Page 17 of Power
Chapter five
Bennett
Tuesday
SittingintheOval Office, I read through the legislation proposed. I keep getting distracted by the memory of Reece sprawled out in front of me with her legs over my shoulders while I was feasting on her pussy.
My phone is sitting face up, taunting me to call her. I tap the screen right as a text message comes through. “Fuck it,” I mumble to myself as I search through my phone for her number. Taking my glasses off, I lay them on the desk and sit back as I wait for her to answer.
“Yeah,” she croaks in an exhausted tone.
“Reece,” I say.
“Who is this?”
I pull the phone away from my ear and glare at it. “It’s Bennett.”
“Ugh. You mean, Mr. President?” She releases a massive yawn, making me smile. “What can I help you with, Mr. President?”
“It’s Bennett,” I repeat. “I’d like to see you tonight; we have unfinished business.”
“No, we don’t. I’m sorry but as I stated last night, I’m permanently unavailable.”
My fingers tighten around my phone. “I’m not keen on the word no.”
“Aww, what a shame. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“Reece, I’m asking to see you tonight. I’m thirsty and my tongue needs to be inside you.”
She audibly clears her throat. “I’m unavailable,” she repeats, holding on to her resolve.
Reece is certainly adamant, but so am I. “Mark will pick you up at seven.”
“No, he won’t, because I won’t be here.”
“Where will you be?”
“Out.”
“Out where?” All my muscles tighten with her obvious determination to avoid me. “I asked you a question, Reece. Where are you going?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. President, but my time is exactly that—my time.”
There’s a pain in my jaw from clenching my teeth. “Mark will be there at seven.” I hang up, not giving her the opportunity to argue. “Mark,” I call loud enough for him to hear.
He opens the door to my office and steps inside. “Yes, sir.”
“Seven tonight, I want you to go and pick up Reece.” He nods once and leaves my office. Play with me little girl, and see what happens.
I loosen my tie and pour myself a scotch, waiting for Reece. The chef is preparing our meals and awaiting further instruction. My phone rings, and I look at the number. “Yes?”
“She’s not home, sir,” Mark says.
“What do you mean she’s not home?”
“She’s not home. We picked the lock to her door, and she’s not here.”
That little minx.“Okay, thank you.” I shake my head at her audacity. That’s not going to cut it, not at all.
