One year since the Inaugural Ball.

One year since Josh and I...

It's been one year.

This has been less of a problem -- at work, anyway -- than I thought it would be.  In the West Wing, Josh and I fell back into our working rhythm rather quickly.  Whatever residual awkwardness there was between us went unnoticed by the others.  In the chaos that faced all of us those first few weeks in office, no one had time to focus on whether Josh and I were treating one another differently.  Without the pressure of CJ, Sam and the others wondering what was wrong with us, Josh and I were free to find our way back to the way we'd been before That Night.

The truth of the matter is that Josh is happier right now than he's ever been.  He loves this job, and he's brilliant at it.  He's Mr. Domestic Policy Guy these days, and he relishes it.  If I didn't remind him to go home at the end of our ridiculously long workdays, he'd stay in the West Wing all night.  As it is, sometimes I call the office after I get home at night, and he's still there.  I hassle him as much as I can about his need for rest, but he doesn't listen very often.  But even that's okay, because he's so happy doing this job.

And I'm happy, relatively speaking.  I spend anywhere from fourteen to twenty hours a day with Josh, so what's not to love?  And I'm as hooked on the White House as he is.  This is more fun than college ever was and certainly better than the series of dead-end clerical jobs I had before I drove to New Hampshire to join the Bartlet campaign.  I'm Research Girl these days, and I love it.  I have finally found a job where my ability to remember an infinite amount of trivia comes in handy.

One year ago, I told Josh I was going to date, and I have.  Not all that much (Did I mention the twenty-hour days?) and not with any sense of purpose. (I spend twenty hours a day with Josh -- How could any other man not suffer by comparison?)  But I do date.  The truth is that if I didn't, Josh would insist on feeling guilty.  He'd think I'm nursing a broken heart and that it's all his fault.  I can't have him doing that, so I date just enough to keep Josh from turning into Angst Boy.

The more that time goes by, however, the more I realize that we made the right decision.  All right, fine:  Josh made the decision, and I went along with it because I had no choice.  Whatever.  It was the right decision.  If the Deputy Chief of Staff were caught screwing his assistant, it would destroy his career.  I watch him practically bouncing down the halls of the West Wing, and I know I couldn't be responsible for that.

It's a strange situation:  My job -- what I get paid to do -- is basically to keep Josh safe and secure.  Yet on a purely personal level, I have the power to destroy him.

We have a complex relationship.

I wouldn't change it for anything.

Except, of course, for a relationship with Josh that allows us to be lovers again without destroying him.

I suppose it's only natural that I would be thinking about That Night.  This morning's papers are filled with stories recapping President Bartlet's first year in office.  I couldn't ignore the date if I wanted to.  Josh hasn't mentioned the anniversary, though I'm sure he's aware of it.  Of course, we're away from the office today, in New Orleans for the president's speech to the ACLU, and that may be throwing our routine off.

With any luck, he'll stay busy with the president, and we won't be put in a situation where we'll be tempted to repeat what happened last year.

With any luck. 

*** 

At 5:30 a.m., I have the unenviable task of being Josh Lyman's wake-up call.  We got into this pattern during the campaign.  After a wake-up call from the front desk, Josh will roll over and go back to bed.  I, on the other hand, will stay on the phone with him and tease or banter or yell -- whatever it takes to wake him up.

"Joshua," I say once he mumbles something that might be hello.  "Get your ass out of bed."

"And a pleasant good morning to you too, Donnatella Moss."  He sounds too damn awake for so early in the morning and too cheerful to be aware of what today is.  I hate when he does stuff like this.  It throws me off my game.

"Cheerful?  If you want cheerful, you will have to find someone who didn't stumble out of bed at a quarter to five to wander around in search of your morning newspapers."

He's suddenly doing his Concerned Guy Josh voice for me.  "Tell me you weren't wandering around the French Quarter at this hour."

"'Wander around' is a figure of speech.  I only had to wander as far as my hotel room door.  The papers were waiting right there for me."

He sounds as impressed as if I'd cracked the genetic code.  "How did that happen?"

"I called last week and told them what we needed."

"And they just arranged to have everything delivered?"

"Of course they did.  We're the presidential party, after all.  You really have no idea how the world works, do you?"

"I'm just saying that if you're having the papers delivered, you should have had them delivered to my room.  Along with, you know, coffee."

"I had the papers delivered here because you're such a light sleeper.  I was afraid the delivery would make too much noise and wake you up.  Wouldn't want you to lose out on your usual four hours sleep."

"This has nothing to do with you wanting to read through everything first so you can inundate me with some bizarre factoids you've culled from the morning papers, of course."

"Sadly, there are no bizarre factoids today.  The papers are all concentrating on the fact that this it's been one year since President Bartlet took office.  It's all recaps and op-ed pieces about how we're doing."

His voice gets very soft, and I know the next question has little to do with the New York Times' opinion of President Bartlet's first year.  "So," he asks, "how are we doing?"

"As well as can be expected, given the circumstances."

"The circumstances aren't going to change, you know."

"I know." I hate hotel phones.  You never know who could be listening on the other end.  It's probably just as well.  We shouldn't talk about this stuff.  We shouldn't think about this stuff.

"So," he says after a minute, "what's my schedule like?"

And we're back to playing boss and assistant.  Just like always.

Just like a regular day. 

*** 

There is what the schedule refers to as "personal staff time" following the president's speech.  My first impulse, of course, is to spend it with Josh, but it is an impulse I curb.  The morning was difficult enough, and that was when we were surrounded by the senior staff, Margaret, Carol, President and Dr. Bartlet and a dozen or so Secret Service agents.  Josh does this thing -- he's a very tactile person -- he has this habit of touching me when we walk.  Nothing sexual, nothing anyone would comment on, but it can be very sensual at times.  That hand pressed against the small of my back -- Even on an ordinary day, it can make me remember things I should forget.  Today, it's damn near unbearable.

He feels it too.  I've seen the looks he's been giving me, and it's one of those days when he's thinking about the things we need to put behind us.  I'm afraid of what would happen if we spent part of the day alone together.

For once in my life, I have no idea where he is.  I'm so used to having every moment of Josh's schedule committed to memory that I feel anchorless not knowing what he's doing.  I should put that out of my mind for now.  Margaret and Carol are having no trouble spending two hours without Leo and CJ, after all.  They're sitting in the hotel lobby bar, drinking discreetly.  (When you're part of the presidential party, everything you do must be discreet.)  I join them, but all I have is iced tea.  I can usually handle my liquor, but I've been drunk in New Orleans before.  I swear the liquor is more potent here than anywhere else on earth.

Wherever Josh is, he'd better not be drinking.

Margaret and Carol plan to hit the French Quarter tonight, and I agree half-heartedly to go along.  I'm not sure why.  It sounds like a terrible idea.  I loved the French Quarter during the campaign; but I was drunk, and what I remember most about the experience is holding hands with Josh.  Somehow strolling down Bourbon Street with Margaret and Carol doesn't sound as exciting.

Which is why I should do it.  I should make plans for the evening that don't include Josh.  I should take myself as far away as possible from the source of temptation tonight.

I take another sip of my iced tea just in time to see Josh walk passed us toward the elevators.  Carol gives me a curious look.  "That's a first," she says.

"What is?" I ask.

"You didn't immediately jump up and go running after him.  The two of you are practically joined at the hip.  Hell, I'm surprised he didn't make you spend your free time with him this afternoon."

I wish he had.  I wish he'd asked me to go back to his room after the president's speech.  We would have had two whole hours to--

I am not going to think about that.

So instead I shrug and make some comment to Carol about needing time to myself today.  I do the smart-mouthed assistant thing and make a crack about being sick of Josh demanding so much.  I think about how I wish he'd demand more.

After making plans to meet Margaret and Carol again in an hour, I wander off to my room.  What is it about hotels that seems to dictate that, no matter how late you get back to your room, you'll find the maid just getting around to making up your bed?  This maid apologizes and mentions something about a man who said he was my boss leaving a package for me.  It's sitting on the desk: a small, flat package wrapped in silver gift paper that clearly came from somewhere a lot more upscale than my local Hallmark.

I don't dare open this in front of the maid, of course, so I'm happy to tell her that, no, I don't need any extra towels and send her on her way.  And then I tear open the package, wondering what on earth is going through Josh's twisted mind now.

The same thing, apparently, that has been going through my mind all day.  The very same memories.

Because Josh Lyman, workaholic, has taken off time today to go shopping.  And somehow he has found this exquisite silk scarf and he's bought it for me.  A silk scarf in the same shade of lavender as the dress I wore one year ago tonight at the Inaugural Ball.

He remembered.  And he wanted to make sure I knew he remembered.

He shouldn't have done this.  For any number of reasons, but mainly because now I know I can't get through this night without him.

This is a mistake.

But I suppose it was inevitable. 

*** 

He remembered.

Not that I honestly thought Josh would forget what happened between us one year ago, but I thought we'd get through the day by not talking about it, the same way we've made it through the last year by pretending that night never happened.

I should know by now that Josh can turn sweet and sentimental at exactly the wrong moment.

Not that there ever seems to be a right moment for us.

But this -- how the hell would he explain this if anyone saw him?  Who would he possibly be buying this for?  It's definitely not his mother's color, I can tell you that.

And it's far too expensive to explain away as a casual gift for his overworked and extremely underpaid assistant.

If, for instance, Bonnie or Ginger saw me wearing something this expensive, they'd be suspicious.  If they knew it came from Josh--

But he remembered.  And he couldn't let the day go by without letting me know that.  Idiot.

There really is only one thing I can do.  I call room service and tell them to deliver a pot of coffee to Josh Lyman's room.

Margaret and Carol come knocking at my door first.  I make up a story about having a migraine and send them out for their night on the town without me.  Then I wait.  Because it is, after all, inevitable at this point.  He knows it, and I know it.

It is also incredibly stupid.  We both know that too, but I don't think it's going to stop us.

A year ago, I was fairly naive about how Washington works.  After twelve months of working in the White House, however, I can no longer claim ignorance.  I've seen too many things, heard too many stories.

Washington, DC, is filled with men -- senators, congressmen, a couple of Cabinet members and ambassadors -- who have mistresses.  Everyone looks the other way and pretends not to notice.  And these men always seem to think they can get away with it.  They all seem to believe they have enough power, that people are scared enough of them, for no harm to come of their affairs.  They're right, of course.  Until the moment when someone has enough of an axe to grind or enough to gain by discrediting them.  By making their affairs public.

Two months ago, there was a case -- a senator from Ohio.  Apparently someone in the Republican party thought he'd become a liability, and so the story was leaked.  He had, it turned out, spent ten years supporting a woman who works in his office.  They even had a child together while he was preaching about family values and posing with his wife and their three children.  He'll probably lose his bid for re-election, but the woman he was linked to suffered more.  No one in the media -- or in the gossip around the West Wing -- stopped to consider what her motives might have been.  No one suggested that maybe she simply fell in love and couldn't help taking the risk.  She was vilified until the media got tired of the story and she was able to drop out of sight.

We never discussed it, but I knew what Josh was thinking.  I know he was worried that the same thing would happen to me someday.

That is the essential difference between Josh and all those other arrogant, powerful men in DC.  For all his brashness, despite all the conceit he's capable of, Josh cares deeply about the consequences of his actions.  He's afraid of opening me up to that kind of attack.  He's afraid of how this thing between us could be used by the administration's enemies.  He doesn't take any of this lightly.

Yet, on the other hand, this thing between us -- we can pretend to ignore it for only so long.  At some point, we have to acknowledge it, have to touch each other again, no matter what the consequences might be.

I'm shaking.  I'm literally shaking because I absolutely know that Josh will be here soon and that, even if we debate the wisdom of it, we'll end up making love.  I don't regret what happened a year ago, and I don't intend to regret what's sure to happen tonight.  I just -- I don't want Josh to be hurt by this, that's all.

This is a mistake.  When Josh knocks on that door, I should tell him that I really do have a headache.  I should tell him to go away.  I should go on pretending that I don't love him.

I am incapable of doing any of those highly sensible things.  He's not even here yet, and I'm already on fire.  Just knowing this is going to happen again is enough to -- I want him here; I want him touching me.  Right this minute, I don't give a damn about anything except how much I love him.

This has disaster written all over it.  I'm going to say no.  I'm going to tell him the scarf was a sweet gesture, but he can never do anything like that again.  I'm going to tell him I'm over him.  I'm going to say I don't care anymore.  I'm an excellent liar; I can make him believe me.

If I don't make love to him tonight, I swear to God I will go up in flames.

The ringing of the telephone startles me.  I didn't expect that; I thought he'd just show up here.  I didn't expect him to call and ask.

"You brought me coffee," he says in this delighted voice.

"I did not bring you coffee, Josh."  Thank God, this is familiar territory.  I know what I'm supposed to say in this conversation.  "I had room service bring you coffee.  It doesn't count."

"I'm counting it anyway."  Please, God, don't let these lines be tapped.  You never know in hotels, and his tone doesn't sound like a boss talking to an assistant.  It doesn't even sound like he's talking to a friend.  Anyone hearing him could tell that he's talking to his lover.

"I'm not."  I'm trying my best to hang on to the quirky assistant banter, but I'm having trouble thinking coherently.  Even listening to his voice is so arousing right now.

"Carol said you had a migraine."  I catch the question in his tone:  Do I really have a headache, or do I want him to come over?  I should say I have a migraine; I should tell him I intend to go to sleep.

"I don't.  I feel fine.  I just -- I didn't want to go out with Margaret and Carol."

"You should.  It's New Orleans.  It's Friday night in New Orleans.  You should go out and see the French Quarter."

"I saw the French Quarter during the campaign.  Has it changed?"

"Not that I noticed this afternoon."

"Aren't you -- don't you have the thing with Leo and the President?"

"You're falling down on the job there, Donnatella.  A good assistant would know the thing was cancelled."

"Then don't you have something you could be doing with CJ and Toby?"

"I told them I had to work."

And they believed it?  Or did they not hear the part about my headache?  Not questions I can ask over the phone.

"So you're working tonight."

"Right.  And, you know, as long as you're not doing anything--"

And there it is.

This is a colossal mistake.  This is my last chance to say no.  Why the hell can't I stop smiling?

"So I suppose you want me to give up my free evening and work too, Josh?"  Please tell me you want that.

"I was thinking it would be the most efficient use of our time."

"That's what you were thinking?"  I can't help it; I can hear the innuendo creeping into my voice.  We are so screwed if anyone ever hears this conversation.

"Yes, that's what I was thinking."

"All right then."

"I'll be there in ten minutes."

"I'll be waiting."

This is a mistake.  But it's one I can't help making. 

*** 

He arrives at my door eight minutes later, wearing jeans and a black sweater and carrying a handful of file folders.  I can't help laughing.  "You brought actual work?" I ask.

I swear he blushes.  "I didn't want it to look too obvious," he says.  "I mean, in case anyone saw."

I point at the folders.  "If anyone saw," I ask, "would that really fool them?"

"Maybe."

"It wouldn't, Josh.  You know it wouldn't fool anyone."  He's locked the door behind him, and I've moved toward him.  Any closer and we'll be touching.  That's no big deal; he touches me every day.  I'm used to his touching me.

If he doesn't put his hands on me soon, I will burst in to flame, I swear I will.

"I know it wouldn't," he says softly.  "But nobody saw me.  Nobody's going to find out."  He reaches out and touches my cheek.  "I'm not going to let anyone hurt you because of this, Donnatella, I promise."

"I'm not worried about that," I tell him.  "I'm just -- I won't have your career destroyed because of me, Joshua.  If you think there's any chance of that happening, you can turn around and leave right now."  I'm pulling at his sweater, trying to take it off, which I guess negates my words; but I do mean them.  I won't let him be destroyed by this.

"Nothing's going to happen," he promises.  "No one knows."  He's unfastening my jeans.  We seem to be desperate to get at each other.  I'm thinking this isn't going to be like last year, when we were all slow and teasing and romantic.  I'm thinking this is going to be fast and passionate and as desperate as I feel.

We move deeper into the room, nearer to the bed.  "Because we're not going to turn into those people, Josh," I say.  "We're absolutely not going to become the kind of people who have some cheap, tawdry affair and try to hide it."  His sweater falls to the floor, and I step out of my jeans.

"We couldn't be those people if we tried," he answers.  He hooks his thumbs around the waistband of my panties and pulls them down.  I step out of them and wait for him to help me get my t-shirt off.  I'm naked in front of him now; I'd forgotten the way he looked at me when I'm naked.  Is it possible to have an orgasm just from watching a man look at you?  Because I'm thinking it could happen if he keeps staring at me like that for too long.

"I know.  But if someone else found out.  Even if it were Sam or CJ or Toby," I say.  I'm fumbling with the button on his jeans; I can't stop shaking long enough to undo them properly.  "This would look bad, Josh.  I'm not sure they'd understand."

He moves my hand away from his clothes and brings it up to his lips.  He kisses the inside of my wrist, and I'm shuddering just from that little touch.  "They'd understand.  They wouldn't be happy about it, but they'd understand."

I can feel the edge of the bed against the back of my knees, which is just as well because I can't stand up any longer.  I sit down and wait for him to finish undressing.  "I just worry," I tell him. " I've been worrying all year and now--"  I shrug.  "I know this is a mistake, but I'm so damn tired of pretending I don't love you."

He's completely naked now, and this is one thing I haven't forgotten:  He's beautiful.  Everything about him -- from his unruly mop of hair to his incredibly well-toned arms to his perfectly flat stomach and his already erect penis -- is unique and magnificent and mine.

He sits down beside me on the bed and pulls me into his arm.  "Donnatella," he says in this ragged voice, and I swear I see tears in his eyes.  "I never wanted you to be--"

"I know," I tell him.  I kiss him then, because I have been absolutely desperate to kiss him for the past twelve months.  And amazingly, considering it's the two of us, we seem to have run out of words.  We simply let our bodies take over for the moment.  Our kisses are deep and intense and, well, somewhat disjointed.  We've been apart from this too long, and there's too much to do.  It's as though we don't know where to touch each other first because we want it all at once.  I kiss his mouth, our tongues playing together in some sort of imitation of the way we rush to keep up with each other when we're bantering.  But that's not enough, so I move to his shoulders and then his chest while he kisses my breasts and then my neck.  And I need to feel his mouth on mine again, so I'm back to that, only I shut my eyes and he breaks off the kiss to touch my eyelids with his mouth for an instant.  I'm moaning when he pushes me gently back on the bed and then he asks me what I want, and I can't help laughing.

"You, of course," I tell him.  I reach for his shoulders and pull him closer to me.

"You don't, you know, want to slow this down?"

"I swear to God, Josh, I think slow would kill me right now."

He gives me his usual cocky grin.  "Can't have that," he says.  "It would take me years to make sense out of your filing system."

"I will have you know my filing sys -- Oh, God!"  The bastard distracted me with banter.  I didn't even notice him slipping his fingers there until he was right on my clit, and now he's making those amazing little circles that have me whimpering and begging him for more.  I lift up my hips and press one hand over his, trying to get more friction, until at last it's built to the point where he covers my mouth with his in case anyone can hear us in the next room.  I'm still shuddering from the intensity of my orgasm when I pull him closer and tell him how much I want him inside me now.

"Like this?" he asks.  "Wouldn't it be better if we took some more time?"

"No.  Right now."

"We don't need anything to--"

"Josh, I know for a fact you haven't had a date in a year.  I'm not exactly worried about health issues here."

"You've dated."

"Yes, but I didn't sleep with any of them."  I push his hand down on my clit again, so I don't lose the last of that amazing sensation.  He picks the worst times to have these discussions.

"You didn't?"  He looks inordinately pleased with himself.  "Why not?"

"Not a one of them could bring the banter."

"The banter's that important?"

"If a man wants to make love to me, Joshua Lyman, he'd better have at least a 760 Verbal."

"So what you're saying is that I barely made the cut?"

"Josh, would you please--"

"I'm just trying to provide that all-important banter."

"Josh, now!  And stop making me laugh."

He gives me this quick, soft kiss on lips and then he enters me.  It's not the most comfortable position, considering I haven't done this in a year; but he's still moving his fingers over my clit, and I concentrate on that until I've adjusted to having a man inside me again.  Having Josh inside me again.  When he withdraws, I actually sob.

"Donnatella," he says.  "God, I'm sorry.  I didn't mean to hurt you."

"You didn't."  I try to explain, but I'm not thinking that clearly.  "I just -- I want you so much.  Please."

He kisses me again, and I think he's close to crying too.  He enters me again and starts thrusting.  I move one hand up to run over his shoulder and use the other to stroke his hip.  This is not the best position for me, not if I want a really strong orgasm, but that's not what this is about.  This is one of those utterly primitive moments when I simply want Josh to take control, when I want him to understand how completely I adore him.  So I concentrate on the expression on his face, on how amazed he seems to be at what we're doing.  I concentrate on the feel of his shoulders and his ass against my hands.  I concentrate on the last bits of that incredible orgasm he gave me and on the feel of him spilling into me.  It is all much more than enough right now. 

*** 

"Josh, we have to talk."  He's still sweaty and breathing hard and practically plastered to me.  I'm holding him as tightly as I can because I know this is not going to last.  This can't last.  We've had this conversation before, after all.  It was even his decision.  As much as I hate to admit it, it was the right decision.  We can't do this.  Sooner or later, the wrong people will find out and Josh will be hurt.  We absolutely cannot do this.  We have to talk about not doing this.

"Not yet," he says.  I should argue with him.  I should make him see reason.  I should tell him to leave.

I hold him tighter instead.

He starts kissing me again, not frantic kisses like before.  The kind of kisses I remember from last year -- deep and slow and tender.  He's not hard again yet, and I wonder exactly where he's going with this.  I have an idea, of course, but maybe I'll wait and let him surprise me.

I love surprises.  Especially this kind.

His hands start moving over my breasts; he's moving his thumb over my nipple in little circles that remind me of what he did to my clit earlier.  I close my eyes so I can focus on that sensation; but after a few minutes, I have to look at him.  This is the thing with Josh and me when we're making love; we have trouble taking our eyes off each other.  Maybe if this weren't such a rare occurrence; maybe if we weren't aware of the fact that this is forbidden territory we're wandering into; maybe then we could each get through this without needing to look at each other constantly.

Or then again, maybe we just like each other's faces.

There are other parts of Josh I like too.  In fact, it's safe to say that there is no part of Josh's body I'm not fond of.  While he's concentrating on my breasts, I'm running my hands over his back and shoulders.  I love the feel of his back -- it's mostly smooth with the occasional muscle rippling under your hand.  Nice contrast there, but then Josh is all about contrast and contradiction -- the ruthless politician who can be amazingly idealistic; the man with the enormous ego who can be so sensitive at times that he breaks your heart.  I think I could spend my life studying Josh Lyman and not work out all the contradictions.

His hands are sliding down from my breasts very slowly.  I think he's decided to touch every single inch of me, which is my idea of an excellent plan and I really intend to return the favor.  His lips, meanwhile, are grazing my neck, just sort of tickling me.  I'd follow suit -- he has a fabulous neck himself -- but I'm too busy giggling.

He stops for a second, looks up at my face and smiles.  "That's better," he whispers.

"What's better?"  'Cause, I mean, if I'm doing something better, tell me and I'll do it again, you know?

"You.  Laughing.  You were way too serious for a while there, Donnatella."

I don't know what to say to that, I really don't.  I could say what I'm thinking and tell him I love him, but maybe it's better to let that go unsaid.  To keep things light.  The banter's helped us avoid dealing with this for a year, so maybe that's a good thing.  I should definitely stay away from the word love.  Just ignore it.

"I love you, Josh."

These things always slip out when I least want them to.

But he breaks out into this magnificent smile, like I've just given him this enormous gift, so maybe saying it was a good thing.  I kind of thought that it went without saying, but maybe he needs to be reminded from time to time.

He takes my hand and kisses the palm very gently.  He thinks he's putting one over on me, but I know the way his mind works.  He thinks if he can avoid meeting my eyes at this moment, he can maintain his composure; he can avoid my realizing how much it means to him to hear me say it.  Why he thinks he can fool me about something so obvious I'll never understand.

But since he wants to do the whole "let's ignore what this means" thing, I simply go back to kissing and touching.  I've moved my hands off his back, and I'm playing with the hair on his chest.  It's wiry and unruly like the hair on his head, and it curls around my fingers in an extremely satisfying manner.  As for the kissing, I'm concentrating on those arms.  I have this unhealthy fixation with Josh's arms; I spend way too much of my free time contemplating them, so I might as well express my appreciation.

Meanwhile, Josh has moved his hands down to my hips while his tongue is sort of swirling around inside my belly button.  I never thought of that as an erogenous zone before, but trust me when I tell you that it is incredibly erotic.  Especially when his hands move lower, right to the juncture of hip and thigh.  I'm incredibly sensitive there -- as he discovered last year -- so I know he realizes exactly what he's doing to me.

Smug bastard.

Well, I remember a few things about your body too, Joshua Lyman.  Like right there -- right on that strong, beautiful leg -- if I put my hand on your knee and slide very slowly toward what is becoming a rather impressive erection, I'll have you whimpering in no time.

Works like a charm.

"That'll teach you."

Oops, did I say that out loud?

"That will teach me?" he repeats.  "Doing that is your idea of punishment?"

"You're the one who started," I protest.  "You with the tickling and the teasing.  I'm simply evening up the score."

"We're keeping score now?"

"You know what I mean."

"It worries me that I actually do."

"Idiot."

"Minx."

"Dork."

"Vixen."

"Smart mouth."

He gives me the Arrogant Bastard Smirk.  "If that's not the perfect cue, I don't know what is."

Yeah, I guess I sort of walked right into that one.  I'm laughing so hard that it takes me a second to realize that he's waiting for me to spread my legs farther apart to give him better access.  It's only when he moves his hands against my thighs again that I remember what I'm supposed to do.

I'd thought maybe, over the course of the last year, my imagination had exaggerated exactly how good Josh is at this.  On reconsideration, however, I may have been underestimating him.  This is even better than the memory.  He starts by placing his mouth where his hands had been -- quick, soft kisses on each of my thighs.  Then he starts moving his tongue around inside me, exploring at first, matching his movements to my response, going back to the places that give me the deepest pleasure.  Then he finds my clit and starts flicking his tongue against it until I'm grabbing onto the pillows for dear life.  When I think I can't take any more of that, he starts the circles again, each new circle getting smaller and more intense until I can't think straight at all, until there's only Josh and this incredible thing he's doing to me.  I want it to stop because I can't take this kind of pressure much longer, and I want it to go on forever because it's the most amazing sensation I've ever felt.  I think I'm screaming his name, but I'm not completely sure because all I can really concentrate on is this feeling, this climax -- we need a new word to describe it because I swear "orgasm" doesn't even begin to do it justice.

"You know," I say, once I recover the power of speech, "we may not do this often, but we do it very well."

"We?" he responds.  He's laying half on top of me, grinning like the idiot he is.  I give into the urge to reach up and touch those dimples.  They feel as good as they look, by the way.  "I should point out that I was the one doing all the work there."

I roll my eyes.  Ridiculous man.  "Subtlety, thy name is Lyman."

I swear he blushes.  "I didn't mean that you had to--"

"You don't want me to?"

"Oh, I want you to.  Believe me, I want you to.  I just mean -- do you want to?"

"Joshua, you have no idea how much I want to even the score right now."

We move around so that I'm on top, and I take his erection in my hand.  I love the feel of him.  I love moving my fingers over his shaft and watching him shudder.  I love the way he says "Donnatella" in that raspy voice when I let my tongue copy the movements I made first with my hand.  I love the way his hands get tangled in my hair as he tries to push me closer.  I love seeing just how long I can make this last.

"Okay," he finally says.  "Up."

I let go of him and start giggling again.  "Yes, I noticed that."

He's blushing again.  It's quite the adorable look on him.  "I meant you should get up.  Off.  Whatever."

"And I should do this because...?"

"Because I have this really great idea."

"And that would be...?"

He's smirking again.  Just to let him know he can't get away with that, I lean over and nip at his shoulder.  That strategy apparently backfires since he's grinning at me even more when I finish.

"My great idea," he informs me, "is this."  He puts his hands over my ass and moves me until I'm positioned over his erection.  And he gives me this look, like he's waiting for permission.

"That," I agree, "is a truly great idea."

He takes my hand in his again and waits.  I move down just enough to meet him, and he slides into me.  It's not that frantic, desperate coupling we did earlier, but it's every bit as intense in its own way.  I lift up a bit, controlling his movements as he withdraws.  Then he uses his free hand to slide back into me, putting his finger on my clit.  By the time he's entered again and thrusting, I'm having powerful sensations all my own.  But even with all that, I watch his face.  I see him smile, and I hear him say he loves me.

It doesn't matter if we are making a mistake doing this again; it's worth anything that happens now to have heard him say he loves me. 

*** 

"Josh?"

"Hmmm?"

"We can't do that again."

"Sadly, Donna, I must agree.  I'm not as young as I used to be."

"Would you be serious?"

"I am being serious.  You should have seen me in college.  You would have been impressed."

"I was in grade school.  I wouldn't have cared."

"I'm just saying that--"

"Josh, we really do have to talk."

He pulls me back into his arms.  "I know we do," he says sadly.

"I'm thinking that this whole 'let's pretend nothing happened' routine isn't going to work for us any more," I tell him.

"I wouldn't say that.  We made it through an entire year.  That's pretty impressive when you think about it."

"Josh, we can get away with this for only so long . Eventually someone will find out.  Probably the wrong kind of someone."

"We've been careful.  There's no way anyone could suspect."

"I'm betting that everyone who ever got involved in a sex scandal -- stop smirking! -- thought that at some point."

"Did they all also think they couldn't give this up?  Because it was difficult enough last year, but now--"

I rest my head against his chest because I'm close to tears, and he really doesn't need to see that.

"We've been through this before," I say after a minute.  "You were the one who said that we shouldn't do this."

"So maybe I was wrong.  An extremely rare occurrence, but--"

"Josh, you know what would happen if people found out."

He pulls me back up so that I'm looking at him and the solemn expression on his face.  "I do know," he admits.  "And I'm never going to let that happen.  I refuse to let anyone hurt you like that, Donnatella.  It's not an option."

"What are you going to do?" I ask.  "Sic the IRS on anyone who hurts me?"

"Wouldn't be the first time," he mutters.

"What does that mean?"

"Nothing important.  I'm just -- if anything happened, there are things I could do to stop it, you know."

"What are you talking about?  Are you honestly saying you'd use the office of the Deputy Chief of Staff to cover up the fact that you're having an affair with your assistant?"

"I'm not letting anyone hurt you, Donna.  Ever."

"You wouldn't do that, Josh.  I know you too well.  You may like playing the Master Politician--"

"I am the--"

"I know you are, but you're also a decent man.  You wouldn't do that."

"Let someone threaten you, and we'll see how decent I am."  His whole body has gone rigid, and his eyes have this steely quality to them, like he's already gearing up for this battle.  And that frightens me.

Because here's the thing about Josh:  He is, as I've said before, a bundle of contradictions.  He's very much the shrewd political operative, the guy who knows all the angles and all the dirty tricks in this business and who knows how the game is played.  And that's all right.  Because ordinarily his Master Politician persona is tempered by the sensitive, caring Josh -- the Josh who abandoned the safe course of backing John Hoynes in order to get a man of immense integrity elected president.  And working for that man, being himself a person of immense integrity, Josh would never do certain things that other skilled political operatives wouldn't think twice about.

But threaten the people he loves and you'll see exactly how ruthless Josh Lyman can be.  Once he starts behaving like that, even for a noble reason -- Well, let's not fool ourselves.  The man does enjoy power.  I'm suddenly afraid of what protecting me would do to him more than I am of being caught having an affair with my boss.

"You're not doing these things," I repeat.  "Promise me, Josh."

"No."

"Josh."

"This is nonnegotiable, Donna.  I'll promise to do everything to keep people from finding out, but if they do--"

"I quit."

He grins at me.  "Right.  I heard that one last year."

"Seriously, Josh, I'm not -- I can't let you -- I don't want you hurt either.  I think maybe the best thing to do is for us to -- for me to leave Washington."

"We're talking now about having a long-distance relationship?  Because I have to tell you, that's going to raise more eyebrows than--"

"No, Josh, we're talking about having no relationship.  We're talking about never seeing each other again."  And I lose it; I break into tears over that.

It takes a minute for Josh to respond.  Predictably, he refuses to accept my perfectly logical solution.

"Donna, no.  That is not an option.  I won't let you go."

"The last time I checked, this wasn't indentured servitude.  If I want to quit my job--"

"Fine.  But if you go, I go."

"Are you crazy?  You're deputy chief of staff.  You worked all your life to get to the White House.  You can't just walk away."

"I can't be without you either.  I had those fun-filled three weeks during the campaign to discover that, remember?  I'm not doing that again.  Besides, it's not as though the former deputy chief of staff doesn't have other options.  I could write a book or be one of those political commentators on TV; I could actually practice law."

"You could go without politics for two months, shrivel up and die.  This isn't a job, Josh; it's who you are."

"Maybe," he admits, "but I can't be that guy without you.  So what I'm saying is that if you try to leave me, I'll just follow you.  You can't get rid of me that easily, Donnatella Moss."

Ridiculous man.  You give him a perfectly valid reason to stay out of your life, and he comes back with something like that.

"I won't let your career be destroyed because of me, Josh," I warn him.  "We are absolutely not doing this again."

"You promise never to leave me though, right?" he asks.  He looks desperate.

"I promise."  I might as well; I didn't do very well without him during those three weeks myself.

He lets out what sounds suspiciously like a sigh of relief.  "Then I suppose we'll survive," he says.  "Even without this."

"I'll miss this," I admit.  "But I don't see any other way out."

"I know," he says.  "All things considered, we've been remarkably lucky that no one's found out."

"Remarkably," I agree.  "And luck like that doesn't last very long."

"Just don't expect me to stop being in love with you," he says quietly.  "I can't manage that."

"Neither can I," I tell him.  I kiss him and settle back against his chest.  We spend what's left of the night sleeping in each other's arms one last time.

THE END

04.24.01