James Monroe loved the frontier.

“Hey!” She slapped him, just hard enough that it hurt, but playfully enough he felt it prudent not to complain.

“Christ,” he bit back more colorful language. “I’m your president.”

She shrugged, “This is Detroit. We don’t have a president.”

He rubbed his cheek, “Well, you do, and just because you aren’t a state yet doesn’t mean I don’t rule you.”

“Rule us,” she scoffed, and she slapped him again.

“Stop that!” He grabbed her arm. “Or I’ll have to make you.”

“Ohhhh the President, gonna make me, eh?” She was grinning. He tried to remain serious, but it was hopeless and he laughed too.

“Yes!” He protested, “I can be very persuasive.”

“I know it. We do get the papers out here Mr. President.”

“Well how am I supposed to know that. You come in here with afternoon tea and a dress far too short for civilized company, and I’m supposed to assume you can read?”

“Don’t need to cover your ankles to read, sir.”

He laughed again. So far this tour of his country had been nothing but the richest delights and the heartiest welcomes, but this woman was a definite high point.

“Well I’m sorry then, dear. Didn’t mean to offend.”

“I suppose people out east imagine us a certain way out here,” she noted for the first time the state of his room. “Would you like me to tidy up a bit? I’m at your service, sir.”

“You slapped me. Twice. Forgive me, but I don’t think you are at my service.”

“Yes well your eyes were exploring my bustline like it was part of your job.”

“It is my job, I’m on a tour of national goodwill, and it’s very important that I get a feel for my country.”

“You want to feel more than the country.”


She eyed him, “Well all right.”

“All right, what?”

“Show me why they call it the era of good feelings.”

He kissed her, and it was good, passionate, full of a hunger and longing she hadn’t expected from a man who had shamelessly flirted with most of the staff. His lips grazed her cheek, jaw, then traveled to her neck. She was dazzled; she knew the staff would talk, but she pushed those thoughts away; this was the president of the United States unfastening her dress. His rough hands pulled at her clothes, and caressed the exposed skin. She matched his excitement, helping him out of his burdensome clothes with equal aplomb. Finally they were both liberated from their garments and stood, eyeing one another.

“They don’t make women like you back in Washington,” he admitted, his hands refusing to leave her hips.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” she kissed him again, deeply, remembering she was supposed to be working, but surely no one could hold this against her. He grunted faintly into her ear, and she shivered in response. She wanted to feel him inside her immediately, but observed the foreplay, letting the desire mount. To his credit, he took his time, his hands now running over her backside with anticipatory joy. She was receptive to every touch, but feigned naivete, as if she were inexperienced in such things. She met his gaze between breathless kisses, encouraging him to continue his pursuit like he’d pursued a compromise to the admittance of Missouri to the Union.

His hand finally slipped between her legs, and she let out a gasp as he stroked her. Her dampness welcomed him, and he ran a practiced finger over her clit. She was unused to such skill, and his attentiveness only aroused her more. Her hand found his shaft and she returned the favor, periodically spitting into her hand to encourage him along. Already she was perilously close to orgasm, and while part of her wanted to give in, instead she guided his hand away and afforded him a smile.

“Yes?” He asked, raising an eyebrow.

“You need to take me,” she directed, punctuating this by bending over the bed. He scrambled to acquiesce; it was almost comical as he scurried across the floor to position himself behind her. And then he grabbed her hips, roughly, and thrust himself inside of her. She let out a scream of pleasure; there would be no hiding what was happening in their room now. He filled her up perfectly; she attempted to dampen her screams into the blankets.

“Take it,” he grunted, pushing in deeper.

She gripped the bed, “Harder. Fuck me.”

He slammed into her, over and over. The two of them were lost in the act, both audibly enjoying every moment. He was holding her hips with such force she was sure she’d have bruises. This was not a complaint.

“James. This is. Don’t stop.”

Her barely coherent sentence was the fodder he needed to continue. He pulled her hair; she moaned in agreement. He felt in control, finally; everything he did to her was met with approval. It was exactly like his presidency, only in here he didn’t need John Quincy Adams to finish the job. He shook his head and refocused on the way her ass looked as he thrust in and out. It was a very nice ass, and he was being wholly ungentle in his treatment of it.

“God, yes. James, wreck me,” she instructed.

“I’m close baby,” he gripped her harder, his climax nearing.

“Fuck, good, come for me.”

He came hard for her, his release was intense. For a moment he couldn’t move, and he just collapsed on top of her. She squirmed out from under him, and noticed the scar on his shoulder.

“War injury,” he informed her. “From the Revolution.”

“Very masculine,” she traced the wound gently. “Also, goodness you’re old.”

“There was a time that line impressed women.”

“I’m impressed a man your age can still go for that long, if that helps.”

“You are a delight,” he stroked her cheek. “We need to make Michigan a state immediately.”

She shrugged, “I’m open, but there’s a lot of us wouldn’t mind being British. Or French.”

He shuddered. “French. How dare you.”

“Je suis désolée.”

“You aren’t désolée. I don’t want European hands all over your body.”

“Ohhhh. Tough talk. You should call that the Monroe Doctrine.”

He rather liked that idea.


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