Senator's Hotel Room Intern

Senator Victoria Lang’s suite smelled of expensive hotel lotion, chilled white wine, and the faint ozone of the air conditioner that never quite kept up with a Midwest summer. At 48, the senior senator from Ohio cut an imposing figure even in stocking feet: five-foot-nine, hourglass curves poured into a charcoal pencil skirt and ivory silk blouse that had lost two buttons somewhere around hour fourteen of the day. Her fiery red hair, usually twisted in a sleek chignon for the cameras, now spilled over her shoulders in wild waves.

Nineteen-year-old Ethan Caldwell sat on the edge of the leather couch, laptop balanced on his knees, trying to focus on polling data. He failed. Every time Victoria leaned forward to point at a number on the screen, her heavy breasts strained the delicate silk and the shadowed valley between them drew his gaze like a magnet. He’d been rock-hard for the last forty minutes and there was no hiding it in the thin gray sweatpants she’d told him to change into after the last rally.

Victoria noticed. Of course she did. She noticed everything.

“Ethan,” she said, voice low and amused, swirling the last of her Pinot Grigio. “You’re staring at my tits again.”

His head snapped up, cheeks flaming. “Senator, I—I’m sorry, I didn’t—”