long history and very little furniture. When I moved in, I filled it with the bachelor basics: a king-sized bed, a huge couch, and a big-ass flat screen. For the past five years, for better or worse, it was my home.
I stood over the bed, eyeing a leggy piece of ass with long blonde hair lying on her stomach. She was wrapped in my expensive dark gray sheets – a gift from my mother in Alabama when I moved here. Her leg and perfectly muscular bottom were exposed, reminding me of our night together. Tara or Tamara, I couldn’t remember her name exactly, was an assistant in the office of a prominent senator. Senators and congressmen always hired the hottest babes in the city – it seemed to be an unspoken contest.
I always found it interesting how the old farts in Washington got away with so much. Most of the girls I dated had had a run in, or at the very least, an unwelcome brush with a dirty old politician. I was living in a city of sex and lies. It was, as my late father lovingly called it, the largest gravy train with biscuit wheels in the world.
Honest men were hard to find in Washington. It was one of the reasons beautiful women in D.C. were drawn to guys like me. I was much closer to their age, stayed in shape, didn’t need Viagra, or have a saggy ass. And I was clean – in every aspect of the word.
As a seasoned agent for the FBI in the white-collar crime division, I had the unique distinction of being a Harvard-educated Southern gentleman who incidentally packed heat. I had a big brain, a big gun, and big dose of charm I commanded as the occasion dictated. It had always served me well.
I found my boxer briefs in the clothes littered across the bedroom floor – affirmation of our whirlwind shag. Pulling them on, I decided I needed to wake this girl and get her on her way before the sun got too high in the sky. “Good morning, darlin’,” I said, stroking her back and rousing her from her comfortable slumber.
“Good morning,” her voice cracked as she rolled over and brushed her long blonde mane from her face, exposing her fake and perky breasts. “What time is it?”
“It’s way too early,” I joked, pulling away and placing my hands on my hips. I paused for a moment feeling horrible for not remembering her name. I smiled at her and rubbed the stubble on my face, still trying to wake up. “I’m gonna run this morning before I shower, but the coffeemaker is on a timer and there should be a fresh pot in the kitchen.”
She sat and pulled the sheets up, tucking them under her arms to hold them in place and leaned toward the nightstand to look for her phone. Instead she picked up my ID, examining it before bringing her knees to her chest. “I had a good time last night, Special Agent in Charge McKay W. Callahan III. Jeez, that’s a mouthful,” she laughed, reading from the small foldout that contained my badge. “McKay?”
“Family name,” I sighed as I took it from her and tossed it on the dresser, wondering if she was suffering from a case of whatshisname this morning as well. “I prefer Mac if you don’t mind.”
“Okay. McKay ,” she teased.
“Don’t make me arrest you this morning,” I baited, flashing her a wicked smile. “You’re way too pretty to share a detention cell with whatever random transvestite unceremoniously surprised a White House staffer last night.”
“That doesn’t happen,” she laughed, tossing her head back.
“The hell it doesn’t, honey.”
“Well, I don’t remember you reading me my rights last night, but I’m pretty sure neither one of us remained silent.”
I smirked and went to find an old t-shirt and shorts in my dresser. She clearly still expected the man who pinned her to the bed last night – but he was gone, and she was the last thing I wanted to deal with at the moment.
“Sweetheart, you’re sexy as all get out, but the pavement is callin’ my name.”
“Maybe I should arrest you .” She ignored me and continued twisting her hair
I stood over the bed, eyeing a leggy piece of ass with long blonde hair lying on her stomach. She was wrapped in my expensive dark gray sheets – a gift from my mother in Alabama when I moved here. Her leg and perfectly muscular bottom were exposed, reminding me of our night together. Tara or Tamara, I couldn’t remember her name exactly, was an assistant in the office of a prominent senator. Senators and congressmen always hired the hottest babes in the city – it seemed to be an unspoken contest.
I always found it interesting how the old farts in Washington got away with so much. Most of the girls I dated had had a run in, or at the very least, an unwelcome brush with a dirty old politician. I was living in a city of sex and lies. It was, as my late father lovingly called it, the largest gravy train with biscuit wheels in the world.
Honest men were hard to find in Washington. It was one of the reasons beautiful women in D.C. were drawn to guys like me. I was much closer to their age, stayed in shape, didn’t need Viagra, or have a saggy ass. And I was clean – in every aspect of the word.
As a seasoned agent for the FBI in the white-collar crime division, I had the unique distinction of being a Harvard-educated Southern gentleman who incidentally packed heat. I had a big brain, a big gun, and big dose of charm I commanded as the occasion dictated. It had always served me well.
I found my boxer briefs in the clothes littered across the bedroom floor – affirmation of our whirlwind shag. Pulling them on, I decided I needed to wake this girl and get her on her way before the sun got too high in the sky. “Good morning, darlin’,” I said, stroking her back and rousing her from her comfortable slumber.
“Good morning,” her voice cracked as she rolled over and brushed her long blonde mane from her face, exposing her fake and perky breasts. “What time is it?”
“It’s way too early,” I joked, pulling away and placing my hands on my hips. I paused for a moment feeling horrible for not remembering her name. I smiled at her and rubbed the stubble on my face, still trying to wake up. “I’m gonna run this morning before I shower, but the coffeemaker is on a timer and there should be a fresh pot in the kitchen.”
She sat and pulled the sheets up, tucking them under her arms to hold them in place and leaned toward the nightstand to look for her phone. Instead she picked up my ID, examining it before bringing her knees to her chest. “I had a good time last night, Special Agent in Charge McKay W. Callahan III. Jeez, that’s a mouthful,” she laughed, reading from the small foldout that contained my badge. “McKay?”
“Family name,” I sighed as I took it from her and tossed it on the dresser, wondering if she was suffering from a case of whatshisname this morning as well. “I prefer Mac if you don’t mind.”
“Okay. McKay ,” she teased.
“Don’t make me arrest you this morning,” I baited, flashing her a wicked smile. “You’re way too pretty to share a detention cell with whatever random transvestite unceremoniously surprised a White House staffer last night.”
“That doesn’t happen,” she laughed, tossing her head back.
“The hell it doesn’t, honey.”
“Well, I don’t remember you reading me my rights last night, but I’m pretty sure neither one of us remained silent.”
I smirked and went to find an old t-shirt and shorts in my dresser. She clearly still expected the man who pinned her to the bed last night – but he was gone, and she was the last thing I wanted to deal with at the moment.
“Sweetheart, you’re sexy as all get out, but the pavement is callin’ my name.”
“Maybe I should arrest you .” She ignored me and continued twisting her hair
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