. What—or whom—you do on your own time isn’t my concern as long as it stays private.”
His thoughts blinked back to the look she’d given Buddy earlier, and heat bolted to his clenched fists. He stretched his fingers, releasing some of the stress. Why the fuck did he care if she had a thing for his friend? At six five with an athletic build and sandy-blond hair, Buddy was a good-looking guy who had seen his share of action with the ladies.
“Damn right, my affairs aren’t your concern.” He unclipped his annoying cufflinks and pocketed them.
She rounded on him. Her pupils and irises blended into black holes. She was jealous!
“God, you are so fucking hot right now,” he goaded, leaning close enough to kiss. He didn’t expect one, but he wasn’t opposed if she took the bait.
She held her ground as the driver stole a peek in the rearview. Without looking, Jake slapped the button that darkened the window separating them from the chauffeur’s prying stare.
“Funny. I don’t feel hot.” She slid a hand across the cleavage heaving from the white bodice of the dress Jake only just now realized he’d been tearing off with his eyes since he first caught sight of her at the altar. He let go of the piece of lace he didn’t know he was holding.
“No?” He dipped within an inch of her lips. “How about now, First Lady?”
A pleased grin settled onto her mouth. “Oh, I like the sound of that honorific.” She swept her gloved fingers over her décolleté. “Say it again. I think I felt a little spark of something.”
Seriously?
Her thighs parted beneath swaths of white satin and lace.
His cock answered their call with a pounding on the door of his trousers. He had other things on his mind, but a quick diversion wouldn’t throw him too far off schedule.
“First. Lady.” He breathed the words across her lips.
She licked her fading pink lipstick. Lids heavy, she stretched into the leather cushion, arching her back, breasts jutting. “God. Yes,” she moaned, tossing her head left and right, touching herself. “Yes … YES!” she shouted and writhed as if possessed by some demonic sex god intent on deflowering her every hole at once.
Jake swallowed, awed by her apparent climax and a little jealous he hadn’t played a more supporting role in it.
She straightened as if nothing happened, fluffed her hair, and looked out the window. “Honey, we’re home.”
Jake picked up his jaw and shook off like a wet dog. A cold shower would be the first thing on his agenda before going out. The driver turned off the car and opened the door. Jake nodded his thanks as he helped his bride out.
“Aren’t you going to carry me over the threshold?” she asked.
“My darling, you are such a romantic.” He clutched her to his chest, planted another wallop of a kiss on her lips for the chauffeur’s benefit, and lifted her into his arms. The woman was heavier than she looked. She kicked a couple of times as he trudged up to the front door.
Three black Lincolns pulled up and parked at the bottom of the hill past the gates. Fucking Secret Service wankers. He knew just how to get rid of them. But that would be later.
Hiking his knee under Setta’s ass and balancing the rest of her with one arm, he found his keys and unlocked the two-hundred-year-old house he’d inherited from his dead parents. “Good night,” he shouted over his shoulder to the driver. He didn’t wait for an answer, just kicked the wood shut behind him.
As soon as the headlights retreated down the drive, he dropped Setta unceremoniously on the couch and dug out his phone to check for messages. No way he’d let her think he wanted what he suddenly desperately wanted. Better to establish ground rules and show her from the get-go who was in charge. The heat of her glare burned the back of his head, but he refused to acknowledge it.
“Your room is the first one on the right at the top of the stairs,” he said, still scrolling through his phone. “I’ll be up in a minute.”
She gathered her ample skirts and train and hoofed up the steps without a word. Clunking and thudding sounds drifted down. Jake smiled. If she thought playing the spoiled brat would endear him to her, she had another thing coming. He’d dealt with plenty of women like her, and he always came out on top.
He checked his watch. He could bust a quick nut and still have enough time to make his rounds and catch an hour or two of sleep before she woke. He headed upstairs and froze when he peered into Setta’s room.
Wearing a thin-strapped wife beater and white boy shorts barely long enough to cover all the juicy parts, his wife reclined among the down pillows scattered over the giant four-poster bed. One knee bent, she shook her hair out. The cascade of black waves kissed the tops of her covered breasts, curling around them.
Maybe the other job could wait for one night.
“You up for a shag?” He leaned against the frame leading into her room, arms folded over his chest.
She crawled the length of the mattress and slipped off like a cat. With every step she took toward him, his cock stretched another inch until she and it ran out of expansion space.
He slowly assessed her curves. Two big, braless handfuls of tit stared up at him, begging for a fondling. Her waist indented slightly at belly button level—thick but hard. The heat pouring off her sent his mind into a tailspin. He cupped her cheek roughly. She shoved his hand aside with her defiant chin.
“We’re gonna have to consummate this marriage sooner or later,” he growled. “Your parents did say they want lots of grandkids.”
“I’ll take my chances at the sperm clinic.” She pushed him out of the room and slammed the door in his face.
Stunned, he stared at the aged wood, waiting for her to open the door and beg him to fuck her.
“Shit,” he murmured when she didn’t.
He thundered down the hall to the master bedroom. It took exactly one minute and twenty-nine seconds for him to jerk off.
Then he went to work.
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