Praise Me: President (Praise Me Daily)
Praise Me: President: Chapter 8

I’m trapped in the middle of a fairytale, and I never want to be free.

We ride in the service elevator down to the bottom floor, entering the restaurant through the kitchen where all the staff has been corralled to one side, allowing me and the president to move through safely. We’re led to a “chef’s table” on the other side of a heavy wooden door, located inside of a small wine cellar. The carpet is a dark velvet red, the walls lined with old-looking bottles of wine, our table in the center of the intimate space, candlelight flickering in hollows and on rustic surfaces.

It’s the epitome of romance…and I’m about to share it with the president.

Pierce holds a chair out for me and I sit down, trying not to giggle or sweat or say something ridiculous, but I’ve never been so…happy? In my life?

Is this a date? Am I on a date with Pierce McAlister?

I’m afraid to ask. I’m afraid to wake up from this dream.

He removes his tuxedo jacket and I try not to watch too closely as his bicep pops, his pectoral muscles shifting against the front of his white shirt. He hangs the jacket on the back of his chair and sits down, looking me in the eye while he settles my white linen dinner napkin onto my lap.

“What do you want to drink, Ms. Rogers?”

“Seltzer with lemon, please.”

“No wine?”

“I’ve only drank wine once in my life and I ended up inciting a protest that led to several arrests and permanent jail records.”

Pierce chokes on his amusement. “Do you mind sharing the details?”

“Well.” I shift in my seat. “Back when I was at Villanova, there was a political commentator who shall remain unnamed coming to town for a speaking engagement. My fellow political science majors had already submitted a petition to cancel the appearance, but the university wasn’t going to comply. I drank a glass of wine intending to drown my sorrows. Instead, it made me feel immortal and I climbed a streetlight with a bullhorn and told everyone we were doing a sit-in. There are pictures if you Google them. Please don’t.”

“Wow.” His smile is so charming, I have to focus on inhaling, exhaling. “How did that slip under the radar during the vetting process?”

“Because after I organized the protest, I went home and passed out from my one glass of wine. Someone else took the wrap.”

“Sounds like a politician move.”

“Well,” I say primly. “Look where my lack of accountability got me. I’m having dinner with the president.”

“You’re having dinner with your boyfriend, Eloise.”

No, I didn’t hear that right. There’s no way. “I’m what?”

He reaches over and frames the side of my face in his hand. “You heard exactly what I said, angel.” His head drops forward on a dry laugh. “Hell, maybe I’m getting ahead of myself. The right thing to do is ask if you want to be my girlfriend.” He pulls my chair closer, wedging me and the seat between his outstretched legs, his mouth pressing in against my ear. “Do you want to be my girlfriend, beautiful Eloise? Out in the open?”

The word “yes” is perched right on the tip of my tongue. I’ve only ever been attracted to one man in my life—Pierce McAlister. And I’m attracted to so much more than his physical appearance. His work ethic, his strength and his integrity are traits I’ve always admired from a distance, but having been up close and personal with the president, I now adore him for his protectiveness, too. How he doesn’t just pay lip service to his respect of women, he’d delivered today in front of the senator.

This is the man of my dreams. But I have more than myself to think about.

“Are you sure?” I whisper, worrying the napkin in my lap. “What if people twist us into something perverse and it hurts your image so early in your term?”

“Then we have four years to change their minds.” He studies my worried face for a beat, then sighs, pulling me out of my chair and sideways into his lap, his fingers strumming up and down my spine. “Eloise, they will spend five minutes getting to know you and wonder how I made it a full two days without asking you to be mine. I’m wondering myself.” He kisses my bare shoulder. “How are you single at twenty-five, I’ll never understand.”

“You’ve set an impossibly high standard, Mr. President.”

“I think it’s time you start calling me Pierce, angel.” He rubs his open mouth side to side against my ear. “That’s the name I want to hear when I’m fucking you tonight.”

He stamps his mouth over mine to absorb my shuddering moan, his palm skimming up the outside of my thigh to squeeze my hip, to play with the lace waistband of my panties, as if he’s strongly considering taking them off right here at the table. Unfortunately, the sound of footsteps approaching forces him to remove his hand from beneath my dress and halt the kiss in its inception. He keeps me on his lap, however, which is my new favorite place to be in the whole world.

“This is an honor, Mr. President,” says the chef as he enters, carrying a tray full of food. At least five plates, assorted entrees and appetizers that make my stomach growl, incurring the realization that I haven’t eaten since breakfast. “You earned my vote and your supper,” he laughs, showing no reaction to the fact that I’m sitting on Pierce’s lap.

I’m just getting excited about the food when another man sweeps in with a white towel draped over his arm and a bottle of wine in hand, immediately pouring two giant glasses for me and the president.

“Oh!” I twist in Pierce’s lap and he grunts, holding my hips still. “I don’t drink.”

“You must drink with the pasta, young lady,” he scoffs. “Please.”

“Maybe a sip or two,” I hedge.

A mistake I would…or wouldn’t regret less than fifteen minutes later.

“And that’s why the Fourth of July is my favorite holiday,” I say, peering into my empty wine glass. “Hey, my drink is missing.”

“You finished it yourself, angel.”

“I did?” Alarm swims in my belly and I set the glass down. “No telling what might happen now.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to let you organize a sit-in,” he chuckles. “Not tonight, at least.”

“That wine is a lot nicer than the one I drank in college.” I’m kissing the president’s chin, his cheeks, nuzzling our mouths together with happy sighs and my brain is commanding none of it. The wine is in charge now. “Maybe there will be different results,” I murmur, tracing the seam of his mouth with my tongue. “Maybe I’ll be a good girl tonight.”

“Somehow I doubt that,” he says hoarsely, his hands all over my thighs, stroking up beneath the hem of my dress, his fingers coming within a breath of my panties. “But you need to be a good girl for a few minutes while they clear these dishes. Can you do that?”

“Yes, Mr. President,” I whisper, closing my eyes and folding my hands in my lap.

While rubbing circles onto my back, Pierce gives a sharp whistle, and I hear the door of the wine cellar opening. “Ask them to take these dishes, please,” he says.

Within moments, our dinner plates are cleared, carried off along with Pierce’s compliments to the chef. Before his agents can leave the room again, he says, “We’ll need privacy now. I’ll call you when we’re ready to leave.”

“Yes, sir.”

We’re alone in the room once again, and God, I’m feeling intoxicated in more ways than one. The wine hasn’t made me drunk, only languid and loose. Eager to be alone with the man whose company I’m truly drunk on—and whose lap has become my permanent throne. Every time during our meal where I attempted to return to my own chair, he only tightens his hold and frankly, looks offended that I’m trying to skedaddle in the first place.

I giggle out loud.

Skedaddle is a funny word.

“Eloise,” says the president, picking me up around the waist and throwing me up onto the table in front of him, making my mouth drop open. “You never answered me,” he says, untying his bow tie, stowing it in his pocket and proceeding to undo the first few buttons of his white dress shirt. “Do you want to be my girlfriend?”

“Of course I do, sir,” I breathe.

His exhale is little rocky. As if he didn’t think it was a sure thing? “So that’s a yes?”

“It’s a hell yes, sir.”

He cracks a laugh, candlelight flickering in the depth of his amber eyes. “You’re making me a very happy man, Eloise. But you’re going to start calling me by my first name if it kills me.” Smile dipping and vanishing completely, Pierce settles his hands on my knees and, looking me in the eye, he draws them open. Open. Open all the way and exposing my white –lace-covered sex, my heart thundering into a sprint when he ducks his head for a look and he sucks in a sharp breath, his lids dropping to half-mast. “Never seen anything prettier in my fucking life.” He leans down and kisses the insides of my thighs, one at a time. “You keep the boys away from it until I could replace you, angel?”

“Yes, sir,” I whisper, starting to tremble.

“Good girl.” He crooks an arm around my hips, sliding me to the edge of the table. “I’m going to make you so glad you did.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Pierce, angel. And Daddy once my tongue is in it.”

“Ohh oh okay okay,” I whimper, because oh my goodness, he’s rubbing the split of my flesh with his thumb and I’ll say whatever he wants to hear because he’s…he’s so big compared to me and I feel so dainty perched on the table while he tickles me with his thumb, rubbing and rubbing and parting my delicate flesh through the lace, wetting me, soaking me while I struggle not to moan. “You touch it b-better than me.”

“I’m only learning you. Just wait.”

“I don’t want to wait. I can’t.”

“Lay back and open your thighs,” he growls, bringing his thumb to his mouth to suck the essence of me off, his subsequent groan projected at the ceiling. “Going to lick the fuck out of this little vanilla cunt, Eloise.” He grips my dress where it dips between my breasts and wrestles it down to my waist, my breasts bouncing out in order to be devoured by dark eyes. “My God. Juicy everywhere, aren’t you?” His palms travel up by ribcage and cover my breasts, squeezing and batting at them. Slap. Slap. “These are not the tits of a typical first lady, Eloise. Tits like these get the president into trouble.” He bends down and sucks my nipples, right, then left, leaving them erect and shiny. “The country will just have to deal with the fact that I’ve got a good girl with a homewrecker body, won’t they? Because I’m locking you down tight, Eloise Rogers.” Pierce’s upper lip is beginning to sweat when he pulls down my panties, drops them and falls to his knees, rubbing his open mouth over my clit. “Yeah, fuck, that’s like silk.”

I forget what planet I’m on after that.

I’ve never done this before, but I’m positive after three seconds that the president is as good at giving pleasure with his mouth as he is at implementing policy. He uses the edge of his tongue to reach every part of me, parts I didn’t even realize would enjoy being licked so dearly. And I want to focus on his hands because they never stop caressing my outer thighs, my knees, my ankles, my breasts. He touches me everywhere nonstop while his tongue bathes my clit, his groans vibrating in my tummy. And all of this is before he starts teasing my entrance with the pad of his middle finger, slip sliding in the wetness, and finally, oh my word, finally screwing into place where no one has ever been before, his knuckle twisting when it meets resistance and going deeper, deeper, though it seems to require an effort.

“Fuck,” he growls against my flesh. “You’re…you’re asking for…”

“For what?” I pant.

“You’re asking to be tied down and bred, little girl. What the fuck am I going to do with pussy this good walking around the White House?” I have no warning before he’s adding a second finger, making my hips squirm, making me cry out with the pressure, a little uncomfortable, a little delicious. All of it wanted. Needed. “I’m doubling the size of your security team. I might make looking at you an act of treason.” He jiggles his fingers inside of me and the pressure mounts, making me sob, my thighs beginning to feel that telltale quiver. “This is mine, Eloise. Presidential property. Is that fucking clear?”

“Yes, sir,” I cry out.

With a growl of victory, he’s back to licking me relentlessly, pumping his fingers in and out of me slowly while rubbing my clit with his tongue, faster, faster, my body overheating in time with the tempo, my fingers curling in the white tablecloth.

“Oh God, oh God.”

He replaces a hidden land inside of me and tickles it and I feel like I’m going to pee, so I clamp down with my muscles, but he only pleasures me with more single-minded determination, and in the end, it’s his possessive amber eyes looking up the length of my body that triggers my orgasm, shards of light ripping holes in the fabric of my reality, my hips straining off the table while moisture sluices down the cheeks of my bottom, the president licking it up with animal noises, the table rattling when he surges closer, wanting more, wanting to be closer.

Blackness swoops in and swallows me whole, and the last thing I remember is Pierce fixing my dress and gently arranging my limp body in his arms, carrying me toward the service elevator.

“Call Washington,” I hear him say. “I want her moved into the White House before we land tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir.” The slide of metal doors. “Will you carry her to her room, sir?”

“No,” Pierce says firmly, leaving no room for discussion. “She sleeps with the president from now on.”