“Oh, God. Eli, oh—oh, that’s so—”

Just so.

Five seconds was all it took for her orgasm to slam through her with the force of a 400 psi hose. It pinned her to the door, to the floor, to the spot, sending her rigid with the shock of its pleasure, then boneless on the ride down.

On Eli’s ride up, he kissed her belly, her breasts, then her mouth, his lips still wet from her. “No one else will satisfy you, Alexandra, not even your own fingers. If I’m in the room, in this city, on this goddamn planet, I will be the one who takes care of you. We clear?”

She moaned her agreement.

“We clear?”

God, he expected her to speak after that? “Yes.”

He would take care of her until he dumped her, come Election Day. Brave, kick-ass Alex Dempsey wasn’t afraid of a thing, but this terrified her. She’d have to be cool about it when their stunt had come to an end, but inside she would be crushed because she was falling for him. Sinking into this big hole where she couldn’t get purchase on the slippery sides. He might have met someone, but it was just a sexual fixation for him. The old screw-her-out-of-his-system ploy that happened to have the added benefit of winning him the greatest prize of all. When he got what he wanted—the mayoral throne—she would be out on her ear.

But for now, he was hers.

She kissed him urgently. It was the best way she could think of to apologize for being a crazy-assed, jealous bitch. Then she pulled on the band of his tuxedo pants, thinking that maybe she had another way to apologize.

“Can’t. I’m running late.”

“I need you. Inside me. Now.”

He closed his eyes, clearly marshaling his strength. How she loved testing his control.

“I’m going to be suffering for the next few hours while I listen to a bunch of old, gray dudes recount tales of sticking it to the little people and bemoaning the city’s move to raise the minimum wage. It’s only fair you suffer a little, too.”

Her gaze fell to the space between their bodies. His erection tented his tuxedo pants, straining to reach her. Here, boy. “Well, the cock-inside-me plan would have enormous benefits for you, Eli.”

He laughed, a low and pained sound. “I’m not above a little suffering for you, Alexandra. You wouldn’t believe my scotch bill for the last six months.”

“I drove you to drink.”

“Many times.”

What every girl wanted to hear.

But this girl wanted to hear more—his grunts and moans, her name on his lips when he shot off inside her. She unsnapped his tuxedo pants and sprang free his impressive erection. “It’s not safe to walk around like this, Eli. You could do yourself an injury.”

His hooded gaze did little to hide his banked desire. “Well,” he gritted out, “if it’s for my health.”

She loved the feel of him in her hands, the soft skin over that rod of steel. All that power. He smoothed a condom on and with no preamble—unless you counted his ass grab lift off the floor—drilled between her thighs.

“Oh my God!” The sensations were unreal: the fullness, the reach, the constricted nature of her passage, knee-cuffed by her jeans. Every thrust dragged against her swollen clit on the return, the perfect friction to bring her to climax.

In his eyes, she saw the same molten hunger she’d felt when he feasted between her thighs. The same drive to possess her, body and soul. She came, and he followed her over, so gorgeous in his abandon, her name an awed whisper on his lips.

Alexandra.

And she answered silently, I am yours.

Knowing what she did to him made her feel powerful, just as knowing what he did to her made her feel weak.

He disposed of the condom and rearranged his clothing, while she watched in a fuck-drunk daze. He covered her with the protection of his body once more. “I’ll be back home around midnight and I want you there in my bed. Security will know to expect you. Yes?”

“Yes.”

He drew back, pulled up her jeans, and buttoned her shirt slowly, never breaking eye contact.

“What did Durand want?”

“A tour of the firehouse and . . . a date.”

“Doesn’t he read the papers?” He unleashed a very unkind diatribe about Bastian’s language skills, concluding that he was as dumb as a puck and likely didn’t understand anything not written in French.

“And you told him what, exactly?”

“Tours of the firehouse are every other Wednesday.”

“And?”

“That I barely have time to fake date, never mind the real thing.”

They shot goofy smiles at each other, both ridiculously pleased with themselves. And on that he left her, disheveled, half satisfied, and more than a little lost.

 CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The library in the Mid-America Club might seem like a strange place for the annual League of Chicago Businessmen soiree, seeing as how most of the men here only read stock reports, the FT, and Crain’s, but its leather tomes and air of erudition set the tone of privilege nicely.

Eli should have felt right at home.

He had been groomed for this. His childhood was filled with events in places like this. Family parties, birthday celebrations, graduations. Determined to continue the golden upbringing his parents had planned for him, his grandparents had ensured he mixed with the right people in the right venues. Your parents wanted you to carry on the family traditions of service to your community and country. He had the wealth and education to initialize, the will and fire to make it happen.

Four years ago, when he found out his father’s true nature, Eli donated his entire inheritance—two million and change—to the Wounded Warrior Project. Everything but the house in Lincoln Park, which had belonged to his mother outright. He had wanted the gift to be anonymous, but his financials were an open book, so even that put him in good graces with the voters. These days, he lived comfortably on the trust fund his grandparents had set up for him and a few solid investments, untainted by his father’s legacy of lies. Financially, anyway.

“Mr. Mayor,” he heard with an apologetic cough behind him.

He turned to find Caroline Jenkins, his closest rival in the upcoming election. Unprepossessing in appearance, she wore boxy suits and an unfashionable hairstyle that did her no favors, but she made up for her mousiness by being as sharp as a tack. In another lifetime, Eli would have liked her a great deal.

“Caroline, we’re not on show now. Call me Eli.”

“We’re always on show, Mr. Mayor.” She flicked a glance around the room, an acknowledgment that the rest of the league watched in longing expectation that a spot of late-campaign drama might enliven the stuffy atmosphere.

“I have to admire your tactics,” she said with a brittle smile. “If I were the suspicious type, I’d say you and Madison Maitland set up that rescue stunt to boost your flagging numbers.”

He tutted. “Next you’ll be saying that I started the fire myself.”

“Or that you’re dating Alexandra Dempsey to grab a few extra votes.”

He laughed warmly. “We do what we can. Better that than something else.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, comprehension dawning, and a shadow of resignation crossed her face. Christ, if she was going to give up without a fight, then she most certainly did not deserve to rule his city.

“You’re as clean as a whistle, Caroline. One arrest for an animal rights protest back in college, but otherwise you’re above reproach.”

She didn’t look hopeful that he hadn’t dug deeper. He took a sip of his Pinot, an excellent vintage from 2007 the club kept on hand for Eli alone.