My legs are shaking so badly as I walk to the elevator, I'm surprised that I don't fall over. I let out a breath; I desperately want to look behind me, to see if he's following me, but I force myself to only watch where I'm going. If he's not following me, I'm not sure if I want to know right away.

As I'm reaching out to press the button on the elevator, I see Josh come to a stop next to me out of my peripheral vision. My body relaxes, only to tense up again an instant later. He's here. He's actually here.

His breath rustles my hair; he's standing so close to me that I can feel the heat coming off his body. I can smell his aftershave and soap, somehow, inexplicably, despite how many hours he's been up and going today. It's familiar and comforting, and it grounds me even as it makes me lightheaded. He doesn't say anything, though, and it's unnerving. Josh isn't typically the still and silent type, and now, of all times, when I could use a bit of normalcy, he's acting as out of character as I am.

The elevator doors slide open with a ding and I step inside, taking shelter in the corner. I watch him nervously, waiting to see if he'll actually go through with it this time. He strides in almost immediately, pushing the button to his floor before leaning next to me, his hand sliding behind my back. He doesn't quite hold me, but it feels oddly possessive all the same. I don't hate it. I let myself relax a little against his side, the contact reassuring even as it ignites me.

I stare at the elevator display, willing the thing to go faster. I've waited too long for this; I don't need anything else slowing us down.

I fight the urge to look over at him, but I can't help but wonder how he can be so casual about this right now. He's so laid back and at ease, and it's nauseating. I guess I'm alone in this, but this is kind of a big deal. Everything is about to change and he looks like he's about to go decide what he wants for dinner.

The elevator doors slide open again and he puts his hand on my back, his touch feather-light as he guides me out into the hallway. I want to literally run to his room—appearances be damned—but his pace is something slower than a saunter. He's so calm about all this, it truly is disgusting. Still, I force myself to keep my pace slow. It's agony, though. We're this close and it's almost like we're moving in reverse. He digs around in his pocket for a few moments as we approach his room, seemingly having trouble finding his key, and it's the only indication at the moment that this whole situation is getting to him. I don't want either of us to feel nervous, but it's almost a relief to know this is affecting him, too.

He fumbles with the key, staring at it as if it holds the answers to the questions of the universe, and I fight every urge I have to take it from him and unlock the damn door myself. I don't know why these key cards stymie him every time, but for as long as I've known him, he's had the worst time trying to figure them out. I'm sure it has a lot to do with his lack of patience in a most regards, and resistance to change—I have no idea how many times I've listened to him lament over the years about the loss of actual keys in favor of plastic cards, but it was more than once and therefore too many times. It occurs to me that his lack of patience in the small matters might translate to what we're about to do, and that horrifies me a little. I'm mostly sure it won't be the case, but that doesn't stop a few unappealing thoughts from running through my head.

I take a deep breath—I need to center myself. I know from personal experience that too much thinking can be a great way to ruin sex. I have no interest in changing my mind, but I have even less interest in my brain kicking into high gear right now, forcing me to over-think every tiny aspect of my life and taking me out of this moment.

My arm stretches out and, for once, I don't let myself stop before taking his hand in mine. It's something that I've reached out to do a million times over the years, and something that I've never really let myself do, at least not when I worked for him. It seems so personal and familiar that, no matter how close we've been, I haven't been able to convince myself it's appropriate, not between a boss and his assistant. Now, though, there doesn't seem to be any reason to stop. I slide my fingers through his, my heart stuttering and tripping over itself at the way it feels. He looks up at me, eyes wide, the only crack I've seen in his cool exterior so far, and I smile at him tremulously, squeezing his fingers. A strange look comes over his face and shoves the card into the lock, waiting patiently for the light to turn green before pushing the door open. He looks up at me again and holds the door, waiting. I squeeze his fingers again before letting it go, stepping tentatively into his hotel room.

My heart starts to pound. I'm in Josh's room. Not in the way I used to hang out in his hotel rooms, occasionally packing his clothes or reading his schedule or returning his personal calls or any other number of things that were probably way beyond the scope of an actual assistant, but in a way that adults attracted to each other do. My stomach actually knots up for a few seconds before I force myself to relax. This is such a big deal, but the last thing I want is to actually make it into a big deal. I want to have sex; I want to have sex with Josh. Right now, in this moment, it doesn't have to be more than that.

Except I know that's a lie. It doesn't have to be a promise of forever, but I can't talk myself into believing it's not important. We've known each other too long and have been on this edge for more years than is healthy for this to not mean more than just a way to relieve some tension. I've never done this on the campaign trail before—that part was definitely true. For so many reasons, hooking up with someone while on the road like that just seemed like a horrible decision. The first time around, I was just getting out of a terrible relationship and was only interested in trying to help get someone elected. The second go-round, well, I couldn't really imagine doing that with anyone other than Josh—if nothing else because I trust him like I trust no other—and since he wasn't an option, I didn't want to risk it with someone else. And now…now I still don't want to consider this a "hook up" that we'll be able to walk away from like it didn't happen. I don't want to come on board, I don't want a campaign fling, I want to satisfy this craving I've had for almost a decade. This is our time—finally, after everything, this is for us. There are no more excuses.

I hear the door click shut behind me and can actually sense Josh walking toward me. Trying to appear casual, I lean forward and toss my sweater on the bed, as if this is something we do all the time. I confuse myself in that moment, though, because how can I want to appear casual while knowing this is such a huge deal? It can't be both.

His hand settles on my hip and my entire body jumps to attention; I'm sure he couldn't miss it. Before I can lose my nerve, I turn and face him. His face is hard to see—the only light in the room is coming from the bathroom. Everything is bathed in shadows. It feels surreal.

We step toward each other at the same time, and my arms come up without any conscious decision on my part, wrapping around his neck. His hands wrap around my waist, holding me close to him. I hear him breathe out heavily through his nose; part of me really wishes I could see his face clearly right now. The rest of me is grateful to have the shadows, hoping my inhibitions will lower under the cover of darkness.

Still in tandem, we lean in, our lips meeting in a soft kiss. It's gentle and innocent, mouths carefully pressed together, and it makes me feel like everything is on fire. I can't believe this is only the second time we've kissed. Over the last few weeks, I've so badly wanted to corner him and make out until we were both weak in the knees. That might have sent him running for the hills, which is a large part of the reason I never actually did it. But I wanted to make sure the first time wasn't a fluke, that it wasn't just the novelty of kissing someone who's been effectively off-limits for years…I wanted to see if he'd look at me that way again.

I'm suddenly overcome with the need for more. I tighten my hold on him, letting my lips part, and he responds immediately. His tongue moves gently but insistently against mine, the taste of the liquor he just downed faint in his mouth, mixed with the gallons of coffee he's consumed today and a flavor that can only be Josh. It's heady and…delicious, and completely addictive. A tiny moan I can't even begin to control escapes me, the sound muffled in his mouth. My knees give slightly; I tighten my arms, running my hands through his thick, unruly hair. He steers me backward, the mattress hitting the backs of my knees at just the right spot that I start to collapse. He follows me, though, not letting me drop, and we sit mostly side by side on the bed, our bodies angled awkwardly toward each other.

I shift onto my hip, moving myself closer to him, my leg crossing over his. I rub my foot across his covered leg, surprised that it sends tingles through my body. His hand slides down my leg, grabbing the back of my knee to pull it across his lap. I can't help but smile as I try to press myself closer to him. His touch is light, gentle, and entirely erotic. He grabs my high heel and pulls it carefully from my foot, tossing it somewhere away from us. I shudder as he lightly traces his fingers over the arch of my foot.

I finally break away from him, gasping. My mind is swirling—the combination of kissing Josh and lack of oxygen is making me lightheaded. Even though my eyes have adjusted to the low light of the room, I still can't read his expression.

…No, wait; maybe I can. It's just not something that's ever been aimed at me before. The look is predatory and possessive, full of lust and desire. His eyes are dark—probably darker than ambient light calls for, and I feel my heart hammer in response. I can tell it wouldn't take much to be completely swept away by him, to let him take control of the whole evening, to lie back and let him peel away my layers and completely give in to him. It's tempting. It's damn tempting, but I don't want him to ever doubt that I was a willing, active participant in this.

I have to get some sort of control over myself.

I swallow heavily, shifting so that I can drape both of my legs across his lap. I can see his eyes grow wide and it makes me smile, even as my foot taps nervously against him. He grabs my other shoe and tosses it across the room; I feel so wobbly all of a sudden and I brace my hands on the bed behind me, hoping not to fall. He licks his lips, sending shivers down my spine, and his hand slides slowly up my leg. His fingers toy with the hem of my skirt for a just a second before they disappear under the material. Almost simultaneously, he leans forward, his mouth attaching to my neck. I'm so surprised by it that I can't move. He sucks carefully at my skin, his teeth grazing over me, nipping every so often, and it makes me jump. He kisses his way down to my chest, his hand gripping onto my thigh. I finally pull myself together enough to tug at the back of his head. He pulls away slowly and smiles at me lazily; it takes everything I have to not completely jump him. I'm not entirely sure why I'm fighting that urge right now, other than as much as I want him, I want to savor this experience more. I don't know if this is our first time or our only time, but I want to be able to remember it.

I lean down and kiss him, and he returns it slowly, exploring my mouth the way his hand is exploring under my skirt; one millimeter at a time. It's agonizing and completely perfect. I grab at his tie, enjoying the way the silk feels against my fingers for a few moments before I tug at it, pulling it loose and tossing it over my shoulder. I shift my legs again, accidentally brushing against his burgeoning erection. It almost makes my head explode—I've never felt him excited for me. I've never felt him excited, period. My toes tingle at the thought of it. I feel the pit of my stomach flutter. I fumble with the buttons on his shirt, finding it difficult to pull them open while my hands are shaking so badly. I can only hope he doesn't notice—not because I want to hide my desire for him, but because I don't want him to think I'm desperate or deprived.

It takes far too long but I manage to pull his shirt out of his pants, and he removes his hand from my leg, pulling off his shirt and tossing it…somewhere. His arms immediately go around me, tilting me back until we're lying on the bed, my legs still draped over his lap. As we settle into this new position, he pulls back from me, an unreadable look in his eye. I lick my lips, tasting him there, and run a hand through his hair. It's such a simple thing, but I've always been curious about how it would feel. Considering the professional environment he works in, it never looks like he so much as runs a comb through it. I honestly couldn't say at this point if he even owns a comb. His hair is curly and wavy and stands up in every direction, and I'm finding that it's not at all coarse or bristly. Actually, it's unbelievably soft, the strands slipping through my fingers like water, and a deep part of my brain finds it vaguely obnoxious that he barely remembers to wash it and it's so touchable. Men.

He groans suddenly, leaning into my touch before kissing me again, his lips hard against mine. We press closer to each other somehow, though I don't know how that's possible at this point. I feel like I'm on the verge of crawling under his skin. I can't get close enough. I feel his hand on my side, his fingers stroking so lightly it almost tickles, just before he moves his hand under my shirt. I think my entire body erupts in goosebumps. His touch is electric, and everywhere he touches feels like it's on fire.

I pull at his undershirt and he lifts himself up enough to yank it off. I reach up, tracing my fingers over his chest. He's nicely defined, the muscles firm but his skin so soft. He pushes at the bottom of my shirt, bunching it up to just under my bra. He lets out a long breath and drops down, pressing his mouth to my stomach. My eyes go wide at the sensation. I'm sure my stomach has been kissed before at some point in my life, but if it has, it sure as hell never felt like this. This is the most intense sensation I've ever felt. I grab his head to hold him there. I'm not entirely sure what he's doing at the moment—I just know I never want it end.

Suddenly, my entire body feels like it's overheating, my clothes almost suffocating me. I grab the bottom of my sweater and pull it over my head, tossing it toward the foot of the bed. He props himself up on his hands, staring at me in fascination. I suppose that's fair—I don't think he's ever seen me in even a bathing suit. "Jesus," he breathes. His hand comes up, hovering over my breast, filling me with anticipation. My back arches toward him, my body actually aching for his touch. Agonizing moments later, his fingers trace over me, feather light. I think I'm going to combust. His head drops again, his lips pressing carefully to my other breast, and I gasp, screwing my eyes shut. For a few second, I actually think I'm going to cry. His touch is almost reverent; it's so gentle and delicate, and like nothing I've felt before. Up to now, most of my experiences with guys and my breasts have been for them to grope at me furiously, twisting and turning them like they're removable, until I can dislodge and distract them, or they've only sort of noticed them, moving onto the main event. No one's touched me in quite this way before. I hold his head again to keep him in place, but also so that I can compose myself.


Figured I ought to get around to posting this one, too. I'm going to try to keep it lined up with Under My Skin, not that this one will have any surprises. Sorry for the delay in posting it—life has been, well, life, and I've been having attacks of insecurity. Don't mind me.