Nia's phone buzzed on her nightstand, the screen lighting up the dim bedroom. She groaned, body still aching from the limo's brutal claiming—ass cheeks tender, p***y swollen from Vardo's fingers and the relentless spanking. Two days had passed since the fundraiser, her mind a whirlwind of Vince's warm praise and Vardo's possessive fury. The rebuttal speech had landed well, media shifting from scandal to Vince's resolve, but guilt gnawed at her. She'd drafted lines defending the administration while Vardo's c*m had dried on her skin.
The text was from the burner: Private jet. Dulles. 0600. Pack light. Negotiation awaits. Her pulse quickened. Arms exports—Vardo's latest pitch to skirt regulations, funneling weapons to allies under the table. Officially, she was there to represent Vince's in
