HIS FIRST LADY(SANDRO MARCOS)

Chapter 36: You Called Me... For This?

I can hear voices in the background behind Sandro —people chatting and laughing. It sounds like he's at some kind of party. I didn't mean to interrupt his evening.

God, this is such a bad idea. Why did I even call him? What am I hoping to achieve?

"One minute, I can't hear you," Sandro says. "Let me step out onto the balcony." His voice fades as he likely covers the phone, saying, "Excuse me for a moment."

I listen to the distant hum of conversation as he walks. I can only catch snippets, but it sounds like he's at some kind of donor event. High-society gatherings all have that same patronizing laugh.

When the noise clears, I know he's stepped outside. "Alright, Rafha," he says. "Talk to me."

"I shouldn't have called," I blurt out immediately. I've been holding it in, but now it's spilling out.

"Don't even start with that. I'm not buying it. You wanted to talk, so talk. I'm listening."

Despite my embarrassment, his voice is still a comfort. I knew it—he's the only person in the world right now, other than my kids, who can ease the sting of life. But what Sandro gives me is so much more... different.

"Rafha?" he prompts.

I want to tell him everything, to have him condemn Samuel and lift me up. But at the same time, I don't want to deal with any of this anymore. Maybe I just want to hear Sandro talk.

"How was your day?" I ask.

There's a pause, and then silence. "You called me... just to ask that?"

I swallow hard. He knows the real reason, without me saying a word.

He doesn't need me to beg.

"It's been fine," he says, eventually. "Still ongoing. This donor meeting runs until midnight. They brought in a comedian for entertainment, but he's way younger than me. I think I'm the only one getting his jokes."

Considering the average age of high-paying donors is over sixty, he's probably right.

"Are they at least laughing out of politeness?" I ask.

"Nope," Sandro replies. "The poor guy looks like he's having the worst night of his life. I'm going to double whatever they're paying him. He's actually funny—just the wrong crowd."

"I'm sure your support will help."

"I hope so. I hate seeing people give up before it's time, you know?" His voice lingers on that last part, and I wonder if we're still talking about the comedian.

"Sandro..."

"I don't know why you called, Rafha . And honestly, I don't need to know. But you did. Whatever's going on, you dialed my number, and that means something."

It does, but I'm not ready to admit it. "Maybe... we can try being friends," I suggest, weakly. I'm not sure it could ever work, but if I can't have Miles in the way I want, I'd rather have him somehow than not at all.

"That's a terrible idea, Rafha," he says, firmly. "I can't be friends with someone I want this much. Do you know how hard it is just being around you? I'm rock-hard ninety percent of the time."

"Shh!" I hiss, horrified that his donors might overhear.

"The door's closed. I'm alone out here."

One thing I've learned is to never assume you're truly alone. He must realize that too because his voice drops to a whisper.

"You looked so good today in those tight shorts," he continues, his voice sultry. "I wanted to slide my hand down the back and cup your ass."

"Sandro... please..." He needs to stop—my body is already responding too strongly.

"Where are you right now?" he asks.

"In my car."

"Driving?"

"No, I pulled over."

"Good," he says. "You can touch yourself if you want. I know how much you like my voice." He drops his voice lower, almost like a growl. "Rafha."

The way he says my name is pure sex, and it sends shivers through me. God, I love when he says it like that.

"Want me to tell you what I wanted to do to you in that bathroom today?" he asks, his voice dark and tempting.

I press my thighs together, but the friction isn't enough.

I should tell him no. Instead, I whisper, "God, yes."

He chuckles softly into the phone.

"I'd unbutton those tight shorts, shove them and your panties down, bend you over the sink, and fuck you until you see stars. I'd rub that sweet clit while I do it—I know you love that. Makes you scream."

"Sandro..." I clutch the phone in one hand, pressing my other hand hard against my thigh, trying to resist touching myself.

"I wouldn't let you come like that, though," he says. "I want to see your face when you climax. So fucking hot. And I need my mouth on your tits again. Would you like that, Rafha? If I sucked on those perky little nipples?"

"I..."

I can hear it in his voice—he's just as worked up as I am, breathing heavily, his tone rough and deep.

"If I had you in a bed, I'd spend hours just touching you there. You're so damn responsive—I wonder if I could make you come just like that..." He pauses for a moment. "Are you touching yourself, Rafha? Am I making you feel good?"

"I can't," I whimper, even though all I want to do is slide my hand into my panties.

"Why not, baby? I know you're hot for me."

"It's not... the same..."

"Ah," he says, sounding satisfied. "You want the real thing. You won't be happy until it's my tongue in your mouth, my hands holding you down, or my dick sliding into you..."

I moan at the vivid images he's painting. I'm so turned on, I feel like I might combust.

If he were here, I might actually jump him.

But he's not. There's too much distance between us. I hate every single inch of it.

"You can have me, Rafha. You know that."

"I know. I want... I want..." I can't bring myself to say it.

"You want me."

"Yes..." My desire drowns out all rational thought. It's a miracle I don't melt into a puddle or burst into flames—I feel like I'm on the verge of both.

Sandro hums.

"You can have me. Anytime you want. You just have to do one thing."

"What's that?" At this point, I'd agree to anything.

"Leave your husband and be with me," he says, then hangs up.