Praise Me: President (Praise Me Daily)
Praise Me: President: Chapter 3

The presidential motorcade showing up at my apartment was not on my bingo card, yet here I am, standing on the steps of my building, an overnight bag slung over my shoulder, watching as around nine Escalades roll up, like it’s no big deal.

I pop out my AirPod slowly, positive this is a mistake. I was contacted by the Secret Service last night and instructed to be at the White House no later than 7am. But it appears the White House has come to me. All nine SUVs roll to a halt at the sidewalk, men with earpieces, mirrored sunglasses and dark suits popping out, moving in all directions, speaking into their dangling microphones about who-knows-what.

What I do know is that someone can knock me over with a feather as I watch President McAlister alight from the fourth Escalade and button his navy blazer while striding toward me. “Ms. Rogers.”

It’s ridiculous, but my first incoherent thought is, oh my gosh, he remembered my name, which is utterly ridiculous considering what transpired between us in the Oval Office yesterday afternoon. Every time I think about it, I have one of two reactions. I slap my hands over my face in humiliation for coming on so strong. For making my borderline unhealthy attraction known within an hour of meeting the man.

For being so wildly unprofessional.

My other reaction is a lot more NSFW. It involves my fingers and a lot of moaning.

The first man I’ve ever made come was the President of the United States.

And I made him come with the tip of my finger.

What does that mean? Were my endless fantasies…more of a manifestation? Or is the connection I always hoped to have with him…real? A real-life, happening-now type thing?

“Good morning, Mr. President.”

“Good morning.” He takes my bag. “Is this your only luggage?”

“Yes,” I respond, dazed by the beauty of his face in the daylight. “But you’re not supposed to be carrying my bag, sir. You’re not supposed to be here at all. I live in the opposite direction of the airfield. I was on my way to—”

“I wanted to see where you lived.” He scrutinizes the building over the top of my head. “You said it was safe, but I’m a see-for-myself type of man.”

“I know this about you,” I say, smiling to hide my full-body blush. He came to check on my safety. “Well. Do you agree with me that it’s safe?”

A grumble in his throat. “What apartment are you in?”

“2B. Why?”

Instead of answering me, he seeks out the nearest SS agent. “Take a few men up to 2B and make sure all entry points are secure. Test the locks. And once we’re back on the road, run security checks on everyone in the building.”

The man wastes no time doing the president’s bidding. “Yes, sir.”

“Is this the kind of five-star service afforded all your cabinet members?”

“I think you know it’s not, Ms. Rogers.” A line snaps in his cheek. “Get in the car.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

I can feel him looking down at the top of my head as he follows me to the SUV. Stopping at the open door, which is being held that way by an agent, I remove my jacket and fold it over one arm, securing my tote bag to my chest and climbing inside, settling into the plush leather seat of the president’s luxurious Escalade.

He gets in beside me and the door closes.

There are men in suits entering my building, but I’m so overwhelmed by the heady presence of the president, I forget why them going inside my apartment is a bad thing.

“Oh!” I fumble to take the phone out of my purse. “My roommate is in there sleeping with her boyfriend! They’re going to have heart attacks!”

The president’s head turns slowly. “You didn’t mention a boyfriend.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

Despite that assurance, the hard set of his jaw doesn’t budge. “You’ll give his name to the agency just to be safe.”

“Fine,” I say, pressing the ringing phone to my ear. “But he works in politics, too.”

“Even more reason to run a report on him,” he grumbles.

I giggle, despite the oddness of the situation, but the scream in my ear cuts me off.

The president and I share a wince, but his is way less sincere. “Hi, Catherine.” I attempt to make sense out her screeches. “The Secret Service is just securing the apartment. Isn’t that nice? We don’t even have to pay for it.” Looking up at the man beside me, I lower my voice to a whisper. “Right?”

“It’s on the house,” confirms Pierce, lips twitching.

“Try and go back to sleep,” I sing to Catherine, hanging up before she can shout any more epithets at me. “She’s not much of a morning person.”

“Are you a morning person?” McAlister asks.

“Oh yes,” I enthuse. “Four am is my favorite time of day. Just before sunrise, when the world is extra quiet and everything is covered in dew.” There is a sense of tension building in the vehicle the longer we sit one inch apart without touching, the president making a visible effort not to look anywhere but my face, even though this black dress is just this side of inappropriate for work with its high hem and tight bodice. I haven’t gotten my first paycheck and most of my money goes toward rent, so I’m still wearing clothes from high school. My breasts and hips have filled out since then. “I would ask if you’re a morning person, but you grew up on a horse ranch,” I say. “You’ve probably never slept late a day in your life.”

He hums, nostalgia playing briefly on his features. “You’ve got that right.”

“You should try it at least once,” I say quietly. “Sleeping in, I mean.”

His chest rises and falls heavily, those amber eyes creeping down to my mouth. “I’d have to find a reason to stay in bed late.”

Very lightly, I let my knuckle run up the back of his hand and he reacts by tipping his head back, inhaling rockily. “I’m sure we could figure something out, sir,” I murmur.

“Goddamn,” he grits. “It took you less than two minutes to make me question my resolve.” He presses his thumb and middle finger into his eyes. “Ms. Rogers, this needs to be a professional relationship. I can’t…we can’t. You’re working under me. Hell, the whole country works beneath me now. It would be reprehensible of me to take advantage of that.” He pauses to search for the right words. “It’s my fault for giving the impression we could have a romantic relationship of some kind. I didn’t expect my reaction to you. But this simply can’t happen.” His voice lowers to a rasp. “I’m not the kind of man who fucks his employee.”

“Okay,” I manage, struggling to think straight under the avalanche of disappointment. After what happened yesterday, not to mention him inviting me on this trip, I thought he was interested in getting to know me as a woman, in addition to building our professional relationship. But I can see I’ve jumped the gun. Big time. As I suspected and worried about all night, I came on too strong. Expected too much. Let my fantasy brain rule the day, instead of my practical one.

“Ms. Rogers, I wouldn’t be the kind of man you believe me to be if I used this trip as an opportunity to sleep with a girl twelve years younger than me.”

That statement couldn’t be truer. As much as I’d like to have a longer, slower replay of our encounter yesterday, he is my hero for a reason. He is honorable. He makes the rules and follows them, unequivocally.

Breaking them so easily would be out of character.

“You’re right, of course,” I say unevenly, my fingers curling in one by one, so I don’t accidentally touch him. He watches me withdraw with a look of frustration. “I’m here on this trip to pitch my initiative to the senator. And that’s all.”

He reaches for my face, but hesitates, letting the hand drop. “Ms. Rogers, if things were different…”

“I understand, sir. You don’t have to explain.”

He’s saved from having to respond when the suited driver climbs into the driver’s side of the SUV, nodding over his shoulder at the president. “We’ll talk more in depth later, sir, but I can’t recommend she return to the premises without some safety upgrades.”

“Schedule them, please,” McAlister says without taking his attention off me. “I want the place locked down tighter than Fort Knox.”

“I don’t need to be protected,” I assure him.

A muscle hops in his cheek. “If this is the only thing I can ethically do for you, Eloise, please just let me have it.”

His use of my name livens the air with an electrical current.

“We’ll be at the airfield in twenty minutes, Mr. President,” calls the driver.

“Thank you,” he says, dragging his hand down over his open mouth while I attempt to gather my wits. This can’t be normal, the effect we have on each other. Can it? My inner thighs feel useless without his body between them. “If you like,” he continues, quietly, “we can use the flight to go over your talking points for the senator.”

“That would be nice,” I say, forcing a bright smile.

He doesn’t smile back.

Rather confusingly, he appears like he’s battling the urge to reach for me.

Not knowing whether to obey my body or his speech about propriety, I duck my head down and study my notes, all too aware that his eyes never leave me once on the ride to the airfield.