Cinderella Moss
Most people don't realize that. They see the new president standing outside taking the oath (and, by the way, January in DC is too damn cold for all that standing around), and they don't think about the work involved in making that ceremony happen. Every last detail has significance, let me tell you. Who do you choose to administer the oath? (We, I am pleased to announce, have chosen a female, pro-choice judge from New Hampshire, who is an old friend of Dr. Bartlet's. The pro-choice thing caused a lot of debate among the senior staff. The press is going to be all over that, and we're giving the Christian Right an issue to take to Face the Nation this week. However, both Governor and Dr. Bartlet were adamant about not dissing their old friend because it was politically expedient.) What speakers do you invite? (Maya Angelou. I am so psyched.) Does the president walk or take a limo back to the White House? The walk is a great visual, but it's a security nightmare. President Bartlet's walking, and I take it the Secret Service is not happy.
Then there are the Inaugural Balls. Yes, plural. Every group imaginable is having a party this week -- media outlets (We're accepting a few of those.), lobbyists (not going to those), the Democratic Party (attendance mandatory). The Inaugural Ball that people think of when they hear that term, however, is the one that occurs the night of the Inauguration itself. In the White House. There's supposed to be a staff that works exclusively on planning this. No one seems quite sure how it's supposed to be organized, however. We've never planned an Inaugural Ball before, and the outgoing administration is being remarkably unhelpful.
As Josh says, they're Republicans and they lost; what did we expect?
In other words, it's chaos around here, trying to plan this stuff. Plus we have to get ready to move into the West Wing the next day -- a massive job all by itself. Quite a bit of that massive job seems to have fallen to Margaret and me as assistants to the newly appointed Chief and Deputy Chief of Staff. And I thought life would get easier when the campaign ended.
I was so naive six weeks ago.
Josh has very little patience for the Inauguration stuff. He's Mr. Domestic Policy Guy these days, worrying about cabinet appointments and confirmation hearings and the first pieces of legislation we need to be introducing. He maintains that the communication staff should take care of what he calls "the pageantry stuff" (although he hasn't complained about my getting assigned Inauguration-related tasks as long as it doesn't interfere with everything I have to do for him). People will insist on running things by him, however. Right now he's bitching about getting caught up in The Dress Issue.
Not surprisingly, every designer in the world wants to provide gowns for Dr. Bartlet, Lizzie, Ellie and Zoey. Also Annie, believe it or not. CJ's been in the news a lot too lately, so she's getting offers. It's free dresses. Designer dresses. We're talking Armani, Valentino, Vera Wang -- it's like Oscar night around here. And with all the ceremonies and the balls, dressing four women and one little girl runs into quite a bit of money for the Bartlets.
It's a quid pro quo situation. This is how the Oscars work too, CJ tells me. The designers provide the dresses for free; their designs will be all over the news, and the publicity more than makes up for the cost of the gowns.
Governor and Dr. Bartlet, in what I'm told is an unprecedented move, have said no to all the free gowns, however. As Governor Bartlet points out, they're not starting out these four years beholden to anyone, not even Giorgio Armani. Dr. Bartlet has decided that the family budget will allow two new formal gowns each, and those will have to do. CJ is making do with one.
At least they have new gowns. I don't know what the hell I'm supposed to do. I'm required to attend these things, and I literally haven't a thing to wear. I'm having nightmares about calling Wisconsin and telling my mother to ship my prom gown here.
Pink taffeta. Yeah, that'll work.
Kill me now.
Zoey has arrived at our temporary offices with her new Vera Wang gown. Ostensibly she wants CJ and me to see it. Secretly, I think she wants Josh to get a good look at it. She's smitten.
Most girls her age have crushes on Brad Pitt. You have to admire Zoey's superior taste.
And if Josh ever hears I said that, I will of course deny it.
The object of Zoey's affection barely looks up from the file detailing why Judge Wilcox will make a superior attorney general. Zoey is looking quite grown up in a midnight blue silk creation.
I wouldn't mind being able to afford a dress like that.
I wouldn't mind appearing in front of Josh Lyman in a dress like that. It has spaghetti straps. He could hook the strap around his thumb, then move it down my shoulders ever so slowly until my collarbone is completely exposed. Then he'd put his mouth exactly where the strap had been and sort of nip at my flesh until--
You know, I've been having too many thoughts like this lately. I really, really need a man.
Josh, blissfully unaware of my fantasies, barely glances at Zoey. "Yeah, nice dress," he says as he looks back down at his notes. I'm standing beside him, and I'm seriously considering stomping on his foot.
Or running my hands through that unruly mop of hair. Very slowly. Then--
Okay, I have to stop thinking like this.
"Josh," Zoey says, "you're a real schmuck."
I must agree.
Josh looks up. "Zoey Bartlet, do you even know what that word means?" he asks.
"Of course I know what it means. It's a derogatory Yiddish term referring to the male sexual organ," Zoey replies.
"Okay," Josh answers, "you know what it means. I just want it on the record if your parents ask that I am not the person who taught you that word."
"Honestly, Josh," I say, "who doesn't know what that word means? I know what that word means."
"Right, because you grew up in Madison, Wisconsin, that hotbed of Jewish culture."
"This from a man who grew up in the suburbs of Connecticut," I point out reasonably.
"Hey, I'm Jewish! My parents and my grandparents spoke Yiddish."
"Yutz," I say.
"Shiksa," he calls me. He's sitting there, all smiling with the dimples, and I'm too enchanted to devise a witty comeback. So it's just as well that Zoey asks me about my dress. I admit that I haven't picked anything out yet. Josh looks up from the report he's gone back to reading, and I don't know why I feel embarrassed. Josh of all people knows how much money I make. He should be able to figure out that I can't afford an expensive dress.
He's going to make this into an issue; I know he is. Sure enough, Zoey hasn't been gone five minutes when he offers to give me the money to buy a new dress.
"Josh, do you have any idea how much money we're talking about?"
"I don't know. Maybe a hundred?"
"Several hundred," I explain. "And that's off the rack. Designer -- in the thousands. Even if I'd let you pay for it, which I won't."
"I can afford it."
"And imagine what great press that would make if it got out -- the newly appointed deputy chief of staff buying an expensive item of clothing for his assistant. CJ would kill us both."
He gets this gleam in his eyes, and I know what he's thinking.
"No," I tell him. "We're not going through some half-assed charade where you give the money to CJ and she gives it to me."
"But--"
"You can afford it. I've heard. And really, Josh, it's sweet of you to want to do this." I squeeze his arm for emphasis. The man has amazing arms. I stay awake at night and contemplate those arms. I'm developing an unhealthy fascination with Josh's body.
I need to have sex. That's what this obsession of mine with Josh's body is about. If I get laid, I will stop fantasizing about my boss.
Maybe I'll meet someone at the Inaugural Ball. You never know. All I need is the right dress.
***
Just call me Cinderella Moss.
Assuming that Cinderella shopped at a consignment store and relied on Citibank rather than her fairy godmother.
Fairy godmothers don't charge sixteen percent interest, but Citibank doesn't turn your dress into rags at midnight, so it all works out.
Thank god for Margaret. She's lived in DC long enough to know about places like this where people who can afford designer gowns sell them after one or two wearings. God forbid they should be seen in public wearing last year's Valentino.
As for me, I am now wearing Versace from three years ago, and it still costs $500. A bargain, the saleswoman tells me. Margaret, who is not getting a commission and whose opinion I therefore trust more, tells me it looks great. It's a lavender silk, which I love. The thing that really sets it off, however, is the buttons -- about a dozen pearl buttons down the back with still more on the sleeves. It's all very old-fashioned, with a high neckline. If a TV camera happens to pick up a visual of the deputy chief of staff's assistant, I won't have to worry about my mother freaking out over a plunging neckline. Of course, it is what might be called form-fitting. Or as Margaret says, "You look like you've been poured into it." And then there is the business of the slit that goes halfway up my legs.
Wait until Josh gets a look at me in this. I cannot wait to see Josh's reaction to this dress.
Not that I expect Josh to have a reaction. It would simply be interesting to see whether he does react.
By the time I find the right shoes, some pearl earrings that match the buttons and the right purse, I'm out more than $700 . I figure it's worth the cost. Over the next four years, I'll have to go to several formal events; this outfit will get more than one workout during the course of the Bartlet administration. It's a career investment.
I wonder if it's tax deductible.
I wonder if Josh will notice the slit skirt.
I wonder if I'll meet some interesting man who will take my mind off Josh.
***
I'm popular tonight.
I believe I have danced with every man in DC.
Partly it's the dress.
Partly it's my winning personality.
Mostly it's my job.
Let's face facts: When you're the assistant to the third most powerful man in the country, people are going to be nice to you. In a few weeks, a few months, these aides and these lobbyists are going to want access to Josh. And they know they're going to have to get through me to get to him. One dance tonight probably seems like a small price to pay.
So I seem to have danced with every man at this thing. Hell, the president -- it's going to take some time getting used to calling Governor Bartlet "the president" -- even asked me to dance. That was very sweet of him.
There's only one man here I haven't danced with. Not that he's done that much dancing. He seems to be operating under the illusion that the purpose of this thing is to carry on debates with various and assorted senators and congressional representatives.
He did dance with Zoey once and another time with CJ. Mandy Hampton has made two last desperate attempts to get her claws into him. Give it up, Mandy. He's not falling for your pathetic "look how young and cute I am" routine again.
And if he does, I swear I will find CJ and Sam, and the three of us will drag him away from you kicking and screaming if necessary.
Of course, I can completely understand Mandy Hampton's unwillingness to let him go once and for all. Damn, but he cleans up nice! The sight of that man in a tux is impressive. There is something about the unrelieved line of black that shows off his back and shoulders to advantage. Not that his back and shoulders don't generally look good, but tonight -- tonight he looks especially tasty.
I'd love to snack on him myself. I skipped dinner completely.
I have to stop thinking these things. The man is my boss.
The man is stupid enough to sleep with Mandy Hampton. Repeatedly.
I mean, do I really want him inside me, considering where he's been recently?
Yes. Yes, I do. We all make mistakes, after all. Let she who is without a Dr. Free Ride in her past cast the first stone.
Anyway, it's all academic. He doesn't want me. He hasn't even looked in my direction all evening. He's practically been avoiding me. Except for that moment when I first walked in.
He gave me this look. A lot of men have given me similar looks tonight, but this -- this had an effect. Three hours later, I am still -- I can still feel the heat from that look, let me tell you. I'm tingling just thinking about it. His eyes slowly moved down my body, and I swear I couldn't breathe until he spoke.
"Donnatella Moss," he said, "you're a girl!"
"Astute observation there, boss," I replied.
I think it was the word "boss." He looked as though someone had thrown a bucket of ice water on him and he muttered, "Well, anyway, nice dress." And he wandered away.
He hasn't looked at me since. Not once. I know this for a fact since I haven't been able to take my eyes off him all night. Luckily, the only person I've danced with who expected actual conversation was the president.
The latest in a series of aides and lobbyists and general hangers-on is asking me to dance when, finally, Josh looks at me. I mean, really looks. Sam comes up to him and says something, but Josh doesn't take his eyes off me.
I'm doing that thing where I forget to breathe.
This dance is almost over when Josh starts walking toward me. I'm telling myself to be reasonable. I am a practical woman, and this is Josh. I know what this is about. He wants me to wander over to the West Wing with him and start organizing his office space.
What else could Josh possibly want from me? Anything else is simply too ludicrous.
And then he holds out his hand and says, "Dance with me." Typical. He doesn't even ask.
I should point that out to him. I should let him know that these are not working hours, and he cannot give me orders. I should point out that tonight, if he wants something, he has to ask.
The trouble is that, if I say any of that, I'll fixate on the other things I want him to ask for. So I take his hand, and we dance.
Because there's no point in tempting fate, I keep as much distance between our bodies as possible. Too much distance, as it turns out because Josh laughs and tells me, "We're supposed to be dancing. It would help if we were actually in the same zip code."
"Sorry," I murmur and move in closer.
Not, apparently, close enough because Josh pulls me closer still. I've been dancing like this all night with other men, but none of them made me feel like this. Not one of the aides or the lobbyists or the hangers-on made me feel as though the rest of the world had disappeared, leaving just the two of us and some music.
At least, I think there's music. My heart's beating so loudly that it's hard to tell.
And through it all, Josh keeps staring at me.
I'm usually good at figuring him out, but I have no idea what's going on in his head right now. None whatsoever.
"Come home with me," he says.
See? I didn't have a clue he was going to say that.
It's completely inappropriate. It is absolutely the wrong thing to do. I am a practical, sensible woman, and there is only one possible answer.
"Yes."
That wasn't it.
This dress must be cutting off the supply of oxygen to my brain.
***
"This isn't a one-night stand," Josh says.
We're in his car, headed toward his condo, and we have been remarkably quiet. I expected that, once we were away from the party, he'd at least kiss me; but even in the parking lot there was too much of a crowd. I know what Josh was thinking; he was thinking that it would look inordinately bad if the Deputy Chief of Staff were seen making out with his assistant. So, fine. If anyone saw us, he was simply giving me a ride back to my place. A friendly gesture, nothing more.
But it's been twenty minutes, my body is on fire from all that staring he's been doing, and I swear to god that if he doesn't touch me soon I may literally go up in flames.
"I know it's not," I answer.
"'Cause I didn't want you thinking--"
"I don't think that."
"Okay." He gives me this amazing smile; he's all dimples and sparkling eyes and it occurs to me for the first time right then:
I am in love with Josh Lyman.
Oh. Well, that explains everything.
It explains why I feel happier when I'm working with him than when I'm relaxing with somebody else. It explains why I am suddenly addicted to twenty-hour workdays. It explains why this banter thing we've got going feels like foreplay and why, when I quit working for him for a few weeks, I felt as though my soul had been ripped out of my body.
Upon reflection, however, I have decided that I am not sharing this revelation with Josh. So he says it's not a one-night stand; I believe him. Josh, unlike a certain person in my past, is an honorable man. He wouldn't make a point of saying this much if it didn't mean something to him too. Hell, we have to work together every day. He wouldn't do this if he wasn't serious. Josh is not the sort of man who would suddenly decide to screw his assistant because she looked hot in her new dress.
So it means something to him. But "something" isn't necessarily the same as love, you know? "Something" is affection; "something" is mutual respect. "Something" is not "I want to spend the rest of my life with you."
"The rest of my life" -- Where the hell did that come from? Is this some kind of weird conditioning left over from my parents' "you are nothing if you don't have a man" way of thinking?
I'm believe it's better to wait and let him say it first. Definitely better. Let's not have any of those uncomfortable morning-after silences. If he loves me, fine. Better than fine. Incredible. If not, "serious" is good too. I can live with serious. I can live with "this is not a one-night stand."
Actually, half an hour ago, I could have lived with a one-night stand too. But this revelation of mine has changed things. Now that I've realized that I love him, I don't think I could stand the idea of settling for one night of casual sex, no matter how hot it might turn out to be.
And I'm thinking it's going to turn out to be very hot. Especially if the looks he keeps giving me are any indication. You can see all kinds of things in those looks: you can see that he thinks I'm beautiful (very perceptive of him), that he's amazed I said yes, that he's trying to figure how he'll get me out of this dress.
"I live closer," I point out.
"I've seen your apartment. I helped you move into that apartment. We're going to my place."
"Give me one good reason."
"I'll give you three: you have a roommate; I don't."
"She has a date tonight. She won't be back."
"She has those damn cats."
"We'll lock them out of the bedroom."
"You have a twin bed. Mine's king size."
"Good answer. Your place will work just fine."
I wonder if I'm obligated to point out the fact that I'm considerably less experienced than he is. I mean, I wouldn't want him to be disappointed. Maybe I should tell him to lower his expectations. I mean, it's not like I'm a virgin; I did live with Dr. Free Ride for three years. But the truth of the matter is that, while there was some minor fooling around with my earlier boyfriends, Dr. Free Ride is the only man I've had actual intercourse with. And that was, I'm here to tell you, a severe disappointment. His view of sex was, as a friend of mine once put it, "man on top, get it over with fast." He was not what you'd call open to experimentation. My complaints on this subject were met with variations on "you've never done it with anyone else; what do you know?" This always struck me as a singularly stupid question. I know what my body wants, after all.
Still, I wouldn't want Josh to expect too much.
"Josh?"
"What?"
"My experience is somewhat limited."
"What the hell does that mean?"
"It means that Dr. Free Ride--"
"So here's the deal: you don't mention him tonight; I don't mention Mandy."
"Yes, but I need to point out that he was, you know, the first man I ever--"
"Could we please not go there?"
"And what I'm saying is that he was the only man I ever--"
"Oh. Okay."
"In the interest of full disclosure, I should point out that he was fond of saying that I wasn't very good."
"He was an ass. He was also wrong."
"How the hell do you know? You haven't even kissed me yet."
He gives me another one of those stares that makes me want to take him right here and now in this car. Who needs a king size bed? "I know," he says.
"That's very sweet of you," I say, "but--"
He suddenly pulls the car into a nearby parking lot. Then he leans over and kisses me. Very gently at first, one hand tangled up in my hair, the other resting on my shoulder. I'm kissing him back for everything I'm worth, running my hands over his back and wishing like hell that there weren't so many layers of clothing between my hands and his flesh.
"See?" he says, breaking away from me and starting the car up again. "I know."
Yeah, now that he mentions it, I totally get his point.
***
I've never been in Josh's condo before. It's nice. Normally, I'd want to look around, but he doesn't seem inclined to give me the tour.
"Why bother?" he asks when I mention looking around . "You're standing on my favorite spot right now."
"And what is so special about your entryway, Joshua?"
"This is where I first kissed Donnatella Moss."
"A nice sentiment," I tell him. "But technically inaccurate. You kissed me in the car."
"That was just a demonstration."
"Like a movie trailer," I suggest. "Preview of coming attractions?"
"You could say that. Or you could just be quiet for a minute and let me kiss you."
I hold out my arms. "I'm all yours, " I tell him.
"Thank God," he whispers. And then he kisses me. This kiss is much less gentle than the one we shared in the car. It's more intense. Possessive, even. On my part as well, I must admit. I pull him tighter against me until I can feel his erection straining against his clothes. I think I may be giggling.
"You find my condition amusing?" he asks. He lifts one eyebrow in a pitiful attempt to appear nonchalant, and I find myself giggling even more.
He shakes his head. "You know, I never expected the woman of my dreams to be someone who would laugh at me during a moment like this."
That takes me aback. "Woman of your dreams?" I repeat.
"I have had the occasional dream featuring you, yes."
I can't get this stupid smile off my face. This should be a solemn moment -- this is a solemn moment -- and I can't control the urge to laugh.
"Poor Josh," I say. "Tormented with erotic dreams about his assistant while I slept soundly."
"You did not."
"Did too."
He moves past me into the living room and sits down on the sofa, arms crossed.
"What are you doing?" I ask.
"I'm relaxing. I'm just sitting here and relaxing until you admit the truth."
"I'm not admitting anything. There is nothing to admit."
"Well, then, thank you for a lovely evening. Shall I call you a cab?"
"You're a heartless tease, Joshua Lyman."
"Possibly. But now that I think about it, I do recall some mornings when you came dragging into the office looking as though you'd had a particularly sleepless night."
I take two steps toward the living room. "Name one."
"Manchester."
I take another step toward him. "Yeah, well, I remember the way you looked at me in New Orleans."
"Los Angeles."
"Charleston, Josh." I'm awfully close to the couch now.
"South Carolina or West Virginia?"
I'm standing directly over him. "Both," I say.
He reaches up and pulls me onto his lap . "Columbus," he says.
"Raleigh."
"Fort Worth," he says and kisses me again. He moves his hands very slowly down my sides until he reaches the slit in my dress. His hands move underneath the silk, and he runs his hands down the length of my legs . "I really love this dress," he says. "Lose it."
And I start giggling again. "It's not that easy," I explain. "Getting in and out of this thing is a two-person operation."
"I hesitate to ask who was the other person helping you into it."
"Margaret. She did up the buttons for me."
"I have never seen a dress with so many buttons."
"Yes, so just be patient here."
"I am not a patient man, Donnatella."
"Really? I never noticed that about you."
My impatient lover -- my God, I just used the word "lover" to describe Josh; I'm having a great night -- takes my hand and pulls us up off the couch. I expect him to undo the buttons on the back of this thing, but instead he takes my arm. He undoes the first button on my sleeves. As a result, there is just the tiniest bit of skin exposed at my wrist. He runs his hand over it, and I think I shiver. With the second button, he kisses the exposed flesh. For an impatient man, he is going through those buttons at an agonizingly slow rate. By the time he's able to push the sleeves up to my elbow, I'm incapable of coherent thought.
"Turn around," he says. His voice is all raspy and unbearably sexy and I can't wait to find out what he plans to do with the next set of buttons.
First, he pushes my hair off to one side so it won't be in his way. And then he starts on the first button. When it's undone, he kisses the spot at the base of my neck that's now exposed. I can still feel his erection pressing against me, and I can't believe he's capable of moving this slowly. I mean, personally, my attitude is that the $500 this dress cost me be damned; just rip the damn thing off and let's get on with it. On the other hand, the feel of his mouth and his hands against my skin is incredibly erotic; he's kissing his way down my spine, and this alone is better than sex with good old Dr. Free Ride ever managed to be.
Finally, all the buttons are undone, and he turns me back around. At the office, this man never stops moving; things can't go fast enough for him. Here, however, he seems to be taking way too much pleasure in moving slowly. He slips the dress gradually down my shoulders, then my breasts. His hands stay there, his palms rubbing gently against my nipples until I am moaning and I hear myself begging him to take them in his mouth.
Which he does . He barely grazes them with his tongue; it feels like a feather tickling me. It's fabulous, but it isn't enough. "Josh," I whisper, "please." Please what, I have no idea. I only know I need something more at this point.
Before I've had time to rationally process my thoughts, he's managed to get my dress off me, unhook my bra and start muttering about how he hates pantyhose.
"Good thing you never wear them then," I say.
"You know," he says, "you could help out here."
This sounds like an excellent idea, so I reach out for that rather large object that seems to want to bury itself inside me. Josh jumps back quickly.
"I meant with the pantyhose," he says.
"Yeah, but this is more fun. And anyway I can't take off my pantyhose standing up."
"Well then," he says, and he lifts me up and deposits me back on the couch. I manage to stop laughing long enough to kick off my shoes and rid myself of the pantyhose. So there I am, totally naked in front of Josh Lyman.
Who seems to appreciate the view, given the way he's staring at me. "Come here," he finally says.
I'm laughing again because, really, the man is too absurd. "Come here," I repeat. "Sit down, stand up. Honestly, Josh, you don't give me this many orders at work."
"Fine. I'll come over there." He sits down beside me on the couch, pulls me into his arms and settles back so that we're laying down more than sitting. We start kissing again. His mouth is moving all over my face -- my mouth, my forehead, my cheeks, the sensitive spot behind my ears -- while his hands move across my body.
"It occurs to me," I say after a few minutes of this, "that one of us is terribly overdressed."
"Yeah," he murmurs, "I'll do something about that in a minute." And he goes back to kissing me.
"Now, Josh."
He smirks at me again, arrogant sexy bastard that he is, and says, "Now? Really? 'Cause I thought you'd want more of the foreplay."
I hit him on the shoulder because he is too arrogant and too sexy and too silly. "Josh, just lose the tux."
"Just the tux? Because I was thinking it would be better if I lost the pants too."
"Oh, definitely lose the pants. And the shoes. And any boxers and t-shirts you may be concealing."
"That leaves the shirt, which--"
"Josh, I swear I will rip the damn shirt off you if necessary."
"I appreciate the sentiment," he says, stopping for a second to kiss my shoulder, "but there seems to be someone on top of me and that makes undressing difficult."
"Let go of me, and I'll give you some help."
"But, see, this is the problem cause I really, really like holding you this way."
"Imagine how much more you'll like it when we're both naked."
"Good point." He lets go, stands up and takes off his jacket.
I'm sitting back on the couch, debating whether to help or whether to just enjoy the floorshow. I opt for getting my hands on his naked flesh as soon as possible. While I don't actually rip the shirt off him, I come pretty damn close.
Josh, it should be noted, has a beautiful body. First, there are those arms I've been fantasizing about for months -- sculpted is a good word for those arms. When you touch them, without some shirt putting an unnecessary barrier between you and them, you realize just how muscular he really is. Then there's his chest -- his beautiful, flawless chest. He has just the right amount of hair to remind you that he's thoroughly masculine but not so much to as be a turn-off. There are more muscles there and not an ounce of fat. I simply must show my appreciation for the man's chest. I spend several minutes touching it and running my tongue over his nipples. He has this wonderful, slightly salty taste. And he moans. Which is also erotic.
"Donna," he says, "I think maybe you'd better stop that if we want to carry this to its logical conclusion."
"Oh, let's be illogical," I mutter and go back to seeing if I can make him moan again.
He lifts my head away from his chest and back to his face. "Seriously, Donna," he says, "I can't take much more of that."
"Oh, sure," I say, giving my best fake pout, "you can torture me for hours on end with those buttons--"
"Hours? It was five minutes tops."
"It felt like hours. Stop smirking. So it's my turn now."
"Then could you at least move, you know, a little farther south?"
"Moving south is good."
"Moving south is our friend."
"You want to lose the pants?"
I actually was going to help him with that, but it's amazing how quickly he manages to get out of them all by himself.
Speaking of your impressive sights, this one is very nice indeed. And I'm not just talking structure and proportion here, I'm talking -- Well, it's an absolutely primitive sort of idea, but I'm getting quite the rush out of the idea that I am doing that to Josh Lyman. Especially since I do believe that it grows another inch as I stare at it.
"Donna," Josh says in this ragged, agonized voice.
I drag my eyes back to his face reluctantly. "What?"
"You can spend the night window shopping, or you can--"
"Sample the goods?" I suggest. "And what kind of sampling would you prefer I do? Because there are several options available and--"
"For the love of God, woman, I don't care what you do, just do something!"
So I run my hand over him, very slowly and, I hope, gently. Though maybe not gently enough, considering the way he's groaning. But this is too much fun, studying the length and the width and the texture.
"Okay," Josh says, grabbing my arm in what I assume is an attempt to tell me to move my hand, "maybe that's enough of that."
"But I was having fun," I protest.
"There's only so much of that kind of fun I can take if you want to have any fun when we get to the actual bedroom," he points out.
"And we'll be getting to the bedroom when?"
He takes my hand in his and pushes me along. "I'm thinking now would be an excellent time," he says.
***
The bedroom is even more fun than the living room. Given Josh's earlier comments, I'm expecting minimal foreplay, but he seems to have other ideas. We're no sooner on the bed than he's kissing his way down my body. All the way down my body.
Oh. Wow.
I just figured out where he's going with this.
Confession, I'm thinking, is good for more than the soul if this is the reaction it gets.
Honestly, the man can be so sweet sometimes. I point out that my experience with my one and only lover has not been the best, and Mr. Classic Overachiever here determines to make it all better.
Not that I'm complaining.
When I said of my life with Dr. Free Ride that he didn't care for experimentation, this is one of the things I was referring to. Also when I said I had a pretty good idea of what my body wanted, this is definitely what I meant. It's every bit as good as I thought it would be back then.
Hell, it's ten times better. My imagination wasn't vivid enough to conjure up Josh.
He's moving what has proved to be an extremely skillful tongue around inside of me. Just barely gliding around in these little swirling motions that are getting closer and closer to my clit until suddenly he's there and it's so incredibly intense as he builds the pressure to the point where I think my entire body is going to explode if he doesn't touch me there just once more -- just a little harder -- and I do explode, I really think I do, and I'm pulling his head down even closer to me because I simply can't get enough of him and I'm screaming his name and I don't ever, ever want this moment to end.
Although even when it ends, it's still pretty incredible. Because Josh has me in his arms now and he's holding me like I'm made of glass and I am this close to crying both from the intensity of my orgasm and from the look on Josh's face.
It doesn't matter whether he says it or not. I can tell just from that look. Josh Lyman is in love with me too.
"I am having a really great night," I finally manage to say.
And Josh laughs. It is, I think, the most glorious sound in the world.
***
"You," I tell Josh, "are too damn smug for your own good."
"This isn't smug," he protests. "This is contented."
I examine his face closely. "It looks like smug."
"Contented."
I lower my gaze. "You can manage contented with that?" I ask, pointing at his erection.
"I can manage some damn good fantasies with that," he says. Smugly.
"Men," I mutter. "You all think with that, don't you?"
"You weren't complaining a minute ago."
"A minute ago, I was -- Oh, quit smirking!"
"Admit it. Secretly, you like when I smirk."
He has a point. "It may not always be annoying," I admit.
"Thought so."
"Josh," I say, with a smirk of my own, "you know that song?"
"What song?"
"Anything you can do, I can do better," I tell him as I start moving down his body.
Strangely enough, Dr. Free Ride wasn't too fond of this either. I say strangely because the bastard was so self-centered that you'd really think this would be the kind of thing he'd get off on. Well, actually, he claimed that he did. He claimed that the problem was just that I was incompetent. And, since I was getting precious little out of it, I never cared to hone my skills, as it were. Josh, however, doesn't seem inclined to find fault with my technique. In fact, he seems to like it just fine if the number of times I hear the words "God, Donna!" are any indication.
It's a completely different experience with Josh, and I am getting something out of it. First, there's the physical sensation of running my tongue over him, noting all the ridges and the parts where he's absolutely slick and the way the very tip of him kind of tickles against my mouth. And mostly there's the psychological high, feeling the way he presses me closer to him and shivers and knowing that I am, at this moment, completely in charge of everything.
So I'm a control freak. So sue me.
Of course, I'm in love with another control freak, which can make things interesting.
"Okay," he says finally, lifting my head away from him, "I think that's enough of that."
"You don't want me to--?"
"Not at the moment."
"Well, why the hell not? I was just getting good at it."
"Trust me when I tell you that you started out good and rapidly proceeded to incredible. But, you know, there are other things I had planned for the evening that require--"
"And what? You're only good for one erection per night?"
"Donna!"
"Because I tell you, Josh, if that's the case, I am seriously going to have to rethink this relationship. I am a relatively young woman; I have needs. If you can't do an adequate job of meeting those needs--"
"Believe me when I tell you I am more than up to the challenge. As it were."
"Really?" I am grinning like an idiot here.
"Really." And he's giving me that same grin back.
"Well, then, let's have a demonstration."
"You want me to audition for the job?"
"Yes. And I warn you, I may need more than one sample of your work."
"I think," he says, "I could be good at this. I think you might find me valuable."
Smug bastard. Making me want to cry in the middle of a perfectly good banter.
***
"Valuable" is an understatement. "Mind-blowing" might be more accurate. The man does enjoy foreplay. Lots and lots of it. I don't think there is a spot on my body he hasn't kissed or touched or licked. I've been doing my share of the kissing and the touching and the licking as well. I mean, naked Josh and he's my very own to play with. Who wouldn't enjoy that? Even the obligatory discussion of precautions is fun cause, you know, it's us bantering, which is what we do best.
Although after tonight, it's possible that banter will have to be relegated to what we do second best.
At any rate, Josh is bitching and moaning about condoms, which he hates.
"Well," I say sensibly, pointing at the organ which will soon be wearing said condom, "you should have thought of that before you stuck that thing in Mandy Hampton."
"I thought there were certain names we weren't bringing up tonight."
"I'm just saying that since I know the regrettable taste you've shown in women in the recent past--"
"Well, what was I supposed to do? A man has needs, Donnatella Moss, and you weren't doing anything except prancing around the office, getting me all hot and bothered."
"Prancing?"
"By prancing, I of course meant striding around purposefully, making order out of the chaos I created without you."
"That's better. You may kiss me now."
"I was planning on doing more than kissing."
"That works too."
I don't say much more after that; I'm too busy enjoying the kissing and the touching. I'm telling you here, the man has made foreplay into an art form. And touching him feels so incredible; his back, for instance, is all smooth and strong and perfect. His legs are as amazing as his arms; and as it turns out, his face isn't the only part of him with dimples. He's quite the specimen, my Joshua.
My Joshua.
Mine.
Who knew?
He's on top of me, kissing my breasts with what I consider enormous skill, when he suddenly flips us over so that I'm on top. And I can tell by the look on his face exactly what he intends. My God, this is really going to happen. Josh Lyman is really going to make love to me. I mean, okay, that's what he's been doing all night, but this is it. Consummation.
Wow.
He threads his hands through mine, and I hold on for dear life. It's been almost a year since I told Dr. Free Ride to stuff it, and since then it's just been me and my shower massage. This should be uncomfortable. I shouldn't expect too much from this.
This is incredible.
Josh just barely enters me and then withdraws. I'm gasping because it feels so good, and I want him back. And then he's there, he's on just the right spot and it feels so amazing. I'm fighting the urge to close my eyes and focus on the sensation because I want to look at him. I want to see his face when he comes. When he's inside me and he comes.
It's a beautiful face. It's a face full of wonder and bliss and love. All for me.
It is the single most amazing moment of my life.
***
He's wearing a very different expression the next morning, although it takes me a minute to realize it.
He's watching me intently, one hand running softly over my hair.
"I can't believe I fell asleep," I mutter. I look at the clock -- 8 a.m. "Oh, shit. We were supposed to meet CJ an hour ago for--"
"I called her. I told her I'd be late and that you're taking the day off."
"I am?"
"Yeah."
"But we're not both--?"
"No."
That's when I study his face. I take a good, long look and I don't like anything I see there. I see regret and sorrow and guilt. Not what you want to be looking at following the best night of your life.
"So," I ask, "what's wrong?"
He gives me his rueful "can't put anything over on you" grin and kisses my shoulder one last time. "I've been thinking that maybe we made a mistake here."
I try to think of something to say -- something, you know, that doesn't involve screaming -- but I can't come up with anything, so I simply wait for him to explain himself.
"It's not that I think you and I are a mistake," he says. "It's the boss/assistant thing."
"I quit."
"Donna, seriously."
"Seriously. This or the job? The job loses. Next question." I'm starting to feel a little panicky.
"It's not that simple."
"Yes, it is. It's exactly that simple. I love you; it doesn't get any simpler than that."
"Donna, we can't start seeing each other even if you quit."
"News flash: we've already started."
"Publicly. We can't. Too many people know you were my assistant during the campaign. My unpaid assistant for a large part of the campaign. If we suddenly -- people will talk, Donna. I understand how these things work. People will say things about us. Mostly about you. I can't let that happen."
"I don't care. Let them say whatever they want."
"This doesn't affect just the two of us. It would be used against the administration, against the president."
"You and me falling in love?" I ask. I am trying my best not to cry, but I'm afraid it's a losing battle. Sort of like reasoning with Josh.
"Things would be twisted around. They'd make it sound like this was about harassment and misuse of power--"
"Oh, like you ever had the power in this relationship."
He gives me this heartbreaking smile. "I know," he says. "But that's what it would be made to look like. I can't do that to you; I can't do that to Leo and the Bartlets and everyone else."
"Well, don't you think you should have thought about that yesterday?" I'm practically screaming at him. It's unattractive, also unfair, but I can't help it. My anger is the only thing I have to hold on to now. If I give that up, I am going to break into about a million pieces.
"I should have," Josh agrees. "I absolutely should have thought this through. I'm--"
"Don't say it," I shout. "Don't you dare say you're sorry this happened. If you say that -- I couldn't stand if you said that."
"I'm not sorry it happened," he says. "I'm sorry there's nothing else we can do; but, God, Donna, I'll never be sorry about last night."
There's no point arguing with him. I've spent enough time with Josh now to know when he can be talked out of something and when he absolutely will not change his mind. He's worked this all out in his head while he watched me sleep, and he's decided on this course of action. Non-action.
Whatever.
So I take his hand for a minute and reach up and kiss his lips. "I'm not sorry either," I tell him. Because he needs to hear that. Because he'll drive himself crazy with guilt if he thinks I regret this. And, really, the only thing I regret is that I have to give this up.
"So what do we do now?" I ask after a minute.
"I guess we go on like before," he says.
"Pretend none of this ever happened?"
"Yeah," he says, and his voice sounds ragged. Not in the raspy and sexy way it sounded last night, but on-the-verge-of-tears ragged. "Pretend it never happened."
We're both going to start crying in a minute, and that's just not good for anyone. I should change the mood, go back to the banter, go back to Josh-and-Donna-from-the-office.
"I have to tell you that I think you're making a big mistake here, Joshua," I say. "'Cause this is not the 1950s. I'm not going to be some lovestruck little assistant who's sitting around pining for her boss."
Okay, so my bantering skills are not back up to office standards yet. These things take time.
But he grins at me, so that must mean I succeeded. A little. "No, I can't imagine you doing that at all."
"I shall date. Aggressively."
"Just please don't tell me about it."
"I intend to have sex. Lots of sex. With men who are not you."
"Again, I am begging you not to tell me." He's almost smiling. Probably doesn't think I'll really do it. Bastard.
I'll show him.
Even if I have to make stuff up.
"I'll do worse than have sex with them, Josh. I'll bring them coffee."
"Okay, that one hurt." But he's smiling now, so that's good.
We are the only two people I know who can break each other's hearts and joke about it at the same time.
He has to help me back into my dress -- which, believe me, I am never wearing again -- and drive me back to my apartment. We've already moved on to the not-talking-about-it thing. We spend most of the drive discussing how to organize our new office space. We even manage some more uninspired banter about coffee and how I need a raise.
He drops me off a block from my apartment because he doesn't want to take a chance on anyone seeing us together this early in the morning with me still wearing my Inaugural finery. As I'm about to get out of the car, though, he places his hand over mine and then he says it. Now that it's all over, he says it. "Donnatella Moss, I love you."
It takes me a minute before I can speak without crying. Finally, I say, "I love you too, Josh." And because I can't stand to leave it all maudlin like that, I add, "And I still maintain I had a really great night."
And then I get out of his car and walk to my apartment without looking back.
THE END
04.02.01