You slam down the strategy memos you've spent the last hour trying to compile and practically rip your tie off. You're holed up in some God forsaken hotel room in who knows where Iowa, fighting the uphill battle of a lifetime, and the only thing you can focus on is the opportunity you missed in the hallway last night. You pull a beer out of the fridge and flip the top off, not caring where the cap lands. You only take one drink, before leaving it on the desk to ultimately be forgotten, and set out to find your candidate. But the moment you open the door to the hallway, your train of thought derails as your eyes immediately land on the person you've really been thinking about all day. She's there, just outside Russell campaign's war room. A pollster you're pretty sure is named Brian, leans against the wall and speaks to her. He's a little too close to her for your approval. Doesn't he know? You wonder how he missed the unwritten rule to which the rest of the beltway insiders strictly adhere. Doesn't he know who she is?!
Mine. Mine. Mine.
It pounds through your head like a steady drumbeat, coursing through your veins and throbbing in your ears. The intensity escalates faster than you can try to control it and suddenly you're seeing red. At some point in the last minute, your fists have clenched in rage at your side. It's primal and simplistic, but its happening.
Mine. Mine. Mine.
Even through the fog of jealousy in your mind, on some level, you know CJ would slap the hell out of you and call you a chauvinistic pig, if she knew what you were really thinking. But it doesn't matter. All that matters right now is the scene unfolding in front of you.
Mine. Mine. Mine.
And then something else happens. She gives him a little smile. A smile of which you want to be the only one on the receiving end. She tilts her head slightly and gives a soft little giggle. It's forced and you know it- because you know practically everything about this woman. But that's when it hits you. She's flirting with him. And the rage turns to nausea.
Mine. Mine. Mine.
The drumbeat that just a few moments ago sounded a call to war in your mind fades into something else entirely. It's fight or flight, you suppose, that sends you into action, moving your feet towards her before you even realize what's happening. And you're cutting into their conversation and softly placing your hand on the small of her back and excusing yourself in a way that Donna will find cordial, but with a glare towards the man in the hallway that leaves no room for misinterpretation.
Mine. Mine. Mine.
And you know that she's questioning you about what in the hell is wrong with you and what you could possibly need to speak with her about and she's talking a mile a minute but you hear nothing except your heartbeat quickening in your chest as you come to realize what you've just done. There's no turning back now, so you make a bee line to your room and guide her inside, and close the door with a certain amount of force.
Mine. Mine. Mine.
She's flustered and irritated, and you aren't sure which words to say to make her understand. So you opt out of the speech you always thought you'd make and you kiss her instead. Hard.
Mine. Mine. Mine.
She's stunned at first but it's only a fraction of a second before she's melting into you, her hands are tangled in your hair and you're pinning her up against the wall in a completely different type of frenzy.
Mine. Mine. Mine.
And though it's hard to formulate a coherent thought about anything at this particular moment, you become a little more alert when her hands move lower, yanking your shirt tails from your pants and unbuttoning your white oxford with a maddeningly aggressive pace. But you don't protest. It all just feels so right as your hands wander to areas of her body you've only dreamed about, and she lets out the softest moan against your lips. And that only spurs you on.
Mine. Mine. Mine.
The sound of your belt buckle clinking and the touch of her fingertips as they graze softly across the top of the elastic on your boxers almost does you in on the spot because this is Donna and this is really happening. But you respond in kind, without so much as a thought, eager to continue what is shaping up to be one hell of an evening. Later, you'll chastise yourself for not thinking about what you were doing, but right now, at this very moment, there's only one thing running through your head.
Mine. Mine. Mine.
You throw caution to the wind for the first time in the decade's worth of interactions with her and let your hands wander down the back of her body and to the hem of her pencil skirt, but before you have a chance to talk yourself in or out of the next move, she lets you know in no uncertain terms that she's in control now. And of course she is- she's Donna and she can read you like a book. Her hands find your arousal and you swear you almost see stars right then and there, but you put yourself back on task as you gracelessly hike her skirt up.
Mine. Mine. Mine.
You pull away slightly and look at her for confirmation before you proceed, needing to be absolutely certain she wants this as badly as you do. She immediately gives you a nod of approval, almost pleading with you to hurry, and you find yourself incredibly relieved. She answers the next question before you even ask with a mumbled s'okay and you don't need for her to elaborate. You trust her unequivocally- you always have- and in that moment you realize that you couldn't stand for one more thing to come between the two of you. Even literally. Even that. You wrap your arms around the parts of her that aren't still pushed up against the hotel room wall and she wraps her legs around you and the next thing you know it's happening and your face is buried in her neck and the only sound in the room is the the sound of that first sharp intake of breath.
Mine. Mine. Mine.
She's perfect for you and you've known that for years, but this beyond anything you've ever believed would happen. This is- Oh, God. Finally. And as you let every worry you've clung to for the last forty three years melt away, there's only one thing left in your head, marching in a slow rhythm to the sounds of pleasure escaping her lips while she holds on you as you pick up the pace.
Mine. Mine. Mine.
Donna has always been vocal but you would have never pegged her for a screamer. Even still, you're pleasantly surprised when she doesn't even attempt to temper her volume. If you were thinking clearly- well, if you were thinking clearly, you'd be thinking a lot of things. But you'd be thanking your lucky stars that your room is at the end of the hallway because there would be no doubt to anyone on the other side of that wall about what was going on inside this room right now. But you don't give a shit at the moment. You don't care if the whole world knows.
Mine. Mine. Mine.
Moments later you feel her entire body tighten and uncoil around you as her nails dig into your bicep in a not all together unpleasant manner and you don't even try to stop it as a string of expletives fly out of your mouth and your heart practically beats out of your chest as you lean against her, wanting to absorb her into your very being as you wait for your breathing to even out. If you listen closely you can probably hear the oh-so-silent words on your breath.
Mine. Mine. Mine.
And then the haze clears and you realize this wasn't how this was supposed to happen. In all of the ways you could have possibly imagined, a quickie against the wall of a Holiday Inn in Iowa City wasn't even in the top hundred. This was Donna and you wanted better for her. Suddenly you're panicking again, as you try to figure out how to fix this. How to make sure you never have to watch her walk out of your life again. You're somewhat terrified of the damage you may have just done as you meet her gaze, but you quickly realize that when she looks you in the eye she's saying the same thing that you are.
Mine. Mine. Mine.