She poured him another glass, acutely aware neither of them needed any more. Still, getting lushy with the president was not an opportunity that presented itself frequently.
He accepted the glass gratefully, his eyes lingering a moment too long on her bustline. She was amenable to this.
“You know what’s funny?” He asked, downing most of the glass in one drink. “I don’t even really like hard cider.”
She chose the spot on the sofa next to him, an inappropriate choice for a single woman. She drank her cider more delicately, but not without betraying her intention of going drink for drink with him.
“Don’t let the electorate hear you say that,” she advised him, frankly not caring whether the president enjoyed hard cider or not, but what the people chose to celebrate in their leaders constantly surprised her.
“It’s called duplicity, lady. It’s how we get elected.”
“It’s called patronizing me by explaining things I already know, as if my lady brain can’t handle it,” she paused. “There should be a better word for that.”
“Perhaps someday.” he nodded. “You really say whatever crosses your mind, don’t you?”
“Generally. I suppose I ought to be a little more deferential when addressing the president, though. More proper.”
“I don’t want that,” he admitted, depositing his glass on the side table.
She grinned, downed the rest of her drink, and moved closer to him. “What do you want?”
“What does every man want? To end the spoils system. To fix that blasted bank. To have a nice girl call him Mr. President while she’s riding him in the white house.”
“Ah,” she nipped at his ear. “It’s too bad I’m not a nice girl then.”
He used that as an invitation to make his move, and grabbed her wrist. He stood, pulling her with him, and she eagerly found his lips with hers.
“I’ve been thinking about this all day,” she admitted.
“Me too,” his strong hands slid up her dress. They were undressing now, no pretenses, both of them too desperate to bother with romance. She loved this. When she’d first come to him, before the election, it had been coy, teasing, testing each other, and that was fun too, of course — but now this was old hat and it had been too long, and she just wanted to feel his cock inside her.
“Take me,” she begged, and he ripped her petticoat; he was never nice and she didn’t want him to be. He pushed her back on the sofa, positioned himself above her. She could feel him pressing against her thigh, knew he was ready for her.
“Tell me. Tell me you want me,” he was pinning her arms to the sofa now; she knew there would be a bruise and that made her want him even more. She liked when he was rough, liked when he wrapped a hand around her neck in a sexier version of what he often wanted to do to Henry Clay.
“I want you,” she moaned, arching her hips to afford him a better angle.
He couldn’t wait any longer either, and he thrust into her. It was bliss; it was better than sitting for the first official photograph, or giving his lengthy inaugural address. His tippecanoe pushed into her moist love cave and she cried out, tightening her legs around him and losing herself in a most undignified manner.
And then suddenly it was too good. He was thinking of how even as the oldest man to hold his office, he was still this skilled and she was wet and inviting and begging him to go harder, and well wouldn’t he like to see Daniel Webster do this, that old so-and-so, who is the steam engine in trousers now, and before he could stop his brain he knew it would be over before it had barely began.
He came powerfully, and she took it and moaned in pleasure, politely not saying anything about the duration of their coitus.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, coughing slightly. “You’re too good.”
She smiled, “Don’t worry about it. I missed you too.”