Page 4 of His Red Carnation

Fuck that. She could do whatever she wanted. And I’d be right there to protect her.

3

Sloane

I was probably pushing my luck. Callan didn’t seem remotely interested in me—he barely even looked my way. He probably thought I was just some little puppy, trying and failing miserably to flirt. Did he even notice? I’d only tried flirting a handful of times in my life, and nothing ever came of it. Was that because I was the President’s daughter or because I was just bad at it? Maybe both.

The moment I told him I needed a ride, I decided I’d go get a tattoo. Something about Callan and finally being eighteen made me want to do something out of character. Normally, I was the straight-laced, quiet, follow-the-rules type—a straight-A student who wouldn’t dare curse in front of adults. I had always wanted to be the rebellious girl with tattoos, blue hair, and a ‘fuck it’ attitude toward authority. But I never was—probably because I didn’t want to give my dad any more stress or negative press. He had enough to worry about, leading the free world and all.

So what exactly would be the problem if his eighteen-year-old daughter got a tiny, hidden tattoo? With her hot new bodyguard tagging along, preferably behind her, fucking her with his tattooed hands gripping her hips?

Back in my room, I felt around my wet pussy as I laid in bed under the covers, the image of Callan’s strong hands on my body enough to get me worked up. I put one hand to my breast under my T-shirt, playing with my erect nipple.His full lips on my neck, one hand reaching over to rub my clit as he pounded me from behind…my orgasm quickly and fiercely approached, a quiet moan escaping my throat as I came to my fantasy.

I gasped when there was a knock at the door. I removed my hands from my wet spot and breast and feigned sleepy eyes as I covered my whole body with blankets.

“Come in,” I called.

Mom stepped inside, still in her black funeral dress and heels. She gave me a small, sympathetic smile as she closed the door behind her and made her way over to the foot of my bed, sitting down gently.

“I’m sorry your dad and I rushed back to work so soon. How are you feeling? Did you and Callan get to know each other?”

I nodded quickly. “It’s fine. I’m okay. And yeah, we did. He seems nice.” I shrugged, trying to sound casual.

Mom nodded, a slow smile creeping onto her face. “Isn’t he hot? In that bad boy kind of way? I always thought so,” she said, laughing softly.

“Mom!” I laughed, feeling my cheeks flush. “He’s Dad’s friend!”

She shrugged with a playful smirk. “I’m still a hot-blooded woman. Don’t you think he is? You’re probably too young to notice. He’s very sweet, though. He’ll do a good job watching you.”

My face burned. If only she knew how much I wanted him watching me just a few minutes ago.

“No, yeah. He’s hot,” I admitted, trying to play it off. “But like, way too old.” No way could Mom know about the crush I was developing.

She shook her head teasingly.

“I asked him for a ride later. I’m going to get myself a birthday present,” I added, feeling a little thrill at sharing it with her. I’d never tell Dad, but I told Mom everything.Mostlyeverything.

Her eyebrows lifted in surprise. “And what kind of present would that be?”

I bit the inside of my cheek, a nervous habit. “I’m gonna get a tattoo. A small one. Like, on my back or something,” I said quietly.

Mom immediately smiled. “Please don’t get a tramp stamp. Anywhere but your lower back. Please.” She laughed.

I scoffed, laughing with her. “I’m not getting a tramp stamp. I want to get a little red carnation.”

Her face lit up. “Spain’s national flower. Oh, baby.Te quiero mucho.” She squeezed my hand warmly.

“I love you too.” My tone turned serious. “But please, don’t tell Dad.”

She scoffed, rolling her eyes. “You think I’m going to tell your father? You want him to killme?” she teased. “No, save that for when you’re thirty-five.”

* * *

My heart raced when I got a text from Callan.

It’s Callan. Here’s my number.

I smiled, trying to come up with something witty to say.

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