Temporary Touch (Obama x Reader)

Style

     You've gone through too many freaky, mind boggling situations throughout your life. At some point, you got used to it. You didn't let the bizarreness of your life affect you anymore, and you always expected the unexpected.

So why were you so overwhelmed with bewilderment and disbelief now?

As you dug yourself deeper into thought you wiggled and readjusted the way you were sitting. From leaned back and relaxed on a soft, comfy chair that you could easily fall asleep in if you were tired enough, to sitting on the edge of the chair, arching forward with your tense, sweaty hands clasped together and your legs anxiously bouncing.

The events of the night before slowly came back to you, bit by bit.

"Well, my fellow American," he had said. His face was dangerously close to your's, hot, moist air that came from his mouth grazing your ear.

"How about I give you one Hell of a night?" He had finished, immense amounts of flaming confidence clearly displayed in his eyes.

As you remembered it, you felt your body perform exactly what it had done the night before. Any and all movement that there had been quickly put to an end. You were now as still as a statue. Your throat felt dry and tight, and the ticklish sensation in your stomach became more intense as it spread to other parts of your body.

"What? What do you m-mean?" Was all you could say. You were blown away by what you had just heard. Surely, you misheard him. And, even if you hadn't then, surely, he wasn't implying what you thought he was. You must've misunderstood. You must've.

As you remembered the next parts, your body seemed to somehow be reliving the moment. The spots of your skin that had been touched by him tingled pleasantly. You shivered in delight, appreciating the return of sensations, even though they weren't nearly as intense or lovely as they had been when it was all actually happening.

Obama moved his head away from your face to make room for his hands, which diligently traveled from his lap to your back and shoulders. They wandered around, rubbing your skin in small, circular patterns. Your breath hitched midway in your throat.

What in the world was he doing?

You pinched the bridge of your nose with your pointer finger and thumb, inhaling deeply. God, last night was insane.

"I think you know what I mean, my United Statesman." Obama murmured. You could practically hear him smiling.

When he said 'my United Statesman' his hands stilled, fingers now digging into your skin. Your eyes widened.

This was too lovely.

This was too good to be true.

You struggled to breathe. Was he being serious? Was he seriously implying what you thought he was? You gulped anxiously.

"Why? Why me?" You unintentionally whispered aloud, turning your head so that you could look him in the eyes. Panic surged through your body as you realized that you had actually said that.

"I did say that I owe you a proper thank you, didn't I?" Obama whispered back, not seeming to mind the question.

"You- you don't owe me anything. You're... you're Obama, for God's sake. If anything, it's me that owes you a proper thank you." You answered, stressing the words 'me' and 'you'. Obama sat there for a moment, silently, clearly thinking about something.

"I like your style, Y/N," Obama muttered, "how about you give me that proper thank you, then?"

He stood up, stepping out of the booth and offering his hand to you once he was far enough to do so.