The kiss lingered like a bruise on Nia's lips, swelling with every replay in her mind. Days blurred after the residence meeting—the memo's fallout dominating headlines, Vince's approval ratings dipping as investigations dragged. Nia buried herself in drafts, scripting Vince's rebuttal speech with fierce precision, but focus fractured. At night, alone in her apartment, she'd touch herself, fingers circling her c**t, imagining Vardo's rough mouth instead of Vince's gentle one. The shame burned, but so did the ache between her thighs, her p***y clenching around nothing as she came whispering his name.
Vardo didn't let up. Texts arrived on a burner number he'd slipped into her phone during the chaos: We need to talk. Policy implications. Neutral ground. She deleted the first, ignored the seco
