Nia eased into her chair at the West Wing desk, wincing as her ass met the cushion. The suite encounter throbbed in every muscle—Vardo's d**k had stretched her p***y raw, his thrusts leaving bruises blooming across her hips and thighs. She shifted, the soreness radiating deep, a constant reminder of how he'd pinned her to the window and filled her with his c*m. Focus, she told herself, pulling up the draft for Vince's rebuttal. The leaked memo painted Vardo's arms deals as corrupt, tying them to foreign influences that could sink the administration. Her words needed to be sharp, deflecting blame while positioning Vince as the steady hand.
The office buzzed with aides shuffling papers, phones ringing off the hook. Nia typed furiously, outlining Vince's defense: transparency, national secur
