𝐌𝐚𝐝𝐚𝐦 𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐲-𝐬𝐢𝐱

“ Watchful Eyes ”

The White House loomed large as Beyoncé and Onika walked through its grand entrance, the familiar halls echoing with the usual bustle of staff and security. Despite the public setting, Onika couldn’t keep her eyes—or hands—off Beyoncé. Her gaze lingered on the sway of Beyoncé’s hips, her lips curling into a smirk as she admired the curve of her lover’s ass. Without warning, Onika’s hand darted out, delivering a playful slap that made Beyoncé jump slightly.

“Stop it, Onika,” Beyoncé hissed, glancing around nervously. “We’re under prying eyes.”

Onika shrugged, a mischievous glint in her eye. “And who’s gonna stop the President?”

Beyoncé sighed, but there was a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. They reached the assistant’s desk, where a stern-looking woman was typing away on her computer. Beyoncé stepped forward to speak, but Onika, never one to miss an opportunity, moved in behind her, draping her chin on Beyoncé’s shoulder. As Beyoncé began discussing schedules and meetings with the assistant, Onika’s hands slid down to rub her lover’s thighs, her touch slow and deliberate.

The assistant’s eyes flickered with curiosity as she noticed Onika’s closeness, but she remained professional, nodding as Beyoncé finished the conversation. Beyoncé took Onika’s hands in hers, turning slightly to face her. “Madam President, behave, will you?” she said, her voice low but firm.

Onika grinned, unfazed by the reprimand. “Let’s just get to the office,” she suggested, a hint of impatience in her tone.

Beyoncé raised an eyebrow. “I might need to take the stairs,” she teased, knowing full well what Onika had in mind.

But Onika wasn’t having any of it. She grabbed Beyoncé’s hand, pulling her towards the elevator. “No chance, woman,” she replied with a playful determination.

The elevator doors closed, and Onika wasted no time. She pushed Beyoncé against the wall, her hands framing Beyoncé’s face as she captured her lips in a heated kiss. Their lips moved together with a familiar urgency, the confined space heightening the intensity. Beyoncé moaned softly against Onika’s mouth, her hands gripping Onika’s waist as she pulled her closer.

The elevator dinged, signaling their arrival at the designated floor. Reluctantly, they pulled apart, both slightly breathless. As the doors slid open, Beyoncé smirked and whispered, “Delete the elevator footage.”

Onika chuckled, wiping a smudge of lipstick from her mouth. “I know, woman,” she replied, her voice teasing as they stepped out.

But their lighthearted mood was shattered the moment they entered Onika’s office. Michael was already there, his posture tense and his expression furious. He barely waited for them to settle before launching into an argument.

“What is Beyoncé doing with you, Onika?” Michael demanded, his voice laced with anger and frustration. He pointed accusingly at Beyoncé, who stood by the door, arms crossed, trying to maintain her composure. “This is not the place for your personal affairs!”

Beyoncé stifled a laugh, knowing that reacting would only make things worse. She could see the vein in Michael’s forehead bulging, a sure sign that he was reaching his boiling point.

Onika stepped forward, her expression hardening. “Watch your tone, Michael,” she warned, her voice cold. “You’re talking to the President of the United States.”

Michael wasn’t deterred. He sneered, his eyes narrowing as he noticed the faint trace of Beyoncé’s lipstick still clinging to Onika’s mouth. “You’ve got that whore’s lipstick on your mouth,” he spat, his words dripping with contempt.