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withthecolorizedkennedys · 3 months ago

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Pleaassseeeeee, an angsty fic with a smutty ending??? (Either with Bobby or Jack)

Faithfully, Foolishly

synopsis: you thought jack kennedy loved only you, but the hidden toothbrush said otherwise. you came to scream, to cry, to leave, but you stayed, and let him fuck you like it might undo the truth.

word count: 3.4k

pairing: john f. kennedy x reader

rating: 18+; includes explicit sexual acts

tw: cheating, arguments

author's note: now THIS is some angst! i hope you enjoy!

It was the toothbrush that broke you.

Not the lipstick on his collar—you'd convinced yourself that was from an overzealous supporter at an event. Not the late nights—those belonged to politics, to strategy meetings with Bobby and the other aides. Not even the way certain secretaries smiled at him, knowing smiles that made your stomach twist.

No, it was the toothbrush. Pink. Delicate. Tucked behind yours in the master bathroom drawer of Jack's Georgetown townhouse.

You stood frozen, fingers still on the drawer pull, staring at the evidence. So ordinary. So domestic. The kind of thing that spoke of routine, of comfort, of someone who stayed the night often enough to need fresh breath in the morning.

Your toothbrush was blue. Jack's was green.

Pink didn't belong to either of you.

The bathroom suddenly felt airless, the marble countertop cold beneath your palm as you steadied yourself. You'd come to freshen up before Jack arrived home. He'd promised dinner tonight—just the two of you—a rare evening stolen from his Senate duties and policy preparations.

You closed the drawer carefully, as if the pink toothbrush might bite. In the mirror, your reflection looked the same. Pretty in the fresh-faced way Jack had once said reminded him of springtime. But something in your eyes had changed, hardened like ice forming over a pond.

When you heard his key in the lock forty minutes later, you were sitting in the living room, legs crossed at the ankle, wearing the navy dress he'd bought you in Paris. The toothbrush lay on the coffee table between you and the door.

"There's my girl," Jack called, his Boston accent warming the words as he shrugged off his coat. His smile was easy, confident—the smile that had first melted you at that Georgetown cocktail party last year. The smile that made you ignore the warnings from your college roommate: "Kennedy men don't settle for one woman."

You hadn't believed her. Jack had chosen you. Made you feel special. Different.

"Hello, Jack," you said, your voice steadier than you felt.

He crossed to kiss you, but stopped short when he saw what lay on the table. His hesitation lasted only a fraction of a second—most people wouldn't have caught it—but you'd spent months studying his face, memorizing every expression.

"What's this?" he asked, voice light, gesturing to the toothbrush.

"I was hoping you could tell me."

Jack's smile didn't falter, but it tightened around the edges. He moved to the bar cart instead of coming to you, pouring himself two fingers of scotch. "Must be from the cleaning lady. Probably left it."

"The cleaning lady uses our bathroom? Keeps her toothbrush with ours?" You kept your voice level, giving him room to dig himself deeper.

He took a long sip, then turned to face you, leaning against the bar. "Alright, it's not the cleaning lady's."

"No."

"It belongs to a friend who stayed over. After a late fundraiser. She wasn't feeling well." The lie came smoothly, practiced.

You stood, smoothing your dress. "Jack, do you think I'm stupid?"

"Of course not, darling—"

"Because I must be, to have believed you all this time." Your voice cracked slightly. "To have thought I was different. Special."

Jack set his glass down and approached you, his limp barely noticeable today. Good days and bad days with his back, he'd told you. You'd massaged his pain away more nights than you could count.

"You are special," he said, reaching for your hand.

You stepped back. "Don't."

"Sweetheart, you're making too much of this—"

"Am I?" You picked up the toothbrush, held it between you like evidence in a trial. "This isn't just sex, Jack. This is someone who stays. Who keeps things here. Who brushes her teeth in our bathroom."

"It's not our bathroom," he said, voice suddenly sharper. "It's my bathroom. My house."

The words sliced through you. Of course. You didn't live here officially. You had your own apartment across town, maintained for appearances. But you'd spent nearly every night here for months. Your clothes filled half his closet. Your books lined his shelves.

"I see," you said quietly. "And I suppose that makes it your bed too? The one I've been sleeping in?"

Jack ran a hand through his hair, his composure beginning to fray. "Christ, don't be dramatic. You know how this works. My position, my family—"

"Your family?" You laughed, the sound brittle. "Your father would be proud, wouldn't he? Like father, like son."

His jaw tightened. "Don't bring my father into this."

"Why not? Isn't this the Kennedy way? Take what you want, who you want, consequences be damned?"

"That's enough." Jack's voice had that edge now, the one you'd heard him use in heated Senate debates. "You knew who I was when we started this."

"Did I?" You moved closer, anger rising to replace the hurt. "Because I thought I knew Jack Kennedy. The man who read poetry to me in bed. Who talked about changing the world. Who made me believe I was the only one who saw the real him beneath all that shine."

He softened slightly, reaching for you again. This time, you let him take your hand, hating how your body still responded to his touch.

"You do see me," he said, voice lowering to that intimate register that always made your knees weak. "Better than anyone."

"Then why?" Your voice caught. "Why isn't that enough?"

Jack's thumb traced circles on your palm. "It's not about enough. It's not about you."

"Then what is it about?"

He hesitated, and in that pause, you saw the truth. It wasn't about love or need or even desire. It was about power. About taking. About never being satisfied with just one of anything.

You pulled your hand away. "How many others are there?"

"Don't ask questions you don't want answers to."

"How many, Jack?"

He turned away, moving back to his scotch. "A few. Nothing serious."

"Nothing serious," you repeated. "Like I'm nothing serious?"

"That's different. You know it's different with you."

"How? How is it different?" Your voice rose, echoing off the high ceilings of the townhouse. "Because you tell me pretty things? Because you let me sleep here? Or is it because I was stupid enough to believe you when you said you loved me?"

Jack slammed his glass down. "Goddammit, I do love you! As much as I can love anyone."

The qualification hung in the air between you.

"As much as you can," you said softly. "Which isn't very much at all, is it?"

"What do you want from me?" he demanded, voice rising to match yours. "You want me to be something I'm not? Some devoted husband material? That's not who I am. That's not who I'll ever be."

"I want you to be honest! Just once, be honest!"

"Fine! You want honesty?" Jack's face flushed with rare anger. "I sleep with other women. I always have. I always will. It doesn't mean anything. It doesn't touch what we have."

"What we have," you repeated, the words tasting like ash. "And what exactly is that, Jack? What do we have that's so special it survives you fucking other women in our bed?"

"Don't be vulgar."

"Don't be a hypocrite," you shot back. "You'll put your cock in anything that moves, but heaven forbid I say the word 'fucking'?"

His eyes flashed. "That's not fair."

"Fair?" You laughed, the sound verging on hysterical. "You want to talk about fair? Was it fair when you told me you loved me? When you said I was different? When you made me believe I was the only one who understood the real you?"

"You are the only one," he insisted, moving toward you. "The others—they're just bodies. Distractions."

"And what am I? The fool waiting at home?"

"You're everything else," he said, his voice dropping to that persuasive murmur that had convinced voters and women alike. "You're my confidante. My partner. The one I come home to."

"When you're not coming home to them."

Jack's jaw tightened. "I can't change who I am. Not even for you."

The words hung between you, final as a door closing. You turned away, moving to the window that overlooked the quiet Georgetown street. Outside, normal life continued. People walked dogs. Couples strolled hand in hand. None of them knew their world was ending in this beautiful townhouse.

"Then I should go," you said quietly.

You felt him behind you before his hands touched your shoulders. "Don't."

"Why not? What's left for me here?"

His fingers tightened. "Everything. Us. This."

You turned to face him, surprised to find his eyes shining with something that looked almost like fear. Jack Kennedy, afraid? It seemed impossible.

"There is no us," you said. "There's you, and there's the women you use. I just didn't realize which category I fell into until now."

"That's not true." His hands moved to cup your face. "You know that's not true."

You should have pulled away. Should have slapped him. Should have walked out the door with your dignity intact. Instead, you stood frozen, caught in the gravity of him.

"I hate you," you whispered.

"No, you don't."

"I should."

"But you don't." His thumb brushed your lower lip. "You love me. God help you."

The truth of it burned worse than any lie. You did love him. Despite everything, despite knowing better, you loved this selfish, brilliant, damaged man.

"Loving you is the worst thing that's ever happened to me," you said.

Something flashed in his eyes—hurt, or maybe just wounded pride. "Then why are you still here?"

The question hung between you, unanswerable. Why were you still here? Why weren't you running for the door? Why did your body still lean toward his, even as your mind screamed to get away?

"I don't know," you admitted. "Maybe I'm as fucked up as you are."

Jack's mouth twitched. "Maybe you are."

And then his lips were on yours, hard and demanding, nothing like the careful kisses he usually gave. This was raw, angry, his teeth catching your lower lip. You should have pushed him away. Instead, your hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer, pouring all your rage and hurt into the kiss.

You bit him back, tasting blood, wanting to hurt him the way he'd hurt you. His hands gripped your waist, propping you on the drawer beside the window. The impact knocked the breath from your lungs, but you didn't break the kiss. Couldn't. It felt like drowning and breathing at once.

"I hate you," you gasped against his mouth. "I hate you, I hate you."

"I know," he murmured, his hands rough as they gathered your dress up around your hips. "Show me how much."

You clawed at his belt, his zipper, desperate to touch him, to make him feel something—anything—as intense as the storm raging inside you. His fingers found you wet despite everything, and the sound he made—half-groan, half-laugh—made you want to slap him.

Instead, you guided his hand inside you, right there against the wall, not caring that anyone passing on the street might glimpse your silhouettes through the sheer curtains. Let them see. Let the whole world see what Jack Kennedy reduced you to.

He put his fingers into you, one hand braced against the wall. Each movement drove you back against the hard surface, the pain a welcome distraction from the pleasure building low in your belly.

"Is this how you fuck them?" you hissed against his ear. "Is this what they get?"

Jack's rhythm faltered for a moment. "Don't."

"Why not? I want to know." You raked your nails down his back beneath his shirt. "Do you tell them they're special too? Do you make them feel like the only woman in the world?"

He silenced you with another bruising kiss, but you turned your face away.

"Answer me, Jack."

"No," he growled, his fingers still moving against your clit. "It's not the same. It's never the same."

"Liar."

His eyes met yours, dark with something that might have been anger or desire or both. "I've never fucked anyone the way I fuck you."

"Prove it," you challenged.

He pulled out of you abruptly, leaving you empty and aching. Before you could protest, he was dragging you across the room to the dining table where you'd shared so many intimate dinners. With one sweep of his arm, he cleared it of its contents—a crystal vase, yesterday's newspaper, a stack of campaign materials—sending them crashing to the floor.

"Bend over," he ordered, his voice rough.

You hesitated, some last shred of pride holding you back.

"Now," he said, and the command in his voice made you shiver despite yourself.

You turned, placing your palms flat on the polished mahogany surface. Behind you, Jack pushed your dress up again, tearing your underwear down your legs. You heard him spit into his hand—a crude, animal sound that made your face burn with shame and arousal.

When he entered you, it was with such force that the table scraped against the floor. You bit your lip to keep from crying out, not wanting to give him the satisfaction. But when his hand came around to rub between your legs, your resolve crumbled.

"That's it," he murmured against your neck, his breath hot. "Let me hear you."

"Fuck you," you gasped, even as your body betrayed you, pushing back against his thrusts.

He laughed, low and dark. "You are."

The table creaked beneath you, the sound obscene in the otherwise quiet room. Jack's fingers dug into your hip hard enough to bruise, marking you as his even as you knew you weren't—not really, not exclusively.

"Tell me you love me," he demanded, his voice strained.

You shook your head, tears pricking your eyes.

His hand tangled in your hair, pulling your head back. "Say it."

"No."

He slowed his movements, torturing you with shallow thrusts that weren't nearly enough. "Say it, and I'll give you what you need."

"I hate you," you sobbed, the pleasure building unbearably despite your best efforts to resist.

"No, you don't." His lips brushed your ear. "Say it. Tell me you love me."

"I love you," you finally whispered, the admission torn from you like a wound opening. "God help me, I love you."

Jack groaned, his control snapping as he drove into you with renewed force. The table jolted beneath you with each thrust, your fingers scrabbling for purchase on the smooth surface. When your climax hit, it was with such intensity that your vision blurred, your entire body convulsing around him.

He followed moments later, his rhythm faltering as he spilled inside you with a hoarse cry that might have been your name.

For several long moments, the only sound was your combined breathing, harsh in the quiet room. Jack's weight pressed you into the table, his forehead resting between your shoulder blades. You could feel him softening inside you, the evidence of his pleasure beginning to leak down your thighs.

The physical reality of what you'd done crashed over you like a wave. This wasn't lovemaking. It wasn't even sex. It was something darker, more primal. A claiming. A punishment. You weren't sure who was punishing whom anymore.

Jack straightened first, pulling out of you with a gentleness that felt like mockery after the violence of your coupling. You stayed bent over the table, unsure your legs would support you if you tried to stand.

"Are you alright?" he asked, his voice returning to its usual cultured tones.

You laughed, the sound hollow. "What do you think?"

His hand stroked down your spine, a tender gesture that made you want to scream. "I think you're stronger than you know."

Finally, you pushed yourself upright, turning to face him. Jack had already tucked himself away, looking almost composed again except for the flush on his cheeks and the disarray of his hair where you'd pulled it.

"This doesn't fix anything," you said.

"I know." He reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. "But it doesn't have to be the end either."

You stepped away from his touch, suddenly aware of how exposed you were—dress bunched around your waist, underwear torn and dangling from one ankle. You pulled your clothing back into place with as much dignity as you could muster.

"What would it be, then? Me, knowing about the others? Pretending it doesn't matter?"

Jack sighed, running a hand through his hair. "It could be whatever we want it to be. We make our own rules."

"No, Jack. You make the rules. The rest of us just live with them."

He didn't deny it. Instead, he moved to the bar again, pouring fresh drinks for both of you. You accepted the glass when he offered it, needing something to do with your hands.

"I don't want to lose you," he said quietly.

The admission surprised you. Jack Kennedy didn't admit weakness, didn't acknowledge need. It was the closest thing to vulnerability you'd ever seen from him.

"Then change," you said, knowing even as the words left your mouth that he wouldn't. Couldn't.

He smiled sadly. "Would you really want me if I did? The man you fell in love with—he's this man. The one who takes what he wants. The one who breaks rules. If I became someone else, some domesticated version of myself, would you still want me?"

The question struck you like a physical blow because you knew the answer. You'd fallen for Jack Kennedy—the real one, not some sanitized version. The ambitious, brilliant, deeply flawed man who lit up rooms with his presence and left destruction in his wake.

"That's not fair," you whispered.

"None of this is fair." He moved closer, not touching you but near enough that you could smell his cologne mingled with the scent of sex. "Life isn't fair. Love certainly isn't."

You drained your glass, welcoming the burn of alcohol. "So what now?"

Instead of answering, Jack took the empty glass from your hand and set it aside. Then he sank to his knees before you, his hands sliding up your calves to your thighs beneath your dress.

"Jack—"

"Let me," he murmured, looking up at you with those eyes that had charmed a nation. "Let me show you what you mean to me."

You should have stopped him. Should have walked away. Instead, you let him push your dress up again, let him press his face between your thighs where you were still wet with him. His tongue found you, tasting both of you together, and the intimacy of it made you gasp.

Your hands found his hair, not pushing him away but holding him closer. His mouth worked against you expertly—of course it would be expert, how many women had taught him exactly what to do?—bringing you to the edge again with devastating precision.

When you came against his tongue, it was with a sob that tore from your throat, your knees buckling so that only his hands on your hips kept you upright. Jack rose to his feet, gathering you against him as your body trembled with aftershocks.

"Come to bed," he murmured against your hair.

You let him lead you to the bedroom—the same bedroom where other women had lain, where that pink toothbrush owner had slept. The sheets were fresh, you noticed. Had he changed them, knowing you were coming? Or had they been changed to erase evidence of someone else?

Jack undressed you slowly, reverently, a stark contrast to the frenzied coupling earlier. You let him, passive under his hands, watching his face as he revealed your body inch by inch. When you were naked, he stripped himself with less ceremony, his body lean and beautiful despite the scars from his war injuries.

He guided you onto the bed, settling behind you, his chest warm against your back. One arm draped over your waist, holding you close. His lips pressed against your shoulder in a gentle kiss.

"Stay," he whispered.

You should have said no. Should have gathered your clothes and your dignity and walked out the door. Instead, you lay still in his arms, feeling his heartbeat against your back, steady and strong.

"For how long?" you asked.

His arm tightened around you. "For as long as you can."

It wasn't a promise of fidelity. It wasn't even a promise of love. It was simply an acknowledgment of reality: this was who he was. This was what he could offer. Take it or leave it.

You closed your eyes, feeling tears slip down your cheeks. Jack's thumb brushed them away, but he didn't speak. There was nothing left to say.

#john f kennedy x reader #jfk x reader #jack kennedy x reader #jfk #john f kennedy #jack kennedy #kennedy #kennedyposting #the kennedys #asks #requests

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withthecolorizedkennedys · 4 months ago

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could you write a president jack x reader smut 🥹

35,000 Feet

synopsis: you’ve spent months resisting the president, keeping things strictly professional, but at 35,000 feet, your resolve starts to nosedive.

word count: 2.5k

pairing: john f. kennedy x reader

rating: 18+; includes depictions of semi-public sex and vaginal sex

author's note: i just realized i spelt synopsis wrong in all my previous posts fml

The hum of Air Force One's engines provided a constant backdrop to your thoughts as you made your way down the narrow corridor. The plane was quieter at this hour—most of the staff had retreated to their designated areas to catch what little rest they could before landing in Berlin.

You checked your watch: 11:42 PM.

When the call had come through to your cabin phone, you'd nearly ignored it. "The President needs those polling numbers from Pennsylvania before we land," his secretary had said, voice clipped with efficiency. You knew it was bullshit. Those numbers weren't due until next week, and Kennedy had never once requested them ahead of schedule.

For three months, you'd managed to maintain a professional distance. Three months of strategy meetings where his eyes lingered on your mouth while you presented policy briefs. Three months of "accidental" brushes in narrow doorways, his hand finding the small of your back as he let you pass. Three months of late-night discussions that veered dangerously close to personal territory before you'd excuse yourself, citing early meetings.

You weren't naive. John F. Kennedy's reputation with women was as well-documented as his political acumen. You'd seen the way he looked at you from day one—that particular focus he reserved for challenges that intrigued him. And God help you, you'd wanted him too, right from the start. But you'd worked too hard to get here, climbing through ranks of men who assumed your degree was merely decorative. You wouldn't throw it away for a presidential conquest, no matter how tempting.

So you'd kept your distance. Kept conversations professional. Ignored the heat that spread through your body when he rolled up his sleeves during late-night strategy sessions. Pretended not to notice when his hand lingered on yours while passing documents.

But tonight felt different. The air in the plane seemed charged, like the atmosphere before a thunderstorm. Your knock on his private office door sounded unnaturally loud.

"Come in."

The office was dimly lit, just his desk lamp casting a warm glow across the polished wood. Kennedy sat behind his desk, jacket discarded, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tie loosened. He didn't look up immediately when you entered, instead finishing whatever he was writing with deliberate strokes of his pen.

"You wanted the Pennsylvania numbers, Mr. President?" You kept your voice neutral, professional.

He set his pen down slowly, finally raising his eyes to meet yours. "Close the door."

You hesitated, hand still on the doorknob.

"Please." The word wasn't a request.

The door clicked shut behind you. Kennedy stood, moving around his desk with that fluid grace that belied his chronic back pain. He leaned against the front edge of the desk, arms crossed over his chest.

"We both know I didn't call you here for polling numbers."

Your throat went dry. "Sir, if there's nothing you need—"

"There is." He pushed off from the desk, closing the distance between you in two easy strides. "You've been avoiding me."

"I've been doing my job."

"Brilliantly." His mouth quirked up at one corner. "That's not what I'm talking about."

You took a step back, feeling the door press against your spine. "Mr. President—"

"Jack." He placed one hand on the door beside your head, effectively caging you in. "When we're alone, I want you to call me Jack."

His proximity was intoxicating. The faint scent of his cologne mingled with something uniquely him—clean skin, fine wool, the barest hint of whiskey on his breath. You could see the faint stubble beginning to shadow his jaw, the tiny lines at the corners of his eyes.

"This is inappropriate," you managed, though your voice lacked conviction.

"Is it?" His other hand came up to brush a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering against your cheek. "Tell me you haven't thought about it. Tell me you haven't wondered."

Your pulse hammered in your throat. "What I've thought about doesn't matter."

"It matters to me." His voice dropped lower, intimate. "I've watched you for months. The way you hold yourself back. The way you leave rooms when conversations get too personal. The way you flinch—just slightly—when I touch you. Not because you don't want it, but because you want it too much."

His accuracy was unnerving. You swallowed hard, trying to maintain your composure. "We work together."

"We do a lot of things together." His thumb traced the outline of your bottom lip. "Working is just one of them."

"Sir—Jack—" You corrected yourself, trying to regain control of the situation. "This can't happen."

"It's already happening." His eyes held yours, intense and uncompromising. "It's been happening since the moment you walked into my office three months ago and told me my Cuba strategy was shortsighted."

The memory made heat rise to your face. You'd been new then, still trying to prove yourself, and you'd spoken without thinking. Instead of firing you, he'd laughed—a genuine laugh—and asked you to elaborate.

"I respect you too much to lie to you," he continued. "I want you. I've wanted you from the beginning. And you want me too." His hand moved to your waist, fingers splaying possessively. "Tell me I'm wrong, and I'll step back. We'll never speak of this again."

The challenge hung in the air between you. You could deny it—should deny it—but the lie stuck in your throat. His proximity was overwhelming, breaking down the carefully constructed walls you'd built.

"You're not wrong," you whispered, the admission feeling like surrender and victory all at once.

Something flashed in his eyes—triumph, desire, relief—before his mouth claimed yours. The kiss was nothing like you'd imagined in your weakest moments. It wasn't gentle or tentative. It was consuming, demanding, his lips insistent against yours as his hand slid to the back of your neck, holding you in place.

You responded with equal fervor, months of denied attraction erupting in a single moment. Your hands found his chest, feeling the solid warmth of him through his shirt. He made a sound low in his throat, pressing you harder against the door as his tongue swept into your mouth.

His hand at your waist slid lower, gripping your hip, then your thigh, hiking your skirt up inch by inch. "Tell me to stop," he murmured against your mouth, even as his fingers traced the edge of your stockings.

"Don't stop," you sighed, past the point of professional concern, past the point of caring about anything but the feel of his hands on your body.

He smiled against your lips, a predatory curve you felt rather than saw. "Good girl."

His fingers found the damp center of your underwear, and he groaned when he felt how ready you were for him. "Christ," he muttered, pressing against the fabric. "You've been walking around my plane like this? Soaked through and pretending you don't want me?"

Your head fell back against the door as he pushed your underwear aside, his fingers exploring you with devastating precision. He watched your face intently as he worked, gauging your reactions, learning what made your breath catch.

"Look at you," he said, his voice rough with desire. "So composed in those strategy meetings. So professional. If they could see you now…"

His thumb circled your clit as two fingers pushed inside you, and your hips bucked involuntarily. He captured your gasp with his mouth, kissing you deeply as his hand established a rhythm that had you clutching at his shoulders.

"Jack," you moaned against his lips, feeling yourself climbing rapidly toward release.

He withdrew his hand suddenly, leaving you aching and empty. Before you could protest, he was unbuckling his belt, his movements swift and efficient.

"Turn around," he commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument.

You obeyed, bracing your hands against the door as he lifted your skirt to your waist. His hand slid between your shoulder blades, pressing you forward until your cheek rested against the cool wood.

"I've imagined this," he said, positioning himself behind you. "In meetings. During briefings. Watching you present those economic projections last week, all I could think about was bending you over my desk and fucking you until you screamed my name."

The crude language from such a polished man sent a fresh wave of arousal through you. You felt him, hard and insistent, pressing against you.

"Tell me you want this," he demanded, one hand gripping your hip, the other tangled in your hair.

"Yes," you gasped. "God, yes."

He entered you in one smooth thrust, filling you completely. The sensation was overwhelming—the stretch, the fullness, the knowledge that this was John F. Kennedy, the most powerful man in the world, groaning in pleasure as he buried himself inside you.

He established a relentless pace, each thrust driving you against the door. One hand snaked around to find your clit, circling it in time with his movements. The dual stimulation was almost too much to bear.

"You feel incredible," he murmured against your ear, his breath hot on your neck. "Better than I imagined. So tight. So perfect."

His words, combined with the persistent pressure of his fingers and the deep, rhythmic thrusts, pushed you over the edge. Your orgasm hit with unexpected force, your inner muscles clenching around him as waves of pleasure coursed through your body.

He groaned at the sensation, his rhythm faltering momentarily before he resumed with renewed vigor. "That's it," he encouraged, working you through the aftershocks. "Let go for me."

As you came down from your high, he withdrew suddenly, turning you to face him. His eyes were dark with desire, his hair disheveled where you must have run your fingers through it.

"I'm not done with you yet," he said, lifting you effortlessly. Your legs wrapped around his waist as he carried you to his desk, sweeping papers aside with one arm before setting you down on the polished surface.

He pushed you back until you were lying flat, your legs dangling off the edge. Standing between your thighs, he looked down at you with undisguised hunger.

"Do you have any idea how many times I've pictured you like this?" He ran his hands up your thighs, pushing your skirt higher. "Spread out on my desk, waiting for me."

He lowered himself over you, his mouth finding your neck, trailing hot kisses down to the collar of your blouse. With deft fingers, he unbuttoned it, exposing your bra. He made a sound of appreciation before pulling the cup down, freeing your breast to his mouth.

The wet heat of his tongue on your nipple sent fresh arousal coursing through you. You arched into his touch, your hands finding his hair, holding him against you as he lavished attention on first one breast, then the other.

When he finally positioned himself at your entrance again, you were desperate for him. He entered you slowly this time, watching your face as he filled you inch by inch.

"Look at me," he commanded when your eyes threatened to flutter closed from the sensation. "I want to see you."

You forced your eyes open, meeting his gaze as he began to move inside you. This time his pace was measured, deliberate, each thrust deep and purposeful. He maintained eye contact, an unexpected intimacy that was almost more overwhelming than the physical pleasure.

"You're mine now," he said, his voice a low growl. "You understand that, don't you? This isn't just tonight. This isn't just once."

The possessiveness in his tone should have alarmed you, but instead it sent a thrill through your body. You nodded, unable to form words as he hit a spot inside you that made your vision blur.

"Say it," he demanded, slowing his movements to an agonizing pace. "Tell me you're mine."

"I'm yours," you gasped, desperate for him to resume his previous rhythm. "Please, Jack—"

Satisfied, he increased his pace, driving into you with renewed intensity. His hand found your clit again, circling it with practiced skill until you were teetering on the edge once more.

"Come for me again," he urged, his own control visibly slipping. "I want to feel you."

Your second orgasm built more slowly than the first, but when it hit, it was even more powerful. You cried out his name, your back arching off the desk as pleasure radiated through every nerve ending.

He followed shortly after, his rhythm becoming erratic as he approached his own release. With a final, deep thrust, he groaned your name, his body tensing as he came inside you.

For several moments, neither of you moved, both catching your breath in the aftermath. He remained inside you, his weight supported on his forearms as he looked down at you with an expression that mingled satisfaction and something deeper, more complex.

Finally, he withdrew, helping you sit up on the edge of the desk. You both adjusted your clothing in silence, the reality of what had just happened settling over you.

"I should go," you said, buttoning your blouse with fingers that weren't quite steady.

He caught your hand, stopping you. "Stay."

"Jack, we can't—"

"Not for that." He smiled, the boyish charm that had won over voters now directed entirely at you. "Though I wouldn't object to a repeat performance once we land in Berlin."

The suggestion sent a fresh wave of heat through you, despite your recent satisfaction. "This is complicated."

"Life is complicated." He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch gentler now. "This doesn't have to be."

You knew it wasn't true. Nothing involving John F. Kennedy was ever simple. But as he pulled you against him, his lips finding yours in a kiss that was surprisingly tender, you decided that complications could wait until morning.

He released you reluctantly, straightening your collar with a proprietary touch. "Get some rest. We land in four hours."

You nodded, moving toward the door on slightly unsteady legs. As you reached for the handle, his voice stopped you.

"That economic briefing tomorrow—wear the blue dress."

You turned, raising an eyebrow. "Any particular reason?"

His smile was slow, deliberate, sending a shiver down your spine. "It has buttons all the way down the front. Easier access."

The implication was clear. This wasn't a one-time indiscretion—it was the beginning of something. Something reckless, potentially disastrous, but utterly irresistible.

"I'll see what I can do, Mr. President," you replied, unable to suppress a smile of your own.

The blue dress hung in your cabin closet. You'd wear it tomorrow, you decided. After all, who were you to deny the President of the United States?

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