She studied the shirtless president, still surprised. He was pacing the room now, nervously. She sat up in the bed, barely bothering to pull a sheet over her naked form.

“It’s ok!” She was trying very hard not to laugh.

“It says women like that!” he protested.

“Women where?”

“It was this book Father had.”

“President John Adams had a book about screwing?” She was incredibly intrigued now, though she still intended some light teasing after their romp had been interrupted by a very intentional finger.

He frowned, and finally sat back down on the bed. “Well the art of lovemaking. It was my only companion when I was in Russia.”

“I bet your father was excellent in bed.”

“Don’t talk about him while we’re… he JUST died.”

“I’m sorry, that was insensitive. But, you did just put your hand in my… corrupt bargain.”

He missed her joke, as he often did. “I’m sorry. I don’t… well I’ve read a quite a bit on the subject, but…”

“I think this is one of those cases where experience is a better teacher than whatever President Adams had in his library.”


She caressed his cheek, running a friendly hand through his well worn mutton chops. “Don’t be discouraged, Quincy.”

“I’ve never been discouraged. I just want you to feel good.”

“Just touch me,” she guided his hand back to her body. She’d been aroused only moments earlier, before he’d forgotten how to use his hands and panicked. He wasn’t a bad lover, and she found his perpetual introspectiveness mostly adorable.

“Like this,” it wasn’t really a question, as he knew from the way her body responded that she was enjoying his fingers dancing along her slit. He knew he took this too seriously, worried too much, but he just wanted so badly for this to be incredible for her. He wanted to be incredible, period.

“Ohhh. John,” she breathed, closing her eyes and arching her back. He stroked her more vigorously now, as vigorously as he swam the Potomac daily. She was moaning rather loudly now, and he felt the urge to smile, pleased with himself. He felt the familiar fullness in his trousers as she quickened her breathing, his fingers darting in and out of her. He was patient, attentive, almost diplomatic in his ministrations.

She reached for his hand and opened her eyes.

“John,” she half-whispered. “I need you.”

It took him a second of panic to realize what she wanted, and then he was furiously removing his pants. She lay naked on his bed, looking at him expectantly. He worried he’d burst before the trousers were off, but he escaped them without incident. She guided him over her, spreading her legs, begging him entrance. And he did as they both wanted, slowly, but not without skill. She called his name immediately, and he could tell she was surprised (why were they always surprised?) by how well he filled her up. He pulled out and thrust in again; she wrapped her legs around him and ran her hands down his arms.

“You feel incredible,” he assured her, again regulating his pacing.

“You,” she arched her hips. “This is insane.”

Again he entered her, slowly, with impressive restraint. If only he’d shown such restraint with Congress, he wouldn’t be staring down the prospect of being a one-term president.

She didn’t mind that it was missionary, that everything about this was vanilla. Sometimes she liked vanilla. It was intimate; it was wonderful; each stroke was breathtaking and passionate. He leaned in and kissed her deeply; she pulled herself closer to him. When he broke the kiss, he met her gaze.

“You’re amazing,” he pushed deeper inside her.

“God you’re so good.”

He sped up; she was impressed now with his stamina – his appearance never would’ve betrayed that. But it wasn’t just good, it was excellent, and his enthusiasm countered any lack of experience he might have. He was panting, his hairline glistening with a thin layer of sweat. She dug her fingernails into his shoulders as he continued grinding into her.

“Come for me,” she encouraged him. “I want you to cover me.”

He was delighted by that idea, and his pace quickened even more. He was pounding her now, she was gasping in pleasure and he knew release was imminent.

“Baby,” he moaned, closing his eyes. “Fuck.”

He came, finally, magnificently, for seemingly longer than it had taken the House of Representatives to declare him president. He found the energy to deposit himself next to her on the bed, but wasn’t sure he’d have the energy for much more. Still, he was satisfied. He’d annexed her like he’d annexed Florida.

“That was stellar,” she admitted, privately hoping she didn’t sound too surprised.

“It really was,” he agreed. “Some of my best work.”

“Oh it’s up there with the Monroe Doctrine,” she snuggled closer to him. “Which, incidentally, you should get more credit for.”

“Yes well. No one gives credit to a good Secretary of State.”


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