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Covert Affairs S01 - S05

Cocky Senator (Cocker Brothers of Atlanta Book 5)(10)

By: Faleena Hopkins



She doesn’t. That glass would be bone dry if she did. She’s paying it as much attention as she is to me.

I have good instincts about people. I’m not as naive as Jason is. I sensed at the bar that something big is going on in her life, that the drinking was just a momentary escape rather than a daily need.

But she hasn’t told me what.

I’m growing very curious.

What’s bringing her to my city?

How long is she staying for?

I doubt she’ll even tell me. She seems to enjoy being a mystery. “What’s your name?”

She glances over like I interrupted an interesting article. Her face relaxes. “It’s Jaimie.”

On a smirk, I mutter, “Okay, fine. Don’t tell me.”

She blinks. “It’s Jaimie. It is.”

“Yeah right,” I chuckle, pulling my phone out for the political podcasts I subscribe to. I can feel her staring at me so I wave at her to go back to her magazine. She turns away from me and shrugs.

Minutes tick by, but I can’t focus on what these experts are debating. I’m hearing nothing but the plane engine’s dull and ceaseless hum…and my building curiosity.

The thing is, women I make cum like that would normally be talking my fucking ear off.

They’d be asking questions about me.

Personal things I don’t want to share with strangers.

They’d be offering unsolicited tidbits about their personal lives.

Why is this gorgeous woman ignoring me?

I glance over as she uncrosses her legs and kicks off one of her heels, bending while reading to absently rub the arch of her foot. Her toenails are perfect. Red nail polish. I like it.

Reaching over I take hold of her foot to knead her flesh with stronger thumbs. She’s forced to adjust in her seat and face me as I bring it onto my lap.

“Well, you’re just a full service shop, aren’t you?”

On a smirk I confess, “With things like this I serve only myself.”

“So what are you getting out of it?”

I glance to my crotch and she follows my lead. Her eyes flicker from playful to lustful, but she covers it quickly.

“What’s your name?”

On a wicked smile she murmurs, “I already told you.”

“What’s your real name?”

“Why do you want to know?” She closes her magazine as I work the sore spots under her toes. Inhaling through her teeth, she rasps, “Oooooooh, you’re good at that.”

“I’m good at a lot of things.”

“And so modest about all of it.”

“Modesty isn’t something I’m good at,” I smirk, slowing my thumbs to small circles.

Feigning surprise she asks, “No?”

“Modesty is something mediocre people want you to feel.” Off her amused expression, I smile. “You don’t agree?”

“I think you’re a jerk.”

“I am one. Shall I continue?”

“Please.”

“Give me your other foot.” Her dress makes a sensual hiss as her thighs brush together during the switch. She has to adjust her body a little and when she does her eyes remain on me. She’s fucking breathtaking, this one. A dark-eyed beauty with mystery behind her every move. And I’ve finally got her full attention.

“Society teaches us to put ourselves down. Why? Who does that help? It helps only those people who aren’t trying. Who could, but don’t want to live up to their full potential, that’s who it helps. Only them. But what if we all owned what we’re good at? Everyone. What if it became normal for people to say their positive attributes rather than their negatives?”

“Interesting theory,” she purrs, closing her eyes as I press hard into her heel with my thumbs. “That feels so good.”

Smirking I continue my diatribe, because this is a subject I’ve thought long and hard on, and it pisses me off that belittling yourself is a reality people demand, as a society norm.

“Thomas Edison said, If we all did the things we are capable of doing we would literally astound ourselves. But people would rather numb themselves with an infinite selection of self-sabotaging behaviors than start a revolution and demand that term-limits be set for members of Congress, both the House of Representatives and Senate.”

Her eyebrows rise up. “That was an interesting segue. Why should there be?”

“There are term-limits for the President! Why not for Congress? It makes no logical sense.”

“But if a Senator knows what he’s doing, why should he be forced to step down?”

“He’s got six years to finish what he came to do,” I state with finality, because I’m used to the discussion stopping here.

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