Can't get you out of my head.

Chapter 8

A slight sexual warning.

You both agreed that you shouldn't let it happen.
It was against all the rules - the political ones, Keir's personal ones, your personal ones, the lack of coverage you would have from the papers about your life...although each day you inched a little closer to saying to hell with your own rules. Letting the papers know about your life would be worth it for Keir.

You knew it.

But you knew it would complicate your work.

Neither one of you had a shining track record when it came to commitment and relationships. You each valued personal space and he especially valued privacy. Maybe any relationship that you could have was doomed from the start. Then what would happen?

It was too risky, and you both agreed.

But that didn't stop you from falling into a routine. Dedicated professionals by day, determined to bringing labour to downing street as soon as possible. As many votes as you could get. You tried to help him as much as possible.

There was never any impropriety between you, never a hint that anything was going on beneath the surface. Once or twice a week, you would get drinks. Maybe you'd sit close at the bar, or in his office but never enough to arouse suspicion from the other drinkers.

But each time, he'd walk you home. Sometimes you'd hold hands, other times you let Keir tuck you under his arm, yours side fully pressed against his and your fingers grazing whatever they could reach of his midsection, albeit through layers of clothing.

You preferred those ones. Even through clothing you could tell his man had something under his shirt. Something that... kept you wondering every time. What was he like without his shirt?

You'd kiss him goodnight. Every time. Sometimes, it was a gentle kiss. Other times, it was a little more passionate. But it was always in your doorway. Never in the apartment. The reason? Well, you both agreed, you needed to stop doing this. He'd call when he got home, stay on the line with you until you both fell asleep.

The next day, you'd both pretend it never happened.
By the end of the month, the cycle was killing you.

It was killing him too, you suspected, because one night at the end of your walk home he asked if he could talk to you inside about something. As soon as the door shut he pulled you down the hallway. You made out frantically in your kitchen.

He hoisted you onto the counter and you eagerly wrapped your legs around his waist, moans of delight and relief bubbling from your throat as Keir pressed his hardened length into your center and slipped his hands under your blouse, stroking all of the soft skin he could get. You hadn't made out with someone fully clothed for so long since you were a teenager, but neither one of you dared to take it any further.

You both knew you shouldn't.

As much as you wanted too. You really fucking wanted to.
You knew you couldn't.