Page 20 of Longing for Liberty
Stupid, stupid body.
I went about my day. As hours passed, my feet hurt more, but the warmth in my crotch turned to an incessant heat that would need to be taken care of the moment I got home. There’d been a few times recently when a peck from Jeremy had turned into me kissing him full-on, giving him that look, taking him by surprise. Of course, he never discouraged it and would happily stop whatever he was doing to take care of me.
As I switched the laundry from the washer to the dryer, I slipped off my shoes and wiggled my toes, rolling my ankles and imagining myself straddling my husband on his dining room chair tonight right after dinner. Mmm.
“Ahem.”
I screamed and spun, slapping a hand over my mouth in horror at the sight of Amos Fitzhugh standing right there, too close, and then his scent hit me—that honeyed spice cologne. He had his hands in the pockets of his trousers as he watched me curiously.
“I’m so sorry, sir.” I fumbled to push my foot back into my shoe.
“Stop.”
I glanced at him to find him staring down at my shoes. Oh, no. This was so bad. Taking off my shoes was improper.
“Do your feet hurt?” he asked.
I shook my head fast. “I shouldn’t have taken them off, sir.”
He stepped closer, his voice remaining calm. “Do they hurt?”
“I—” I swallowed. “I’m fine.”
“Yes or no, Liberty.” His tone was sterner now, making my heart race.
“A little.” I shook my head again and rushed on. “But I’m fine.”
“Keep them off.”
When the Secretary gave a command, it was clear he wasn’t accustomed to any arguments. I stared at his tie, fear coursing through me. Why did the thought of being without my shoes in front of this man feel wholly inappropriate? I was beyond uncomfortable.
“Do you understand?” he asked quietly.
“Yes, sir.” But I didn’t. I didn’t understand at all.
“And I can’t have you slipping on the tiles, so take your stockings off, too.”
My eyes flicked up to his, and I felt them widen to find how intently he watched my face. I quickly dropped my gaze back down to his tie. “Okay. Yes, sir. I’ll just…” I pointed toward the bathroom door nearby, needing to pass him.
“Take them off here.”
Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God.
I stupidly looked around as if I might find a private place to move, knowing damned well there was nothing in this space but the machines and hampers.
“Look at me, Liberty.”
I felt myself shaking when I peered up at him.
“Take them off.”
His hands had not come out of his pockets. He stood two feet away, his scent and energy wrapping around me as his command finally hit home. I couldn’t move. We stared at one another, and the heat inside of my body buzzed, sending a vibration of tangled need and fear through me.
His voice lowered and got quieter. “Now.”
I managed a tiny nod of acquiescence as I bent enough to grasp the bottom of my skirt, lifting it to my thighs enough that I could reach the elastic band around my thigh and run my fingers along the edges to grasp the band. I pushed the thin material down and then lifted my foot to pull it off. Then the other side. Swallowing again, I wiggled a little to lower my skirt back into place.
When I finally looked back up into the face of Amos Fitzhugh, his eyes were not lowered to my legs; they were directly on my face as they’d been before, but this time, there was a fire there that made my core pulse. I accidentally took in a small gasp and held it as I stared up at him.
