Archive of Our Own

It all starts when Mike and Gary find Richard’s Tumblr.

As expected, Richard is a terrible photographer, and has a gift for incredibly inane commentary and tagging. Also not surprising: he seems to have about five followers, and Amy would bet her paycheck that they consist entirely of his family and possibly Jonah. Still, Amy has to give him credit for taking pictures without anyone noticing: there’s one of Selina eating a croissant that, if she knew about it, would get him sent to Guantanamo. There are a few shots of Gary panicking, Ben yelling, and Mike dozing, and a rather terrifying one of Sue glaring into the phone, but most of Richard’s pictures are of the VP and his staff—Tom, Dan, and most of all, Jonah. These are uniformly hilarious; Richard’s lack of talent plus Jonah’s… everything make for some truly amazing photos.

“What’s the opposite of a Pulitzer?” Mike wonders, as they all crowd around Gary’s computer, giggling at an action shot of Jonah slopping yogurt onto his pants (tagged “#boss #gogurt #mess #uncomfortable”). “Because Richard should get one.”

Sue almost smiles. “But how would you choose just one? He should be recognized for his entire body of work.”

Gary stops scrolling, and… oh. Amy’s mouth drops open, and she can see her shock mirrored on everyone’s faces. The picture is just a boring shot of Jonah and Catherine, but a) Jonah has his arm around her shoulders, and b) Catherine is smiling, really smiling, and c) she’s leaning into him in a way that suggests she isn’t entirely repulsed.

“Wow,” Gary says. “Catherine said Jonah’s better behaved now, but I didn’t think she would…”

“Oh my God, please don’t say it,” Mike groans. “I thought Catherine was smarter than that.”

“Hasn’t Jonah been creeping on her since she was, like, barely legal?” Amy asks, revolted.

Gary tears his eyes away from the picture. “Well, yes. But remember when Jonah started up that anti-bullying initiative? I guess Catherine helped him out, hooked him up with some organizations, that sort of thing. And she also read him the riot act on the creeping, and he hasn’t done it to her since.”

Sue squints at the computer screen. “They don’t look romantic to me; the body language is all wrong. They might just be friends.”

“That’s even more implausible,” Mike says. “Hatesex is a thing, but friendship requires that you actually like the other person.”

“It’s definitely better for Jonah. Can you imagine what Selina would do, if she thought they were, you know?” Gary says.

Amy grins. “She’d stick his dick in a blender.” She thinks for a minute. “Maybe we could tell her that Catherine is dating Jonah and Dan…?” She closes her eyes happily, imagining their screams.

“As beautiful as that image is, we can’t throw Catherine under the bus like that,” Sue says. “You know what the press would say.”

Amy sighs. Goddamn fucking patriarchy.

Gary scrolls some more. “Look, Amy! Here’s one of you.”

“Shit, I thought I’d escaped.” The picture isn’t too bad. Richard caught her mid-eyeroll, looking up to the heavens in mute appeal, as Jonah stoops into her space, leering. Pretty typical for their interactions, really. It could have been much, much worse. She’s gloating about getting off lightly, when Gary inhales.

“Oh my goodness. He’s tagged it ‘#tol/smol.’”

Sue’s eyes widen. That, more than anything, stops Amy mid-gloat.

“Wait. What the fuck does that mean? Isn’t it just an obnoxious way of saying he’s tall and I’m not?”

Gary turns pale. “Uh, not really. Well, yes, but…”

Sue cuts in. “It means Richard is ‘shipping’ you and Jonah.”

“… The fuck?” Amy says.

“’Ship,’ like ‘relationship.’ It means he wants you guys to be a couple. He apparently has a height difference kink.”

Amy’s convinced her brain cells are leaking out of her ears. “The only word I understood was ‘couple.’”

Sue sighs. “Richard thinks you and Jonah would be cute together.”

“Okay, that’s the most disgusting thing I’ve heard all year, and I’m including the jelly bean factory explosion.”

Mike grins. “So your last date wasn’t all hearts and flowers? So sad when the romance dies.”

“For fuck’s sake, that was not a date, it was an extortion payment. You know goddamn well I’d never get within 500 feet of Jonah if I didn’t have to.”

“Yeah, I heard he had to take out a restraining order against you. Something about you standing outside his window, holding up a boombox?”

Amy snorts. “Yeah, well, it’s not my fault his neighbors don’t like Godsmack’s masterpiece ‘I Fucking Hate You.’”

“Like I said, hatesex is a thing,” Mike says, and she throws a pencil at him.

*

She forgets all about it until the whole POTUS/VPOTUS staff is given a day off, and she and Dan celebrate the best way they know how: by getting completely shitfaced.

“Soooo, I hear you and Jonah are just adorable together. When’s the wedding?” Dan slurs. Of course he’d bring that up, the shitfuck. She’s still coordinated enough to flip him off, good.

“Fuck you,” she manages, and is obscurely pleased at her own wit.

“No, fuck him. Jonah. You need it. And he’s a decent lay.”

Amy’s drunk, but she doesn’t think she’s at the auditory hallucinations stage yet. “I don’t need to get laid, you misogynist pig. And what the fuck does that mean, he’s a decent lay?”

Dan looks vaguely horrified, which must mean it’s Apocalypse Now inside his head, but it’s like he can’t stop himself. “We hooked up, like years ago. When I was trying to, to get intel.”

“And you thought fucking Jonah was the way to go? I thought you had standards, at least about where you put your dick.”

“Whatever, we were drunk the first time.”

This is amazing—she’d known Dan was a manipulative shithead, but this was a whole new level of Cold War honey-trap fuckery. Then his words catch up to her. “The first time? You voluntarily had sex with Jonah more than once?”

“…Yes?” Dan puts his forehead down on the bar and groans in humiliation, but Amy is suddenly feeling almost sober—and worse, burning with morbid curiosity.

“When you say ‘sex,’ are we talking drunken handjobs in the men’s room, blowjobs, anal, what?” She stops, intrigued. “Does he have a sex dungeon?”

“Oh my god, Amy, fuck off.”

“No fucking way. You’ve touched Spewbacca’s dick. More than once! Did you put it in your mouth?” He shakes his head, but she can see the panic around the edges—he’s lying, he’s so lying, and she cracks up. “That is completely disgusting. I’m almost impressed.”

Dan’s eyes narrow. “Yeah, well, if you’d seen his dick, you wouldn’t be laughing.”

“The only way that will happen is if Selina gets made God-Empress and has him drawn and quartered in the Rose Garden.”

Dan shakes his head, and he’s wearing that smirk, that gross I’ve got your number look he gets when he thinks he’s being clever. He leans in, his lips almost brushing against her ear.

“Jonah’s so pathetically grateful to get his dick wet, he’ll do anything you tell him. I do mean anything.” He pauses. “Don’t tell me you’ve never thought about it, about making him shut the fuck up with your—”

“Oh my god, ugh, no,” Amy tries to shout, but it only comes out as a rough squeak, how annoying. The thought has genuinely never crossed her mind, what the ever-loving fuck.

“But you’re thinking about it now, aren’t you?” Dan laughs, low and dirty. “Next time you see him, you won’t be able to help imagining what it would be like—wondering if I told the truth, or was just fucking with you.”

She pushes away from the bar. “I’m going to the ladies’ room. Try to get the fuck over yourself before I come back.”

He just grins at her over the rim of his glass. She’s going to need even more therapy than usual, and she’s going to send him the fucking bill.

*

The thing is, there was that time when for about two minutes, she had considered… something with Jonah. She’d valiantly repressed that memory, but her tequila hangover is bringing up more than just her breakfast.

It had been ages ago—when Selina was still a Senator, and therefore obligated to press the flesh at a bazillion boring parties. Amy also had to go, but at least no one gave a crap if she made a fool of herself. Not that she ever had. But almost. Once.

It was at one of those functions where Amy spotted him. Not that he was hard to miss—he was at least a head taller than almost everyone in the room. She saw tousled hair, sharp cheekbones, broad shoulders, and she’d thought, hello. He must have felt her looking at him, because he turned and caught her eye; a naughty schoolboy smile spread across his angular face, and Amy tried to control the flush spreading up her neck.

She summoned up her best “I’m not crazy, I’m just flirting” smile as he made his way across the room. When he reached her—fuck, he was huge, more than a foot taller than she was even in her highest heels—he held out his hand. She took it, skin tingling at the contact.

“Heeeey beautiful,” he said, grinning. “Jonah Ryan, West Wing. Want to help me move something 9.2 inches?”

And just like that, the spark fizzled out like a wet fart. It must be some kind of record: it only took Jonah five seconds to prove that he was the most charmless dickbag in all of Washington DC, and probably the entire world.

*

For a good five years, Jonah has unfortunately been a constant in her working life—he always blasts into their office like a fucking tornado, raining uprooted trees and loose cows down on their heads. Selina becoming POTUS didn’t change that, not one little bit; you’d think a congenital toady like Jonah would be more deferential to the actual fucking President, but no, that would be too easy.

And one day, she finds out why.

It had been pretty quiet that week, all things considered: no natural disasters or labor strikes or underage sex scandals (in their party, anyway), just the usual petty bullshit. Tom had broken a Senate tie in a way that pissed off Senator Delano, so he was moaning to the media about how the administration didn’t value the great state of Wisconsin blah blah blah. Selina was happy to ignore it; Tom was the real target of Delano’s ire, and therefore not her problem. The fact that it irritated Tom was, as far as she was concerned, the cherry on top.

But of course, Selina was far too busy and important to deal with his displeasure. Amy was only the Deputy Chief of Staff (she’d soon be actual Chief of Staff, since Ben swore he would be out next year even if he had to Gone Girl himself), and therefore tasked with smoothing the VP’s ruffled feathers.

Except, it wasn’t Tom who burst into her office, demanding an explanation: it was Jonah, as angry as she’d ever seen him.

“What the fuck, Amy? Mr. James is the Vice President, Selina can’t just leave him twisting in the wind with his dick in his hand!”

She blinks. “I’m pretty sure she can, Jonah. It was Tom’s fuck-up. He’s a grown-ass man and can deal with the consequences of his own actions.”

He flops down into a chair—what the shit is this, she didn’t tell him he could do that—and swipes his bangs out of his eyes. “It’s not fucking fair. Tom—uh, the VP wanted to vote for the bill, and didn’t only because Selina made him. And now Delano is riding his ass when he should be going after her. You guys need to fucking fix this.”

She opens her mouth, intending to tell him to get the fuck out of her office, when his words catch up to her. Oh. Oh shit.

Jonah has a crush.

This is the most hilarious thing she’s ever seen. Ben had told her Jonah had some kind of daddy issues involving Tom, but she’d never thought it would take this form. He’s certainly not the only one: Kent’s latest poll shows that 56.3% of the country would “gladly,” “happily,” or “ecstatically” crawl over broken glass to lick Tom’s sweaty nutsack. But she’d never thought that Jonah, who was basically Dan’s idiot twin, was susceptible to anything that… human.

“Jonah,” she says, and stops. She’d almost started to say it’s not worth it, he’s a politician, however kind he seems he’s still a raging narcissist. She almost says believe in him, but don’t get emotionally involved, he’ll never care about you the way you want, because when you go down that road—even if you quit, you’ll always come running back to her—

She shakes her head, forcing all this bullshit back the fuck to the ironclad lockbox of repression, where it belongs. Jonah is still looking at her, his jaw tense. She sighs.

“I’ll see what I can do,” she hears herself say. What the hell. She’s been hoping for a chance to fuck up Delano’s pity party, and it can’t hurt to have Jonah owe her a favor.

Jonah’s shoulders relax. “Thanks.” He runs his hand over his face. “Now I see what you went through, when Selina was VP. It fucking sucks.”

Jesus fucking Christ, she must have fallen through the fucking looking glass: that’s the only possible reason she has even the tiniest twinge of sympathy for Jonah, of all people.

*

She manages to placate Tom, which is easier than anticipated, so that’s a win. Unfortunately, Jonah now seems to think that she’s his ally in defending Tom’s maiden virtue or some such shit. He tells her, stars in his eyes, that Tom had said she’s the only one of Selina’s crew with both a brain and a conscience—she knows it’s only god’s honest truth, but good on Tom for noticing.

But even with Jonah’s newfound infatuation, which has had a marked improvement on his job performance—these days, she’d rank him above Mike—he remains just as irritating as he’s always been. He’s still incapable of common sense, basic decency, or entering a room without shouting his own name.

Ever since Dan dropped his stinkbomb, she’s been wondering what on earth would make Dan look at Jonah and think, “hey, I’d like to put my dick in that.” She isn’t studying Jonah or anything, god, no. But keeping an eye on him is a useful distraction from Selina and—well, things there’s no point in dredging up, that’s all. Anyway, she needs to make sure he’s not going rogue on Tom’s behalf.

So when he breezes in, trailing chaos in his wake, more often than not Amy finds herself dealing with him. Jonah has started to smile at her when he arrives, and ask her how things are going, like he actually gives a fuck. It’s weird, and not just because he has way too many fucking teeth. Sometimes she’ll even respond, and they’ll manage a moment or two of something resembling normal human interaction.

He brings Richard fairly often; once, when Richard had said something especially inane, Amy found herself meeting Jonah’s eyes in commiseration. Wow. It had never occurred to her that Jonah could have any feelings more complicated than, like, basking in Richard’s bizarre adoration. The thought that he might find Richard just as frustrating as she did, and is willing to share that with her, is, well—unwelcome.

One day, she realizes that Jonah has been looking at her face for an entire conversation, which must be some kind of record—especially since she’s wearing a clingy top. Not so long ago, he would have made some disgusting comment, or at least openly ogled her tits. Maybe Catherine was right.

When she turns to leave, though, she catches his eyes drop to her ass, and she can feel him watching her as she walks away. She can’t help laughing to herself; despite everything, the world hasn’t changed that much.

*

Another day, another crisis—and this time it’s a doozy.

So: the company Andrew works for, PKL International, is being investigated by the SEC on charges of embezzlement, securities fraud, and a couple other things. None of it directly involves Andrew—all the shenanigans took place in a completely different department—but he’s senior enough that questions will be asked about what he knew. Because of the connection to Selina, the media—which normally doesn’t give a flying fuck about white-collar crimes, however dirty—is on this like hyenas on a giraffe carcass.

Selina’s line—a reasonable one, carefully crafted by Amy and Ben—is that of course her administration supports investigation into rich exploitative companies, and anyway, Andy is her ex-husband, hahahaha.

Yeah, Andy. That’s happening again.

Amy isn’t even surprised, at this point. She won’t let herself be. On election night, when she had walked away from more money than she’d ever seen in her entire life—on national television, no less—Selina had collapsed in her arms. All through those horrible days when no one was sure who had won, Selina had clung to her, and not just metaphorically. There were tears, and hugs, and once or twice a little too much wine on far too late a night—there had been moments. One or two.

Nothing had ever come of it. And nothing ever will.

All of that was—fine. It is what it is. No matter what, this is where she belongs, and the people she belongs with: there’s a real, fierce, satisfaction in being here, in doing this job, that nothing would ever equal, no matter how much money Sidney Purcell threw at her.

(And the look on Sidney’s face, when she and Dan had informed him they were both leaving? That will definitely keep her warm on cold nights.)

Anyway. Amy was navigating this entire situation with what she considered to be Zenlike calm, and even better, keeping the media shit under control. Of course, nothing could ever be that easy.

Surprisingly, it was Tom who shoved her entire life into a blender and hit puree. He was normally steady and reliable, and too fucking sensible to appear disloyal. But just because Tom knew what side his bread was buttered on doesn’t mean that anyone else did.

Tom had been at some children’s charity thing, and everything had been going fine—a big media presence, but nothing he couldn’t handle. But alas and a-fucking-lack, he’d happened to have Dan, Jonah and Richard in tow.

According to the frantic call she’d received from Dan, some reporter, not satisfied with Tom’s blandly charming answers, was hanging around the men’s room, hoping to chat up someone on staff. The basic rule was do not engage, and didn’t pose a problem for anyone with more mental acuity than a butternut squash.

Unfortunately, Jonah, and more importantly, Richard fucking Splett were not those people. During the course of a “friendly” chat, Richard let slip that Andrew had been spending a lot of time in the White House, and Jonah’s attempt to redirect had just raised suspicions further. That reporter had immediately toddled off to ambush Tom with that information, on camera. And here’s where things get murky.

The clip, the one that got picked up by CNN, showed Tom starting to say something calm and devoid of all meaning, like the fucking professional he is. But then Dan—fucking Dan—breaks in and says that’s all they have time for, Mr. James has no comments on the President’s personal life. Thus implying that Selina has a personal life involving Andrew, and that Tom knows something about it, and therefore might also know something about Andrew’s alleged involvement in alleged financial wrongdoings, how far up does this outrageous corruption go?

Now, because Selina couldn’t stay away from her giant fucking dickhead of an ex-husband, every single member of her staff, and Tom’s staff, risks getting dragged into an epic scandal that combined financial malfeasance and illicit sex, America’s favorite fucking cocktail.

During the emergency strategy session, senior staff had divvied up tasks: Kent would collate all his numbers on higher education reform, with which Mike would flood and distract the press; Ben would break out the whips and chains for Dan and fucking Richard; and Amy, lucky her, would make Jonah reach out to one of his old blogging contacts and get their version of the story out there.

So here she is, too fucking late on a fucking Wednesday night, hauling ass over to fucking Jonah’s apartment. Ben had offered her thumbscrews, but she’s so fucking furious at the whole… situation that she could rip Jonah’s throat out and not even break a sweat.

She texts Jonah that she’ll be at his place in ten minutes; after a moment’s consideration, she adds that he’d better be fully clothed. On the drive over, drumming her hands anxiously on the steering wheel, she works out a plan of attack. It’s a great plan, calm and reasonable.

But when Jonah opens the door, in a t-shirt and hideous pajama pants, grinning like a fucking ape, her beautiful plan drops right out of her head, to be replaced by white-hot motherfucking rage.

Before he can say anything, she grabs two fistfuls of his stupid ugly t-shirt and shoves him back inside, till she slams him up against the foyer wall.

“Fuck, Amy, if I’d known this was the plan I’d have lit some candles,” he says, with that awful leery smirk that always makes her want to punch him even more than usual. She yanks on his shirt, bringing his head down so she can hiss in his face.

“I swear to fucking god, Jonad, if you don’t call Liz Markham and tell her that Andrew and Selina are having family nights to help Catherine with her literacy proposal, I will rip your fucking dick off and feed it to Mike’s dog as an appetizer before I—“

“Okay, okay, Jesus Christ, fucking lunatic.” He fumbles for his phone in his pocket. She keeps hold of his shirt, not trusting him not to make a run for it if she lets go. He gets his phone out and awkwardly scrolls through his contacts one-handed.

“Ms. Markham? Jonah Ryan, West Wing. I’ve got some information on Andrew Meyer, and I thought you’d be the perfect person to bring it to.” He feeds Markham the story, his eyes on Amy the whole time. “And let me just say ma’am, it’s an honor—shit, she hung up.” He tosses his phone on the hall table. “See? No problem. Any other fires you need me to put out?”

“If it weren’t for you and your fucking imbecile lackey, we wouldn’t be in this situation to begin with, so the best thing you can do for all of us would be to throw yourself off the Washington Monument.”

He tilts his head, mouth twisted smugly. “Nope, you don’t get to pin this on me. An actual shit-flinging baboon would make a better comm director than Dan, and you know it.”

He isn’t wrong, and that’s even more infuriating. She opens her mouth to tell him to go crawl inside his own asshole, when she realizes that her hands are still fisted in his shirt; his heart is thudding against her wrists, and his face is unnervingly near—if she stretched up a little, they’d be close enough to kiss. He’s a fucking yeti, twice her size easily, but he hasn’t pushed her away.

All that adrenaline, all that rage sloshing through her veins, it has nowhere to go. That’s it, that has to be the reason she flattens her palms against his chest, her skin burning at the contact. His eyes—she’d never noticed, they’re big and dark and long-lashed, like an unusually stupid Labrador. He just stands there, staring down at her like he expects her head to start spinning, and this is fucking awful. She’s never been this close, never touched him for this long, and his heart is speeding up, she can feel it, and she’s going to pull away, really she is, when he ducks his head and she tilts hers; somehow, some way, she has no fucking idea—their mouths collide.

She freezes: fuck, oh fuck, this is the worst thing that’s ever happened in the history of the entire universe—but her lips part against her will and they’re kissing, really kissing, messy and off-center. He brings his huge hand up to her chin and tilts it, just a little, and she isn’t going to let him run this, but their mouths slot together again, and Jesus fucking Christ, it’s good, she’s never going to forgive herself for the raw heat flooding her body.

His arms slide around her, pulling her in tight; she digs her fingers into his shoulders and strains upward, needing more—some distant part of her brain shrieks that only an idiot would climb the fucking giant freakstalk, but he’s so big and solid and his hands can practically span her waist, and if she’s going to die of shame anyway she may as well earn it.

He’s getting hard, she can feel it against her stomach—shit, she’d always avoided thinking about his cock except as a target to punch. But she’s here now, and her fingers are tangled in his soft hair and his thigh is firm between her legs, and he’s gasping as she sucks a bruise into his throat, and it’s horrible and disgusting and not nearly enough.

“Bedroom,” she manages, and he shudders, his hands sliding down her ass, her thighs, leaving a trail of heat. She clutches his shoulders, and he lifts her: Jesus, she didn’t think he had enough strength in those noodly arms, and she wraps her legs around his waist and hangs on tight, kicking her shoes away.

He gets her to the bedroom, miraculously not crashing into anything, and they tumble onto the bed. He catches her head before she cracks it against the nightstand—she’s almost sorry for that, because a head injury would give her an alibi for tearing Jonah fucking Ryan’s stupid shirt off, for pushing his pajama pants down his hips.

“Wait, wait,” he mutters against her throat, and is he fucking kidding? He’s got to realize that if she has time to think that she’ll fucking come to her senses.

“You’re not a virgin, are you?” she says as he pulls away, her hands clutching the bedspread so she won’t reach for him. Blood roars under her skin, her legs are sprawled open and graceless, and sick humiliation twists under her ribs—but no, he’s just pushing his pants down and off (plaid boxers underneath, big surprise), and he’s coming back to her.

“No,” he says, indignant. “I’ve been getting mad ass since fucking puberty,” he continues, undoing the buttons down the front of her dress and easing it off her shoulders, and she snorts.

“Sure you have,” she tries to say, but it gets lost since he starts pressing open-mouthed kisses along her collarbone, the hollow of her throat. His hands slide up her ribcage, and his mouth moves lower, to the swell of her breasts; guys much smarter than Jonah struggle with bra clasps, so she pre-empts him and undoes it herself, tossing it to the side.

He breathes in: oh god, his hands are big and warm as he touches her, circling her left nipple with first his fingers, then his mouth. He scrapes his teeth against her lightly, and the shock of need arches her into him. He teases her, fucking teases her, with his lips and tongue and teeth until she’s writhing under him, sweat trickling into her hair; she moans in protest when he pulls off, but he’s just moving to her other nipple. Her breasts have always been sensitive, but she’s got to be losing her mind, being so fucking desperate just from this.

Jonah has always infuriated her: she’s never met anyone—not Dan or Selina or even fucking Karen—who so consistently inspired her not just to anger, but pure frothing homicidal rage, the kind where she wants to skin him alive and rip his disgusting octopus limbs off and scatter the pieces around the city for the FBI’s psycho-hunting squad to find. She and Dan had even drawn up a plan for framing Danny Chung for the murder (though let’s be real, Chung would just be given a medal). Here, now, though, his mouth is hot and his hands are gentle and his hair is curling damply at the nape of his neck, and she’s never wanted to kill him more.

“I fucking hate you,” she chokes out, clutching blindly at his shoulders. He just laughs, the irredeemable asshole.

“You jumped me, remember?” he murmurs, kissing his way up her neck. “I always knew you were hot for me.”

“I’m having a psychotic break, you shitstain.”

“Glad I could take advantage.”

“God, shut the fuck up,” she says, threading her hands through his hair and pulling him down to her mouth.

It’s good, it’s so good, his chest hair tickling her breasts, his weight solid but not crushing her —he’s propping himself up on his forearms, surprisingly considerate—and she wraps her legs around his waist, desperate for some friction. She wants to rub against his cock, shameless and dirty, but he’s obscenely tall and he’d have to pull away, and she hates herself for needing this.

He doesn’t seem to mind though, his kisses slowing, becoming exploratory. It’s been a long, long time since she’s been kissed like this—Ed was always annoyingly tentative, while Dan was all about showing off what he fondly imagined as his technique. But Jonah just cradles her head in his hands and kisses like he’s chasing the taste of her, like he wants to memorize everything about this. It’s sloppy—of course it is, it’s Jonah—but it’s weird how much it doesn’t bother her.

She sucks on his tongue, just a little, and he moans against her mouth: this high school makeout shit is all well and good, but her cunt is soaking wet, and Satan help her, she wants to see what he’ll do about that.

“I want,” she starts—she wants fucking everything, and has no idea how to ask for it. But Jonah, for the first time in his entire life, manages to read her mind; he hooks his fingers in her panties and slides them down her hips. She has to unwrap her legs from him to get them off, biting her lip against the loss of contact with his skin. She’s completely bare now—he can see her, see how turned on she is, but before she can do more than flush with shame he’s pushing her thighs apart, dragging his mouth down her stomach. He stops, just before he reaches her pubic hair, and oh fuck, what if he doesn’t—

But he just looks up at her from under his Neanderthal brow ridge, and she realizes he’s checking that she’s okay with this. She hates him so much. Speech has deserted her, so she just opens her legs and tilts her cunt up to him, hoping he doesn’t pull an Ed and want an engraved fucking invitation. Jonah just smirks—the utter shit, he’s lucky she doesn’t kick him in the face—and lowers his head.

The first touch of his mouth, her whole body shudders. His tongue is hot and wet and achingly slow—Jesus, he’s tasting her, just like earlier. He pushes her thighs wider, opening her up fully, and dips his tongue inside her, licks along her lips, circles her clit. It’s too goddamn much, too sweet and shrill along her shredded nerves, and if she were thinking straight she’d shove him away and run screaming into the night.

Instead, she’s pushing into his mouth, disgustingly needy, and he responds with more speed, more pressure. She grabs his hair to hold him there, right there in the perfect spot, and he fucking obeys, he does exactly what she wants him to. “Fingers,” she gasps out, and hail Satan, he gets it—he slides two fingers deep inside her, giving her something to bear down on, and flicks his tongue against her swollen clit. She rocks up into him, crazy shockwaves spiraling through her cunt and her thighs and her ribs and breasts and throat and out the top of her fucking head, and she digs her fingers in his hair as her vision goes white and she comes loud and awful and messy like a thousand fucking Hiroshimas.

She crashes back into herself, hoarse and frantic with self-loathing, but this isn’t some nightmare: she’s in Jonah’s apartment, in Jonah’s bed, and he’s panting against her spread thighs, his eyes squeezed shut—shit, her hands are still clenched tight in his hair, it has to be hurting him. She lets go, uncramping her fingers, and he opens his eyes.

“Fuck, Amy,” he whispers. He’s completely wrecked, his eyes dark and his cheeks flushed and his mouth red and wet, wet from her cunt. It hits her that he loved that, he loved going down on her, and he probably loved her almost tearing his hair out at the roots. Something inside her cracks open.

She doesn’t even fucking care any more, she just wants this—she’ll hate herself and him in the morning but for now, she tugs him up and kisses him hard, licking the taste of herself out of his mouth. He holds himself above her, not touching her, his arms trembling. When she breaks the kiss and looks up at him, his face is tight; she slides her palm down his spine and his hips jerk, involuntarily, and she grins.

“Shut the fuck up,” he groans, and oh god, going down on her got him so worked up that he’s trying not to come. She looks down between them, getting the first good look at his cock: he’s big, even bigger than she’d thought, long and thick and flushed dark red. There’s a roaring in her ears and a new, sharper heat flooding her, and this must be what a Washington Monument suicide feels like—sheer fucking exhilaration before the inevitable splat.

“Do you have protection?” she asks, and that’s not her voice, all breathy and broken, which means it’s not really her doing this.

Jonah—Jonah fucking Ryan!—nods, and reaches over to his nightstand, scrabbling in the drawer for a minute. He pulls out a condom packet, and she reaches for it.

“No, wait,” he says. What? He kisses her and sits up. She’s about to protest—there’s no fucking way he’s suddenly getting scruples, he’s never had any in his life—when he tears open the package and slides it on quickly, squeezing his eyes shut. He breathes for a moment, clenching his fingers in the bedspread.

“If you’d touched me, this would have been over quickly,” he says, and it’s just fucking typical that he thinks him coming means the end of the night. But, Jesus, the fact that he wants her that badly sends a hot spike of desire straight to her cunt. She leans back and opens her legs to him, knows he can see her and smell her, can see him flush all the way down to his chest, and she’s so ready.

“Come on,” she says. He does—he’s so fucking obedient, she could get used to this. He lines himself up, his cock brushing against her but not yet inside.

“Just the tip?” he says, with that fucking smarmy grin of his, and she’s startled into a laugh.

“As long as you pull out in time,” she says, batting her eyelashes. He snorts, and leans down to kiss her.

Slowly, slowly, he eases inside her; he’s never this careful and deliberate with anything, ever, and it’s kind of a mindfuck. It’s probably some stupid ego thing about the size of his cock, but it feels—it feels really fucking good.

When he’s all the way in, he stills. She can feel her pulse beating where they’re joined: he’s filling her completely. She looks up, and his face is, for once, unreadable. His bangs are falling in his eyes, messy, and before she knows it she’s reaching up, pushing his hair off his forehead. He turns and kisses her palm, and meets her eyes.

It’s too fucking much. This is awful, too close and intimate, and he’s moving inside her, slow and deep, and she can’t look away. Against her will, she’s tracing the sharp planes of his cheekbones, his jaw, and she’s staring into his stupid dog eyes like they contain the secrets of the universe or the key to destroying Chung.

Her thumb drifts over his lips and he kisses it, then leans down to kiss—not her mouth, but her cheek, her temple, her jaw. His breath is hot and shaky, but he keeps fucking her with that gentle, maddening rhythm, like he wants to drag this out as long as possible. Her eyes drift closed, and she needs to take charge of this before she makes an even bigger fool of herself.

She draws her knee up along his side, changing the angle and noting the stutter of his hips. She presses her heel against his ass, urging him in deeper.

“I’m not going to break,” she says, and is thrilled by his sharp intake of breath. She pulls him down close and whispers, “Fuck me. Start slow, but you can go hard.”

“Jesus, Amy,” he says, and she bites down on his earlobe. His cock twitches inside her, and she grins. But once again, he does what she tells him, pulling back and driving deep into her.

Just like she wants, he starts off slow; she rises to meet every stroke, writhing under him, needing more. And he gives it to her—as he speeds up, he gets rougher, sloppier, and it’s amazing, but not quite perfect yet. She wraps her legs around him, angling him just right, so his pelvic bone hits her clit with each thrust.

He’s panting hard in her ear, nonsense swearing mostly, but her name is in there too. Each time he says it sends a hot jolt straight down her spine, a mad rush of power—one taste of her cunt and he’s totally fucking pliant, sweet the way he never is. All she’ll ever have to do is look at him, and he’ll come to heel. The next time she needs something from the VP’s office, she could just get him on his knees and hike up her skirt. If she needs a really big favor, maybe she could get him in a closet, get her hands and mouth on his cock: she’d make him stand perfectly still and not make a sound, and she’d fucking destroy him. Her mouth waters at the thought of it.

(Which is stupid, because of course this is never going to happen again.)

He’s pounding into her fast and hard, and it’s great, no, it’s fucking incredible. She digs her nails into his back and, to her surprise, moans his name, all choked and needy, and it would be humiliating if she even cared anymore, and she’s rewarded when he kisses her, wild and messy.

“Amy, fuck, Amy, I’m so close, I—“

“Please, Jonah,” she whispers into his mouth, and that’s it, his whole body shudders and he jerks inside her, his cock throbbing hard and hot. He buries his face in her shoulder and she wraps her arms and legs around him tight, keeping him deep inside while he shakes through his orgasm.

When he stills, she doesn’t let go. She can feel him softening inside her, and he’ll slip out of her soon. She knows she should push him away, let him deal with the condom; the only thing worse than fucking Jonah would be getting knocked up by Jonah—she’s on the Pill, but he’s probably got some radioactive mutant swamp monster sperm. But she can’t will her limbs to move, and he’s not helping, pressing soft kisses along her jaw.

Eventually, he rouses himself, and reaches down to hold the condom in place as he pulls out. She closes her eyes, biting her lip when he leaves her. She hears him toss the condom aside—gross, she’ll have to watch where she steps—but then he comes back and stretches out next to her.

It’s just because she’s suddenly cold, being all sweaty, that she turns into his side, lets him pull her against his chest. His hand smooths down her back, weirdly gentle like before. Her thighs are wet and sticky, and when she drapes her leg over his, her swollen cunt slides along his hip—Christ, she’s not done yet, she can’t help rutting against him.

“Hey,” he says, and when she looks up he eases her onto her back. He slides his hand down between her legs and rubs small circles around her clit. She’s dripping wet, his fingers slide messily, and it’s just what she needs. He holds her close, kisses her through a slow, easy orgasm.

She turns her face into his shoulder, suddenly exhausted. She should get up, she should get the hell out of there, but then she shouldn’t be in bed with Jonah in the first place. He’s warm and solid, and she can’t make her body or brain work properly. He tugs the sheet up over them, and she rests her head on his chest and drifts off.

*

Cold grey light slants through the blinds at the wrong angle, and Amy jerks awake: this isn’t her bedroom. Her back is too hot, and it smells disgusting in here, all sweat and come and dirty sheets.

Oh, shit.

She holds her breath, praying to all the deities in the universe that she had too much to drink or smoked a bunch of crack and last night was some kind of bizarre hallucination. But no, she’s not so lucky. She’s in Jonah’s apartment, in Jonah’s bed—naked!—and the bruised heat between her legs means last night was all too real.

And then there’s the man himself, his gargantuan limbs sprawled every which way, equally, horribly, naked under the sheets.

She kissed him. She fucked him. And then she fell asleep with him, snuggled up against him like a fucking koala, and he held her all night. The last time Ed had tried to cuddle her after sex, she’d literally shoved him out of the bed.

Jonah shifts beside her, waking up. He stares at her, sleepy and confused.

“Amy?” he says, his voice low and rough.

“Jonah,” she says. Her voice is neutral, good. “If you tell anyone this happened, I will rip out your pancreas with my bare hands.”

He blinks. “Noted.”

Before she can follow up on that threat, her stomach gives a rather embarrassing growl. Well, it would be embarrassing if she were with someone whose opinion mattered.

“Want some breakfast?” Jonah asks, tentative. “I usually just have coffee and toast, but I can make you something, if you want.”

She means to say no, I need to get the fuck out of here and start drinking to forget, but what comes out of her mouth is “Coffee and toast would be great. Thank you.”

He gets out of bed—Amy resolutely ignores the shock of the loss of his body heat—and doesn’t look at her as he hunts for clothes. She finds herself studying him; it’s probably making him uncomfortable, but she doesn’t give a shit. He’s thin, too thin for his height and the breadth of his shoulders, but she rather likes the way the muscles move under his fair skin. He pulls on his pajama pants, awkward, and turns back to her, her dress clutched in his hands.

“Here’s um,” he says. “Or, I could lend you something?”

“No, I should,” she manages, and takes the dress. God, this is a fucking nightmare. She wishes he would just be himself and say something horrible so she can storm out with her dignity intact. Instead, she’s hunting for her bra and panties on Jonah’s disgusting floor, buttoning herself back up while he fidgets in the doorway.

Breakfast is quiet. Amy’s trying to pay attention to her phone—Gary is texting semi-coherently about a pair of Selina’s earrings that were lost or eaten by Mike or something, while Jonah fixes surprisingly good coffee and toast one-handed while he checks his emails. He moves around the kitchen with practiced ease, and Amy remembers, the last time she was here, he was wearing an apron.

“Do you cook?” slips out of her mouth, before she can stop herself.

He looks at her. “Yeah. My spaghetti alla puttanesca is a real pantry-dropper,” he says, winking. Gross, who the fuck winks? He pauses, regrouping. “I could make dinner for you, sometime—“

“Mmm,” she says, cutting him off. “I need to get in to work—Gary’s having a fit about something and I—I need to go.”

She dashes out, probably setting a land speed record for a walk of shame. “Shame” being the operative word.

*

Work is good, and even better, work is distracting. When Ben announces that Markham’s blog post has become the dominant narrative, she has a moment of panic, terrified someone will ask her how she got Jonah to do it. But happily Selina bursts in, swearing about that lizard-fucker Furlong, and so they lurch on to the next catastrophe.

It isn’t until late afternoon that last night’s mistake makes his entrance, yodeling “Jonah Ryan in the house, everybody on the floor!” Her computer screen, displaying Kent’s pie charts, is suddenly fascinating.

“Unless you’ve got some intel on Furlong’s appropriations scheme, get the fuck out of here,” Ben says. Good, now she doesn’t have to acknowledge him.

“Oh, but I do,” Jonah says, and he would make it sound like he’s liberating Paris. They need that information, though, and she grits her teeth.

“Spill it, Jonah,” she orders, forcing her eyes to stay locked on her screen.

To her surprise, he quickly and neatly summarizes Furlong’s strategy, without any extraneous bullshit. Even better, he tells them that Moyes and Halliwell are prepared to cause trouble, and could be amenable to presidential pressure.

“Selina might be up for that,” she says, carefully. He looks at her. “Are you sure Tom is on board? He’s not going to freak out about pollution, again?”

“Mr. James told me himself, just before I came over, that he’s prepared to back you,” he says. Their eyes meet, and heat prickles between her shoulderblades.

There’s a flush high on his cheekbones: he’s nervous. Oh. And, shit, it’s catching. She clenches her fists to keep her hands from shaking. She had sex with Jonah last night, and worse, it was really good sex, the best she’s had in practically forever. And now he’s here in her office, being marginally less annoying than usual—

—And she wants nothing more than to drag him into the nearest empty room and rip that stupid green sweater vest off of him. It wasn’t bad enough that she hit rock bottom last night; now she’s getting herself a pickaxe and digging through to China.

It’s surprisingly… liberating. It really cannot get any worse than it already has: shedding all her dignity, her common sense, her self-respect—it’s not like she was using them anyway.

“Okay, that’s good. I’ll run these numbers over to Garcia,” she says, gathering files. “When I get back, we can float it to Selina. Come on, Jonah,” she tosses over her shoulder, hoping against hope that Jonah follows and that Sue didn’t get a look at her face.

Jonah catches up with her and thankfully doesn’t say anything as she leads him down a side corridor, and into a supply room she’s pretty sure no one ever uses. She shuts the door and leans against it, heart pounding.

“Come here.”

He just stares at her, mouth agape, and her stomach plummets: she’s just made an awful mistake, this is so horribly unprofessional, she’s never going to recover—

In an instant his hands are on her shoulders and his mouth is on hers, and it’s as sloppy and perfect as before. She presses her breasts against him, desperate for more contact, and his hand slides down to the small of her back.

“I’ve been thinking about you all day,” he murmurs against her throat. “Knew you couldn’t get enough of my 9.2 inches of love.”

“God, shut up,” she manages between kisses. “We are not going to, not here.”

“I don’t want you getting these pants all wet, anyway.”

“Jesus, you’re disgusting,” but the fact that she’s practically riding his thigh robs her words of the seriousness they should have.

“How about tonight?” he asks, shifting just right, and fuck, she hates him.

“Okay, my place, 9pm,” she says, and he grins, the piece of shit. But he kisses her again, thoroughly, and she can feel he’s got a massive hard-on, so he has no business being so smug. Fuck.

The only thing stopping her from undoing his pants and getting him to fuck her up against the door is the physical difficulty of it; for once, his obscene height is a good thing, in that it keeps her from making a total fool of herself. He seems to come to the same conclusion, and pulls back reluctantly, breathing hard.

“Should I, uh. Bring anything? Dinner, wine?” He grins. “Dessert?”

“Ugh, no,” she says. “This is a booty call, not a date.” She smooths down her hair, straightens her skirt, and does her best to compose her features into something work-appropriate, that doesn’t scream I almost fucked a cryptid in the supply room.

When she thinks she’s got it, she dashes out, leaving him to calm down by himself. The best possible scenario would be for him to get caught jerking off at work and be thrown in jail for public indecency; that would bring an end to this fugue state and let her off the hook for all this bullshit. She can hope.

But a larger part of her hopes, instead, that he keeps their appointment. Jesus fucking Christ. Physical release and some debatably-human contact has clearly fried her brain, and the worst part is, she can’t really bring herself to give a shit.

*

He arrives on the dot of nine, and—Jesus, he’s got a bouquet of flowers. That is so completely unacceptable, and she means to tell him so, she really does. But his face, when he offers them to her is—she doesn’t even know how to describe it. If he were a normal human being, she’d say he looked shy.

She doesn’t know what it says about her either, that she accepts the bouquet. He follows her into the kitchen where she gets a vase, and leans against the counter. He brought her peach roses, the fucking shit.

“They’re beautiful,” she says. “Thank you.”

“I’m glad you like them,” he says. She watches him out of the corner of her eye as she arranges the stems; his hands are in his pockets, his shoulders a little hunched. He really is shy—it’s a good look on him. If only for the novelty, she tells herself.

She sets the vase on the kitchen island and goes to him. He looks down at her, unreadable. She swallows her pride and makes the first move, sliding her hands up over his arms to his shoulders.

He takes his hands out of his pockets and settles them on her waist. To her surprise, he doesn’t lean down to kiss her, just pulls her against his chest. He’s just hugging her, and she… kind of likes it. He’s so big and warm and she can hear his heart through his ugly sweater vest, and her eyes drift closed.

God, she seriously fucking hates him.

If this is going to happen, she clearly has to be the one to get things moving. He’s here to give her orgasms, not, like, pretend she’s his girlfriend or someone who gives a shit about him. The best thing about fucking Jonah is that she can take what she wants and kick him out afterward, with no guilt or weird feelings, and if he keeps this shit up it’s going to get messy.

She tilts her head up and tugs on his shirt, bringing him down to her level; when he kisses her, it’s slow and tentative and really fucking good, but it’s not enough.

“Wait, let me just—“ she says, and hops up to sit on the counter. That’s much better, they’re at eye level now. He smiles and kisses her again, getting more confident. She wraps her legs around his waist, and his breath catches—good, yes, that’s what she’s waiting for. She lets him take charge, arching into him as his hands drift along her back, sharp heat blooming between her thighs.

She sucks a little on his tongue, laughs as he groans into her mouth. Her hands smooth down his chest; she hesitates for a millisecond at his waistband, and slides her hand lower, over the front of his pants—

He freezes, and jerks away from her, her hand hovering between them awkwardly. Cold humiliation knots her stomach. He’s pale, except for the dark red flush high on his cheeks, and she forces herself to meet his eyes.

“I—sorry, wow,” he says, and there’s something peculiar in his voice, something that catches her attention.

“Jonah,” she says, carefully. “Is this—are we going too fast?”

“Sorry, no, that’s.” He looks away. “Just, it’s been a while, and the Teddy thing, uh.”

Oh shit. Her take on that, when she thought about it all, had been that cosmic irony was a bitch, not that he—shit. She reaches for his hand, slowly, trying not to startle him.

“It’s okay. You tell me what you’re comfortable with.”

He breathes out; the tension bleeds from his shoulders and he steps in close to her again, reaching up to touch her face. To her annoyance, she turns into his hand, kisses his palm.

“It’s all good. Just, don’t, like, grab my balls without warning, and it’ll be fine.”

“I can do that.”

He kisses her again, pulling her in close. She responds eagerly, glad the awkwardness is over. It’s good, it’s so good, and she realizes her hips are rocking, just a little, trying to get some friction. She’s clutching hard at his shoulders when he reaches up and takes her hand; he guides her, gently, to the waistband of his pants—he’s letting her start over. She won’t waste this opportunity, and slowly, slowly, slides her fingers over his fly, tracing his erection through his jeans while he pants against her throat. She pauses at the zipper.

“Can I?” she murmurs, and she grins at his eager nod.

“Please, fuck,” he grits out, and she undoes his jeans and slides her hand inside his boxers. He’s hot and heavy in her hand, and when she sweeps her thumb over the wet tip, he groans. She kisses along his jaw while she works him, slow and tight within the confined space, thrilling at how responsive he is to every brush of her fingers.

The angle’s odd, though, and she wants more. Reluctantly, she pulls her hand out of his pants, and he blinks at her—he’s not pale anymore, good, just warm and flushed, his eyes glazed.

She leads him to her bedroom, shedding clothes along the way—by the time she pulls him down to her bed, he’s lost his shirt and she her dress; he swears, low and gritty, when he sees her nice black lingerie—well, that was totally worth digging them out of the back of her drawer. She pushes him onto his back and swings her leg over his hips; his hands land on her ass, and wow, his cock feels spectacular when she grinds down against him, but this could be even better.

“Off,” she manages, lifting up so she can shed her bra and panties, and he can push his jeans and boxers down over his hips; she stops him before he can get them all the way off, eager for some contact. She settles onto him and slides her wet cunt over his cock, and he throws his head back, eyes squeezed shut.

His big hands hold her steady as she rubs her clit against him. He’s breathing hard, sweat beading on his forehead, and this is even better than when she got Dan fired as campaign manager. She’d stood Jonah up then—not that the idiot had known that—but she’s making up for it now.

It’s fucking awesome, using his cock as a toy while he lies helpless and panting under her, but she wants more.

“Condom?” she says, irritated at how breathless she sounds. He just nods and, after some shifting around, pulls a condom out of his pocket and presses it into her hand. She makes the mistake of looking at the label before she rips it open.

“Magnum XL? You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

He grins up at her, insufferably smug. “You want to catch the whale, you need a jumbo-size net.”

“Don’t you dare make me regret this,” she says. When she rolls the condom on, she concedes the point: it fits snugly. He is pretty big, even if it’s just proportional.

When she takes him inside her, it thankfully wipes the smugness off his face. His eyes widen, and she grins as she braces her hands against his chest and rides him fast and dirty.

He manages to work his hand around and press his thumb against her clit—he’s showing a disturbing propensity for reading her mind, but it feels too good to worry about now. He works her firm and steady, and when her orgasm hits she cries out in shock. She comes, her cunt throbbing hot and tight, and she throws back her head and rides through it.

She’s dimly aware of Jonah’s hands gripping her hips—that’ll leave a mark—and thrusting up into her; when he grits out her name between his teeth, she realizes that her coming on his cock pushed him over the edge.

After, Amy collapses on his chest, sweaty and sated. His arms come up around her—it’s gross, she’s gross, and it goes without saying that he’s completely revolting—and to her horror, she finds herself relaxing into him. She should kick him out. She really, really should.

“Stay the night?” she asks.

His arms tighten around her. “Ladies can’t resist J-Diddy.” For fuck’s sake. She glares at him. He has the grace to look embarrassed, and swallows.

“Yeah, I’ll stay,” he says.

*

It becomes a thing. There’s really no other word for it. Practically every night, he’s at her place, or sometimes, she’s at his. He’s still an asshat, but with his clothes off and his mouth occupied, he’s almost tolerable. Her only justification to herself is that she can quit whenever she likes. And fuck, does she need to, before this spirals into some Requiem for a Dream nightmare bullshit.

It’s just that—Jonah is, well, responsive. He’s so transparent about what he wants, it’s kind of a relief. Ed seemed to expect her to intuit his every whim, and pouted when she got it wrong. Jonah, whatever his faults (and those are legion), is always thrilled by whatever she does to him. It’s just so easy to fuck with his head: all she has to do is uncross her legs or lean over or brush his arm, and he starts hyperventilating. Which is exactly how someone lucky enough to be fucking her should react, goddammit. Even better, he takes direction well: Dan did say Jonah would do anything to keep getting laid, but it’s still a surprise, how eager he is to please her. And frankly, kind of a turn-on.

So the sex, that’s fine. More than fine. But it’s worrying, the way… other stuff starts creeping in. It’s not her fault: she always intends to kick him out or leave, but in the moment it just seems like way too much effort. She sleeps better when he’s there, if only because that’s two or three orgasms a night (and in the morning) she doesn’t have to give herself. Plus, the soap he uses smells nice.

The thing is, Jonah is kind of fun. He can talk shit about anyone or anything, and it’s sometimes entertaining, if only for how stupid his comments are. He’s got pretty good taste in cheesy Netflix crap—they had a great time making fun of the reenactments in Ancient Black Ops. And he turns out to be a decent cook; she does have to eat, after all, and she may as well let him do the work.

“Where did you learn to do this?” she asks one night, after he’s made them dinner at his place, some peanut-coconut-noodle thing with shrimp and vegetables. It’s good.

He smiles at her, lopsided. “As a kid. I did a lot of cooking growing up. My mom was—well, she’s had some problems, and wasn’t always able to do stuff. One of my stepdads was good in the kitchen, and he taught me some things. The rest is just natural talent.”

Weird, the thought of Jonah having parents; she’d always assumed he was the result of a freak nuclear accident. “What about your dad?”

His mouth tightens. “Took off when I was six. He didn’t really keep in touch.” He laughs, and it’s sharp, bitter. “The last time I talked to him was a couple years ago. He’d been arrested for insider trading, and wanted to raid my trust fund to pay for his legal fees. I told him to fuck off.”

There’s a vicious glee in his voice. Fuck, dinner must have given her heartburn; that’s got to be the reason for the uncomfortable tightness in her chest. She reaches out, touches his hand. “That’s terrible.”

He shrugs. “Whatever, I’m over it.” But he turns his hand palm up, lacing their fingers together. “What about your parents?”

“Mine? They’re pretty nice. I get along with my dad—he’s always been supportive. My mom… I love her, but she’s convinced that the only thing I should ever do is get married and have kids. Like, practically from birth, she was all, ‘Don’t work so hard at school, boys don’t want a girl who’s smarter than they are.’ That kind of crap.”

He grimaces. “Jesus. She’s full of horseshit, by the way.”

“Yeah. At my thirtieth birthday party, she announced that my eggs were rotting, and that if I didn’t find someone to knock me up soon, I’d spend my entire life miserable and unfulfilled.”

“Oh my god. She does realize that you’re the Deputy Chief of Staff to the President of the United States, right? You’re pretty much the third most-powerful person in the world. You’ve got much better shit to do than squeeze out a kid you don’t want.” He pauses. “I mean, if you don’t want kids.”

She shudders. “Fuck no. All that screaming and crying and shitting on things. My sister has three, and they’re nightmares. I’d rather set my face on fucking fire than go through that.”

He laughs. “Yeah, same. And what if they grow up to be serial killers? It’s not worth the risk.”

“Plus, it would ruin my figure,” she says, before she can stop herself.

“No, it wouldn’t. Your tits would be, like, anime-porn huge.”

She rolls her eyes, but can’t help laughing—when did she start finding his gross comments funny? To cover her confusion, she gets up from the table, straddles his lap. His hands smooth down over her ass, and he bites his lip: good, this is good, this is what they’re good at, not this sharing-and-caring bullshit. She threads her fingers through his hair and kisses him, rocking her hips against his growing erection.

He groans against her lips, and he pulls away to drag his mouth down her throat. “You could have a dozen kids, sweetheart, and you’d still be the hottest woman I’ve ever seen.”

It’s fucking embarrassing, the warmth unfurling up her spine; the compliment and the endearment are so idiotic, but she tilts her head back, breathing quick and shallow as he kisses along her collarbone.

She fucks him right there in the dining room, on the chair with his pants undone, her skirt hiked up and panties pushed aside, fumbling like teenagers whose parents are in the next room. He comes after a few moments, breathing her name; he’s barely softened inside her before he has her up on the table, her legs spread as he eats her out—he leaves her panties on, licking around and under the cotton, and it’s so fucking maddening she digs her hands into his scalp and comes almost immediately.

In bed that night, he curls around her, his hand gentle on her hip. It’s easy, it’s so easy, with his solid warmth at her back, his heartbeat steady in her ear, to let her mind go quiet. It’s even easier to wake up next to him, her fingers laced through his, to let him roll her onto her back and slide into her, to kiss him under the shower spray.

Jonah is best in the morning, when his hair is a curly wreck and he’s too sleepy to be irritating. When he insists on making her coffee, and watches, fascinated, as she applies her makeup—it’s easy to almost like him.

*

The most bizarre conversation she’s ever had with Selina—and that’s a seriously high bar—happens a few weeks into this… thing with Jonah. Selina pulls her into the Oval Office, her hand warm on Amy’s arm, and settles her on the sofa. Selina’s jumpy and fretful—shit, is the Andrew fuckfest reaching the “attempted murder” part of the cycle?

“Amy, I’m worried about Catherine. She made some comment, about having lunch with Jonah—why the hell would she do that?”

Amy blinks. “Um, with Jonah? I honestly don’t know.” She rubs her hands on her skirt, hoping the sweat isn’t visible.

“And then—this is creepy—I called her last night and she wasn’t at home. On a Monday night? At 9pm? She knows that’s the best time to talk to me.” Selina gets up, paces. “Do you think she was with Jonah? Jesus Christ, I’m going to have him shipped to fucking Alcatraz, Jeff Kane or not. I bet she’s doing this to get back at me.”

“She wasn’t with Jonah.” Selina stops pacing, looks at her. At 9pm Jonah was fucking me on my living room floor, and I’ve got the rug burn on my ass to prove it, she doesn’t say. She also doesn’t say, Catherine was probably having sex with that girl in her study group, which I only know about because Jonah swore me to secrecy. “I was on the phone with him around that time, trying to work out Kent’s budget proposal.”

“Huh. Okay. Keep an eye out, though, will you? I don’t want that fucking shitstalk laying a hand on my daughter.”

What if he lays a hand on me? “Will do, although I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.”

She doesn’t say, Catherine fucking Jonah would be deliciously Freudian, don’t you think?

*

Of course she has to tell Jonah, if only for his own protection; he reports that when he passes it on to Catherine, she laughs so hard she chokes on her coffee.

They’re having more and more conversations like that—not gossiping about Catherine or Selina necessarily, just—normal things. She learns more about him, things she never thought she’d want to, but are weirdly kind of interesting. Like, of fucking course he went to an all-boys boarding school and then Dartmouth, and of fucking course he spent summer vacations in Europe or on “the Vineyard.” He claims to have lost his virginity at age 14 to a girl he met on a summer-study program in Crete; the only thing about that story she believes is that he was, in fact, in Crete—he’s the only person she’s ever met who is actually impressed by her undergrad degree in Classics.

There’s something else, too. She didn’t notice at first, they were too busy either fucking or falling asleep after fucking; but Jonah is very… tactile. Not just during sex, which would make sense, but all the time. He’s not groping her ass or squeezing her tits or anything—which is rather surprising—but, just. He’s always resting his hand at the small of her back, or tucking her hair behind her ears, or pulling her against his chest. He doesn’t do it at work, thank god, but it’s unsettling, and every time he reaches for her, she means to protest, she really does. It’s not like he’s her boyfriend, for fuck’s sake.

Instead, she finds herself pressing into him, leaning her head on his shoulder, reaching for his hand. It’s fucking idiotic. She doesn’t think of herself as affectionate—Ed had a lot to say on that topic—and it’s just going to make things worse when she has to end it, but. In the moment, when it’s happening, it’s—it’s something.

Ben once said that for every minute spent around Jonah, you lost fifty brain cells. She thinks that’s a woeful underestimate.

*

If fucking Jonah is the new normal, then being annoyed as fuck with Dan is definitely the old normal. Dan’s not as perceptive as he thinks he is, thank all the gods, but he’s still got that thing, the one where he’s always been just that much more attuned to her moods than either of them like. She can remember a time when that would have made her squirm, but now—she’s not so sure.

“So how’s what’s-his-face, the Boston guy?” he asks her one day. There’s an odd note in his voice, and she’s so busy ignoring it she forgets to watch herself.

“I don’t know, why don’t you call him and find out?” she says, hunting through the files on her desk.

“Wait a minute. You’re not with that guy?” He stares at her. “I thought—you’ve been in such a good mood, I thought he was going to fucking propose.”

She laughs. “Yeah, no. That’s just my cheery personality.”

He squints, searching her face. Oh, fuck off Dan, you’ve got no business—okay, she shouldn’t say that aloud.

“Must be a new vibrator then,” he says, and she will not fucking rise to the bait.

“That’s it,” she agrees. “Now get the fuck out, I’ve got actual work to do.” He saunters out, taking his fucking time, the bastard. Fuming, she shoots off a text to Jonah, ordering him to get his ass to her place right after work.

It’s just her luck that Jonah gets held up in a meeting, and that by the time he gets to her apartment she’s been home for an hour, has drunk two glasses of wine, and is ready to fucking claw through the walls. She practically launches herself at him when he gets through the door, and he laughs, startled.

“Hi honey, I’m home. Did you miss me?” he says, or tries to say, because she’s got her mouth on his throat, right in the spot he likes, and she grins as he gives up and slides his hands down to her ass.

She drags him to her bedroom, and gets their clothes off with brutal efficiency—yes this, this is what she needs, and Dan can go stick his dick in a light socket. She bites at Jonah’s collarbone, and he arches up into her—oh wow, yes, this is perfect. She drags her mouth down his chest; he’s fully hard, his cock flushed and wet at the tip, and she cannot believe she hasn’t done this to him yet.

She slows down, gets her bearings: Jonah’s breathing is ragged, and he jerks when she licks at the curve of his hipbone. Good—she wants him worked up, wants to pass him some of this prickly agitation burning under her skin.

She takes him in her mouth: he’s thick and heavy, almost too much for her, but she relaxes her throat and wraps her hand around the base, and by the noises he’s making he’s perfectly fine with it. She starts a slow rhythm, drawing it out; he’s being polite, not thrusting up—though by the tremble in his thighs it’s clearly an effort—and she rewards him by gently cupping his balls. (Check ‘em, don’t neglect ‘em floats through her head, and only his cock in her mouth keeps her from laughing aloud.)

The effect is immediate: he gasps out her name—fuck, she’s never tired of hearing that—and opens his thighs to her, giving her better access to… everything. She pulls her mouth off and licks down to the base of his cock, then lower, pulling his balls into her mouth one at a time. Her fingers slip further back, just a little; she doesn’t want to startle him, so she looks up. When he realizes she’s stopped, he opens his eyes.

“Can I—“ she starts, pressing her fingertip lightly on the spot just behind his balls.

He cuts her off, his hands white-knuckled in the bedsheets. “Fuck, sweetheart, you can do whatever you want to me.”

Jesus fuck, he can’t say things like that: a lightning streak of raw desire shoots down her spine, and she reaches further back, circling his hole. He pushes down onto her fingers, desperate, and she’s got her answer. She wets her fingers and teases around the rim, dipping just the tip of one finger inside him as he sucks in a breath.

“Have you ever been fucked?” she asks, surprised when her voice is almost conversational. “Cock, dildoes, anything like that? With Dan, or anyone else?”

“No,” he chokes out, writhing as she licks a stripe up his cock, as she works her finger inside him. “Just me, fingers, sometimes, when I’m.”

“Do you want to be fucked?”

His whole body shudders, and she takes his cock in her mouth again. “Oh my god, yes,” are the last coherent words she gets from him.

It’s fucking intoxicating, the way he’s shaking on her finger and in her mouth, how he can’t seem to decide which he wants more, and so she makes it easy and swallows him all the way down, working her finger inside him. She’s definitely getting some lube tomorrow—he’s so tight and hot around her, and she really, really wants to see him lose control.

Dan slips into her mind—Dan going down on Jonah, getting him worked up, sliding his fingers, then his pretty cock deep inside. She could help, she could watch, and maybe Jonah can lick her cunt while Dan fucks him—fuck, the possibilities are endless.

She speeds up, the head of his cock hitting the back of her throat on every thrust, her eyes are watering and it’s brilliant, it’s amazing, she’s never been this turned on just from giving head, and Jonah is moaning frantically; his balls draw up and his ass clenches around her finger, and she hears him cry her name and that’s all the warning she gets before he’s coming thick and hot down her throat. She swallows around him, deeply gratified, as her own hips churn in the air.

When he’s done, she eases her finger out of him and wipes her mouth, and crawls up his trembling body. He pulls her to him, kissing her deeply, grinning as she presses eagerly into his hands, his mouth.

“I had no idea you were so dirty,” he whispers, slipping his hand between her legs, fucking finally. “God, you’re dripping on my hand, just from that.” She strains against his hand, needing friction, and the fucking shit-eating bastard pulls back and lightly, much too lightly, teases her clit.

“More, fuck, Jonah, please,” she manages, and he laughs, the absolute shitfuck, but gives her a little more pressure.

“You want to fuck me, Amy? Get a strap-on and fuck me into the mattress? Because I’d let you, I’d let you do anything you want,” he says, his voice low and insinuating, his breath hot against her ear. “What about if Dan were here? Does he fuck me, or should I fuck him? You decide.” And oh shit, he must have read her mind from earlier, and now she’s got this cascade of images and sensations and he’s maddeningly slow on her clit, dragging out this torture—

“Or how about we both fuck you? Me in your ass, Dan in your pussy, I’d get you off so fucking hard you couldn’t walk the next day,” and her voice isn’t her own anymore, she’s fucking begging him, begging Jonah to please, fucking please, keep going, don’t stop touching her, just there, like that—

She cries out as her climax hits, calling on God, Satan, Krishna, and most of all Jonah, who is so big and solid and she clings to him as the aftershocks of pleasure spike through her.

“Amy, shit,” he murmurs against her hair, and she snuggles closer. He wraps her in his arms. “You’re amazing, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. He sounds almost reverent. Her heart pounds wildly against her ribs, and not just from her orgasm.

“We can invite Dan, sometime,” she says. “But we’ll kick him out after.”

Jonah laughs. “He’ll fucking hate that.”

“Especially if we just, like, hand him his clothes and then slam the door in his face.”

“That is an awesome plan. Hot threesome, and then we get to laugh at Dan.” He holds up his hand, and she high-fives him.

“I need to, uh,” she says, reluctantly untangling herself. He kisses her temple.

“I’ll be right here.”

In the bathroom, she washes up, brushes her teeth. It’s strange: she almost expects some kind of visible marker of the bad decisions she’s making, “IDIOT” scrawled across her forehead in scarlet or something. But she just looks flushed and content, a kiss blooming on her throat. Even her shoulders look less tense.

When she comes back, he’s where she left him, sprawled out in her bed. He smiles, and something weird and tender twists inside her. She crawls back under the sheets.

“Please rearrange your mutant giraffe limbs,” she complains, trying to get comfortable.

“Not all of us are fucking tiny gremlins who get lost in the couch cushions,” he grumbles, but shifts around until she’s comfortably settled against his chest.

“Gremlin? Seriously?”

He laughs, the sound rumbling through her. “Yeah. You turn into a monster when you get wet.”

“Why Jonah, that’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

“That’s why they call me Casa-jonah.”

“Nobody has ever called you that, ever,” she says, grinning against his shoulder.

“It’s a fucking travesty. You should make it a thing.”

She laughs, kisses him. “Have you ever. Um.” Jesus, when did she get so prim?

Thankfully, she’s dealing with Jonah. “What? Anal, threesome, bestiality…?”

“For fuck’s sake. I already know about the goats.”

He laughs. “It was a sheep, dammit. I’ve got standards.” He threads his fingers through her hair, and she fights the urge to purr. “Just, uh, anal. As the pitcher, not the catcher. This guy I hooked up with in college, he kind of, directed.” He pauses. “And this one time on Spring Break, these two girls brought me back to their hotel room, but I was so drunk that I have no idea if anything happened. I was glad I still had my wallet and pants when I woke up, to be honest.”

“I’ve never had a threesome,” she blurts. “I had opportunities, but. I always felt too weirded out.”

“How come?” He sounds like he really wants to know.

“Once, it was because I was too drunk and didn’t want to go through with it, kind of like you. And the other times, it was the person I was with, it was their fantasy—I mean, I’d thought about it too. But every time it came up, it was like, they wanted me to do this for them, rather than it being something we wanted together. Like it was about ‘them having a threesome’ rather than ‘we as a couple invite someone else.’”

He pulls her closer. “I was just talking out my ass, earlier, about Dan.”

She grins. “Too bad, because I wasn’t.” His eyes widen.

“Seriously? You’d be into that? Because that would be awesome.” He’s quiet for a moment. “As long as we could kick him out, after.”

She looks up. There was something in his voice, and it’s in his eyes, too—she’ll be damned if she can figure out what it is, but she knows she should tread carefully.

“I would never—I have zero interest in going down that road again with Dan,” she says, and is vaguely surprised to find that once it’s out there, she means it. “He’s a friend, and he’s definitely pretty. But I’ve been on that merry-go-round to hell once before, and that was enough.”

“Yeah, same,” he says, and breathes out. “He kind of—fuck. I thought we were friends, just, like, friends who fight and then fuck it out after, but, like. I can take a joke, but I got tired of being jerked around until he needed something or wanted to get off.”

Amy snorts. “He gave me the whole Dan Egan Romance Special—flowers, fancy dinners, the works. He had me shitting hearts and pissing rainbows, and then dumped me over voice mail. For some girl who worked in the Speaker’s office.”

“Wow. At least I knew he was a manipulative sociopath when I got involved.”

“Yeah, well, I knew it too, but I was young and stupid and thought I was the woman who would warm his icy heart. I pretty much brought it on myself.”

“If it’s any consolation, he gets all weird and jealous about you, especially when you were with what’s-his-name, the scrawny prick with the giant head.”

She rolls her eyes. “Dan’s weird about you, too—I’ve never seen him give a fuck about anyone’s well-being, until you were dealing with the Teddy situation. He was actually concerned about you. And you’ve always been able to piss him off more than anyone else.”

“I work very hard at annoying the shit out of him. Thanks for appreciating my efforts,” he says. She grins and kisses him.

“It’s the only human emotion he’s capable of showing, so congratulations.” She tucks her head under his chin, getting comfortable. “Even during sex. It was like he had a checklist to follow, to show off what a good lover he was.” She shuts her eyes; this was such a humiliating memory, and she’s telling fucking Jonah, of all people, but here she is. “I knew he was enjoying it, and he got me off, but it was like I could have been anyone. The best sex we had was the night before he dumped me—I thought he was really into me, and then. Boom.” Fuck. She’s never told anyone that before.

Jonah’s quiet, quiet for too long. Shit, she said too much, and now—

“You know,” he says, contemplative, “I know a guy in the shit compaction business. He deals with nothing but toxic waste, day in and day out. Dude’s got vats of acid, giant fucking metal trash crushers, the works. He’s gotta have something useful.”

She laughs. “I doubt it. When thermonuclear war comes, the only things left will be cockroaches, twinkies, and Dan.”

“I’m just saying. Being sealed in a barrel of raw sewage would definitely ruin his day. And his hair.”

“Okay, Casa-jonah, you win. That’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”

For the first time ever, his smug laughter doesn’t irritate her. Not one bit.

*

Of course, there’s another fucking shoe, and it’s only a matter of time until it drops.

She’d stayed the night; he has an early meeting, and for once has to leave before she does. He barely makes it out the door in time, which is not her fault—it’s not like she made him go down on her in the shower. She did demand he fuck her afterward though, and he obliged, so maybe it is her fault. A little.

She stretches luxuriously in his bed after he leaves. He was almost adorable this morning, cheeks flushed as he fastened his pants and dashed out with his tie askew; freshly-fucked is a great look on him, and she wonders if anyone will notice. The thought doesn’t bother her as much as it should.

She gets dressed, puts herself together, checks her messages: Ben is threatening to castrate Furlong, so she should get in there before he swipes Sue’s staple remover—not that she cares about the threat to Furlong’s ballsack, but Sue will raise her eyebrows if any of her stuff goes missing, and Amy doesn’t want to deal with that.

She opens the drawer in Jonah’s nightstand, intending to grab a couple condoms in case she doesn’t get to the drugstore, when she spots something. She doesn’t mean to snoop, really she doesn’t, but she’s never been good at resisting temptation. (Needing condoms so she can fuck Jonah: case in point.)

Crumpled up at the back of his drawer is some fabric; she shouldn’t touch it, it’s probably just some horrible sock he uses when he jerks off—but no, it can’t be, unless he’s got lavender socks. She pulls it out.

Oh shit. It’s a pair of her panties—one of her favorites, that she assumed had gone missing in the wash. She stares at the scrap of fabric in her hand, revolted. She really, really shouldn’t be surprised. Jonah is a first-class dipshit and always has been, and it is just fucking like him to fucking steal her underwear.

She digs further back, and fuck, fuck, fucking hell, he’s got two more pairs of her panties. She knew he was a creepy goddamned pervert going into this bullshit—whatever it is they’re doing—but not like this, not a fucking panty thief, like some serial killer or fucking frat boy.

Was he fucking keeping them as, what? Proof that he’d been with her? Was he bragging to those geeks in the stats office? Or worse, to Richard fucking Splett, who couldn’t keep a secret if you glued his mouth shut, about nailing the Deputy Chief of Staff? Jesus Christ, this is—getting used and dumped by Dan was no fucking shame, however much it hurt at the time. But Jonah?

Was Jonah laughing at her? Turning everything they’d done into some smutty story, so he’d look like less of a fucking pathetic loser? He’d done it before—after he’d blackmailed her into going out to dinner with him, he’d blasted all over the fucking town that they’d “dated.” The only salve to her dignity was that no one had believed him.

But now? When she’s agreed with him in meetings, defended him to Selina, when she’s fought not to smile when he enters the room and kissed him in the supply closet, when he’s got her motherfucking underpants? When he’s said—when he’s made her think—He fluffs you then he fucks you, her mind whispers.

She somehow gets out of his apartment, gets herself to work, incandescent with fury. It’s unnerving—she’s practically floating above the ground, tranquil, and she makes it through the morning without raising her voice even once. She’s so fucking cool, no one suspects a thing, though Gary shoots her a few odd looks.

Jonah sails in after lunch: she’s distantly grateful that she was able to get some nourishment, because murder is hungry work. Her voice is almost bright when she calls, “Hey Jonah, got a sec? I’ve got some numbers for you,” and dispassionately notes the way his eyes light up, the way he follows her, so trusting, to the supply closet—their closet.

She pulls the door shut behind them, and before he can touch her, she grabs his shirt and shoves him up against the wall. He just smiles, the fucking imbecile, and leans down to kiss her, and she pulls back.

“So, Jonad,” she says, through a rictus grin so tight her cheeks hurt, “why do you need my fucking panties? They’re not really your size, are they?”

He stares at her, his mouth flopping open like a dead fish. He’s fucking caught, and she can feel a tremor rising through him—his mouth works, but nothing comes out.

“Nothing to say?” she hisses, desperate not to be overheard. “You’ve always had plenty of stories to tell about me, you fucking shithead—did you want some fucking visual aids?” Fuck, oh fuck, the words are what she’d meant to say, but not in that awful cracked quavering voice.

He blinks, squares up his shoulders. “What makes you think they’re yours? Lots of ladies come through Jonah-lysium,” he says, all panicked bravado.

Her throat closes, anger choking her speechless; she wants to scream but she can’t fucking breathe, and her hands move of their own volition, go under her dress, and she shucks off her panties and shoves them in his stupid fucking face. If that’s what he wants, all he wants, he can fucking have it.

He gasps—good, he should be shocked, he should be fucking terrified—but his eyes darken and his chest is heaving and she recognizes that look: the fucking bastard is turned on.

She can’t see, can’t breathe, smothering under a grey cloud of rage, and the only thing for it is to drag him down to her level, to shove her tongue down his throat. He groans, and it’s way too loud, someone could hear them, but at this point nothing fucking matters anymore, not with this sick fever burning inside her.

He walks her backward until her ass hits the old desk in the corner. Before she knows what’s happening, he’s got her up on the desk, parting her thighs; he presses his fingers into her dripping cunt while she fumbles with his belt, biting at his mouth. She yanks a condom out of his pocket and gets it on him, not gently, and then she wraps her legs around his hips and drags him inside her.

He fucks her hard, the pace brutal, punishing himself or her or both of them, and she meets every thrust; the angle is—there’s nothing good about this, but he’s in her so deep, her clit rubbed raw by his pubic hair, and against her will she comes, ugly and painful, her teeth in his throat. He follows immediately, a strangled gasp against her temple.

He’s clinging to her, and he saying something, she doesn’t know, she doesn’t care, she tries to ignore it, but it doesn’t work.

“Amy, I swear, I didn’t take them, you left them at my place—I meant to give them back.” There’s the unmistakable ring of sincerity in his voice; maybe, maybe, she was—wasn’t—wrong?

His words are still spilling into her hair. “I would never hurt you, Amy, I swear to god, you have to believe me, there’s no one else, I—I’m in—fuck, sweetheart, I—“ He stops, swallows. “They smelled like you, so I kept them for when you weren’t there.”

Okay, that’s—that sounds like Jonah. He would. It’s gross as fuck, she should be disgusted (and she is), but. She’s still shaking, tense, but somehow all the fight has drained out of her.

“Jesus. I was—I was wondering if you had some kind of collection.”

“Just a few jars of eyeballs. If you play your cards right, I’ll show you sometime.”

She snorts into his collar. “As long as it’s not toenails. I hate feet.” She pulls back, inspects the mark she left on his neck. Fuck. There’s no way he can cover that up. She touches it, lightly, and he winces. “Sorry,” she says, and means it.

“It’s fine. I like it, you marking me.” He’s so pleased, she makes herself squash the reflexive terror that someone will notice it, notice them. She has no alibi for this nonsense, not now, and so she gives up and kisses him, much kinder than before. He responds, sweet and eager.

“By the way,” he says, soft against her lips. “How many of my shirts have you stolen?”

“That’s not the same thing,” she manages, as he nips at her earlobe. “I’m not using them to masturbate.”

His voice drops. “You can, if you want.” Goddamn him.

“Jesus fuck, do you even know how women get themselves off?”

“Why don’t you show me?” he murmurs, the bastard. She’s just put herself back together, and if she doesn’t leave right now it will be for nothing. So she stuffs her panties into his jacket pocket and gets out of there, before Ben or, god forbid, Sue notes her absence. She spends the rest of the day with her thighs pressed together, hoping fervently that she’s not soaking through her skirt.

(That night, she does show him. And as revenge, she doesn’t let him touch himself, or her, until she’s done.)

*

A week later, Selina forces her entire fucking staff—plus Tom and his entire fucking staff—to pull an all-nighter, strategizing for the immigration announcement. Even Gary has to stay, useless as he is, because heaven forfend Selina should go five seconds without fruit or cheese or solid gold tampons. Dan’s been spearheading the research for this, so of course he’s strutting around preening his tail feathers and shooting down any and all suggestions that aren’t his. Tom is his normal opaquely charming self, Ben is raging at anything that moves, and Mike is as helpful as a cotton candy butt plug—so, business as usual, except it’s business as usual at four in the morning and she’s been up since six the previous morning. She’s making a Herculean effort not to nod off, but it’s not quite working—though Selina hasn’t noticed yet, thank fuck.

Out of nowhere, a cup of hot coffee appears at her elbow—she looks up, startled awake. It’s from Jonah.

“Decaf,” he says, quiet. “But I put three sugars in, to wake you up a little. I think we’re getting out soon.” His fingers brush against her shoulder, light and quick.

She clutches the hot cup, pathetically grateful—she’s about to say something, something she’ll regret, but Mike interrupts, thank fuck.

“Ooooh, coffee,” he calls. “Jonah, be a dear and make me a cup?”

Jonah gets up. “Want me to lick your asshole while I’m at it?”

“Yes please,” Mike says. “Wendy says she won’t until I learn to wash better.”

“Well that’s a beautiful image,” Selina snaps. “I want some too, Jonah. Coffee, not ass-licking.”

“You sure, ma’am?” Amy asks, before she can stop herself. “He’s pretty good at it.”

Jonah turns purple, Selina blinks at her—and shit, Dan’s eyes narrow. Fuck fuck fuckity fuck. She’s about to explain she meant that Jonah’s a suck-up, not—well, but he is good at it, as she learned the other night—Jesus. If she weren’t so tired, she’d go drown herself in the toilet.

Selina waves her hand. “I’m the President of the United States, I can get Brad Pitt to rim me if I want. Ben, where the hell is the Fleming file?” Oh, thank fuck. Jonah hightails it out of there to make more coffee, and progress lurches on.

Finally, fucking finally, they manage to hammer out something semi-acceptable to everyone—well, Kent isn’t thrilled, but is he ever? Anyway, sunlight is streaking through the windows when Selina tells them to come back at three, and Amy almost bursts into tears.

She fumbles with her coat, swaying on her feet, when she senses Jonah behind her. He steadies her, his hand on her arm, and helps her into her coat.

“I’m taking you,” he says. “You get behind the wheel like this, you’ll mow down a kindergartener.”

“Fuck you,” she mumbles, but the thought of not having to drive makes her sag with relief.

The hike to the parking garage is endless, fucking endless, and thank fuck she’s got enough wit left not to cling to him on the way down—though god, what she wouldn’t give for him to just throw her over his shoulder, like Quasimodo scaling the bell tower.

In the car, she dozes against his arm; she’s probably drooling, but that doesn’t matter, nothing matters except his hands on her, guiding her into her apartment, helping her out of her clothes; she’s not completely useless, she gets his shirt unbuttoned, and then, finally, he gets her into bed, pulling her against his chest and arranging the covers the way she likes.

He’s whispering something, his lips against her hair; she thinks she hears—but that can’t be right, the skip of her heart is just exhaustion, so she burrows against his shoulder and sleeps.

*

She jolts awake—it feels like five minutes later, but the sunlight through the blinds says high noon. She slept hard, her face smashed into Jonah’s throat, her legs tangled with his; no wonder her neck is sore. Her face feels slick and greasy, and her mouth tastes like something died in it—gross, she didn’t wash before going to bed, and she’s left streaks of mascara along Jonah’s shoulder.

She extracts herself, and washes up, brushes her teeth—when he wakes, they can shower together. But for now, she crawls back into bed, into the circle of his arms. She tries not to jostle him too much, but he groans and shifts under the blanket, searching for her. He blinks awake.

“Hey, beautiful,” he mumbles, his voice scratchy, and she resolutely ignores the warmth prickling under her skin. “What time is it?”

She lifts her head, checks. “11:30. We don’t have to be in for a while.”

“Thank fuck.” He tucks her hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering at her cheekbone, drifting over her lips. She kisses his fingertips, and he smiles at her—this is the worst, mornings like this when there’s no rush, when his eyes are warm and he’s all soft around the edges.

No sex last night, but he stayed with her anyway. And he held her close, all night, the way he always does.

It’s a trap, it’s got to be a trap. Even Jonah’s not that pathetic, confusing his hard-on with—she’s not his girlfriend, she reminds herself she doesn’t even like him, but he’s stuck around despite the fact that she’s selfish and bitchy and a workaholic and a total fucking ice princess (fuck you I’m an ice queen she’d shouted at Ed before he left).

Maybe that’s it, maybe she’s vibrating at some kind of bizarre dickhead frequency only he can hear, and he’s such a loser he thinks that makes them a fucking couple instead of people who fuck each other and fuck each other over—

He’s kissing gently along her hairline, his hands warm on her back; she can feel his cock stirring, and an answering heat blooms between her thighs. Okay, she can deal with this, this is familiar, and she rolls over, pressing her back to him, his cock fully hard against her, moving his hand to her breast.

He hums into her hair, fingers circling her nipple—yes, that’s it, perfect, and the best part is she’s not looking at him, not looking into his eyes, all she has to do is let his hand slide down her stomach, part her lips, rub at her clit while his hips rock into her ass—

She leans away to grab a condom—fuck, she hates leaving him even for a second—and presses it into his hand; he gets it on, swearing as he fumbles, and she reaches back and guides him into her from behind.

She loves this, it’s a great angle; he fills her completely, and he can easily work her clit while he fucks her, and she can close her eyes when she comes, listen for the broken hitch of his breath, his moan when he releases into her—and she doesn’t have to see his face, what his eyes might contain, not here, not this morning with her guard shot to pieces.

But the fact that she might want to—that’s a problem.

*

It’s not long before another series of crises erupts. None of them are a big deal in and of themselves, but they happen all in one day, and the cumulative effect is utterly soul-sucking—even Sue starts looking a touch frazzled, which ranks as one of the most terrifying things Amy has ever seen.

First, Mike fumbles a softball question about health care—okay, must be a day that ends in “y.” That’s not so bad, even if it is embarrassing. Unfortunately, it happens first thing in the morning, so it sets the tone for the rest of the day.

Next, they get word that Bill Ericsson, after barely escaping a prison sentence, is threatening to write a tell-all book about the Meyer/James campaign and administration. Not awesome, but Ben and Dan go into spin cycle overdrive.

Then Tom James, in an uncharacteristic bit of candor, implies to a reporter that he maybe, just maybe might be okay with a federal initiative to decriminalize marijuana. Jonah, as the messenger, bears the brunt of Selina’s rage and Tom’s self-righteousness and snaps at Gary.

And Gary, who takes far worse abuse from practically everyone on a daily basis, has a screaming meltdown, right in front of Amy’s door. The entire office stops and stares at each other, completely fucking confused, until—

Andrew, fucking Andrew fucking strolls into the office, all ready smiles and faux-innocence. Selina immediately drags him into the next room, where everyone still within earshot pretends that they absolutely cannot hear a thing coming from behind the door.

Amy gets Gary off the floor and sends him to the men’s room, ordering Mike to follow and clean him up or hold his hand or suck his dick, whatever it takes. Ben takes Dan away to finish the press release, and Sue shakes her head and goes back to the calendar.

Amy’s phone buzzes: it’s a string of poop emojis from Jonah. She snorts, and texts him to follow her home. Across the room, he grins at her, and she has to duck her head to keep from smiling back.

She gets another text. Jonah again, but this time it’s a little red heart.

Before she can stop herself, she sends a heart back to him.

When five o’clock comes, most of their problems are mostly handled: Mike corrects his gaffe, the media is reminded that Ericsson is a nearly-convicted felon with an axe to grind, and Tom is convinced to say he was misquoted. Best of all, Andrew is gone, and Gary and Selina are huddled together, planning her wardrobe for the economic summit. Amy has done all she can, so she feels zero guilt at grabbing her coat and heading out, texting Jonah that she’s free at fucking last.

His stupid car pulls up just as she’s unlocking her door, and they barely make it inside before her hands are on him, straining up to his mouth. He kisses her, too briefly, and before she knows it he’s on his knees in front of her, pushing her skirt up over her hips. He eats her out right there in the front hallway, her head cracking against the wall when she comes, hard and messy, on his tongue and fingers.

When she can breathe again, she hauls him upright, noting his wet mouth and glazed eyes with fierce satisfaction. She tugs him close, sliding her hand down over the front of his pants, his erection hard and hot even through the cloth, and she can’t help squeezing just a little—

His cock pulses in her hand, once, twice, and Jonah groans into her hair, frantic, his hips jerking. Amy blinks: there’s a wet stain spreading against her palm.

“Did you just come?” she asks, and oh my god, what a stupid question.

“Yes, fuck. Sorry, fuck, I’m so sorry, so fucking embarrassing—“

“It’s fine,” she says. She can’t help grinning, though; it’s not like she needed another reminder that he is, in fact, an overgrown teenage boy.

“Yeah, well, you know I love the taste of your pussy,” he says, his voice dropping low, and for fuck’s sake, that shouldn’t work at all, but he’s clearly warped her into being just as foul as he is.

She leads him to her bedroom, gets him out of his clothes—she really needs to get him the name of Dan’s tailor. He should be wearing suits that show off his shoulders, his cute ass. He helps her out of her blouse and skirt, and tugs her down on the bed.

She settles on top of him, her mouth drifting over his collarbones, his chest. He smells really fucking good, and his fingers are gentle in her hair. When she licks his nipple, his breath quickens, so she takes her time there, his heart pounding against her lips.

He’s obviously excited—his skin is warm, flushed, and his breathing is getting ragged, but he’s not hard, not yet; he catches her hand in his, laces their fingers together. She presses kisses against his ribcage, thrilling to every shift of muscle and bone under his skin.

She shouldn’t be doing this, not any of it, but especially not this slow exploration of his body, not when he’s arching into her like this, like he’s starving for her. She should have stopped this long ago, she never should have kissed him at all, because now there’s something raw and aching inside her, and it’s all Jonah’s fucking fault.

He has no business being so good at this, being so sweet and pliant and funny, has no fucking business sneaking inside her without her knowledge or consent. And now, it’s too late, it’s far too late, he’s tricked her into—something, and the worst part, the real fucking bitch of it all, is that she doesn’t even mind.

He’s hard now, his cock stuttering against her thigh as she tastes the hollow of his throat; she sits up, angling herself just right—there, now she can rub her cunt along his erection, hot and slick against her clit. He breathes her name, and she gets an idea—the worst idea she’s ever had, and that’s saying something.

“When was the last time you got tested?” she asks. Awkward, much? He blinks at her, then tilts his head, thinking.

“For STDs? Three—no, four months ago. I’m clean,” he says. “You start oozing green slime, it’s not my fault.”

“Lovely,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I just got tested a few weeks ago. I’m clean too.”

“For the record, you can give me any weird rashes you want.”

She laughs, slides off of him and onto her back; before he can protest she tugs him over, pulling him close, and presses her mouth to his throat. This might be easier if she’s not looking right at him.

“I’m on the Pill.” He inhales, sharply, and his hands tangle in her hair.

“I’m, uh, not seeing anyone else,” he says, his mouth against her temple. “Only you.”

Her heart pounds like a clenched fist—this is awful, this whole thing has been awful, and yet here they are.

“We can skip the condom, if you want,” she breathes against his lips, and oh god, his mouth is hot and hungry and perfect, and she twists her fingers in his hair, bites at his lips.

“Fuck, sweetheart—I’ve never—you’ll be the first.”

Good, fucking good. She shifts under him, tugging him into position—he’s sweating, she is too, it should be disgusting but it’s nowhere close, and the head of his cock brushes against her—

“Are you sure?” he whispers, and no, no, fuck no, she’s not, she’s never done this either, but she slides her hands down his back, tilts her hips, and takes him inside: just him, just his skin against hers, no drag of latex.

It’s too much, it’s far too much—he’s trembling, his whole body is shaking, and when he’s fully inside her he makes a noise that sounds like a sob and buries his face in her hair. She wraps her legs around him, holding him tight. She can’t fucking breathe, the dizzy gorgeous heat spiraling up from her cunt is almost choking her, and she needs him to move.

Thank fuck, thank Satan, he starts to rock his hips, slowly, just a little within the tight confines of her thighs around his waist, and it’s good, it’s so good, wildfire streaking along her nerves, and this is real, it’s real and it’s terrible and it’s wonderful and she can’t pretend it’s okay anymore—

—Jonah whispers Amy fuck you’re so beautiful you’re so perfect amy amyamyamyfuckamyiloveyouamy—

—and words are spilling out of her, horrible things, true things, she wants him so badly, she needs this she needs him he’s got to stay here with her and not leave please just stay—

—his breath catches and she can feel it, feel his orgasm racing along his spine before he comes, buried deep inside her—he cries out, and she holds him tight, her limbs a vise around him, and he spills his release inside her and she kisses him through it, trembling as hard as he is—

—he stills and holds her, tight, she’s shaking as he softens inside her, and she never wants him to leave her after sex but this is worse, this is so much worse, there’s nothing separating them, no barriers, and it’s too fucking much, she needs to shove him away and kick him out and never speak to him again—

—he slips out of her, agonizing, and drags his mouth down her body, tasting her skin and sweat and desperation, and buries his face between her thighs, tongue inside her—fuck, she works her hand between her legs, pushes fingers inside her cunt while he licks her, brings her hand back up and tastes herself, tastes him mingled with her, and he moans against her cunt and that’s it, her orgasm is sharp as a lightning strike, bright and stinging and perfect.

When she comes back to herself, she’s nestled in his arms, his heart steady and strong in her ear. Beneath the exhaustion, there’s a quivering warmth, settled gently under her ribs.

“Amy?”

“Jonah.” She tilts her head up. His eyes are dark, soft, everything she should be afraid of—but here, now, all those good, sensible reasons really don’t matter anymore.

“Would you, um. Maybe like to go out to dinner with me, then a movie, a concert…”

“Chicken linguini and a porno?”

He groans. “No, goddammit. I’m serious.”

“Jonah, are you asking me out?”

“Yeah. We have a nice dinner, hold hands at the movie, you suck me off in the parking lot afterwards. You know, a date.”

That means venturing out in public with Jonah. Someone could see them. It’s a terrible idea.

“I’d love to,” she says. His face lights up, and it’s so fucking cute she just has to kiss him, and then kiss him again, and again. They’re going to have to get out of bed eventually. But not yet.

*

A few weeks later, another shot of Amy and Jonah turns up on Richard’s Tumblr. They’re leaning into each other, Jonah conspiratorial, Amy grinning up at him; Dan is in the background, glaring at them both. It’s tagged “#tol/smol/angry.”