You walk back into your office, heart racing and mind still buzzing from everything that just happened. The kiss lingers on your lips like a phantom touch, warm and electrifying. As you close the door behind you, you pause, leaning against it as if trying to ground yourself in the reality of the situation.
Kamala. Dinner. Her voice, soft and sultry, still rings in your ears: "Come over for dinner."
You bite your lip, stifling a smile as waves of excitement ripple through your body. You can't believe it—you boldly flirted with her, and she responded. She kissed you back. She invited you over.
Your hands tremble slightly as you move to your desk, setting down your things in a daze. You sink into your chair, feeling the cool leather beneath you as your mind races. The thrill, her lips, the way her eyes locked with yours... You breathe in deeply, letting the elation wash over you and fill you.
You want her to fill you.
Your pulse quickens in time with the anticipation building inside you.
You close your eyes, surrendering to the memory: the way her lips had felt against yours—soft yet urgent, as if she had been waiting for this just as long as you had. The warmth of her body when you pulled her close. The hitch in her breath when she whispered those four words.
Your whole body had lit up, like every nerve sparking to life.
The thought of being alone with her tonight at her place makes your heart skip a beat. You can almost feel it now—her gaze locking onto you, her smile so confident it makes your knees weak. You imagine her standing close, the tension between you thickening as she brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, her fingers grazing your skin, her eyes dark with desire.
You sink deeper into your chair, tilting your head back as your breath quickens. Your hips shift forward instinctively.
Your imagination takes hold, and all you can think about is how she might make you feel. How being with her would feel.
If you'd felt this desperate for her before you lost your memories, you can't even begin to imagine what you both did in bed before.
The slow, deliberate way she might touch you, the heat in her gaze as she leans in, her lips barely grazing your neck.
A whisper escapes your lips.
You're fighting the urge to touch yourself.
You can almost feel the weight of her hands on you—gentle yet firm—guiding, teasing, drawing out every ounce of control you've been holding so tightly onto. Your thighs press together as the sensation of her fingers tracing your skin becomes more vivid in your mind.
Just below the waistband of your pants.
She would take her time with you, savoring every moment and responding to each soft sound you make by pushing harder.
Your hands grip the armrests of your chair, your breathing coming in sporadic gasps as you press against the fabric. There's no real tension, just a dull pressure that refuses to build.
Your mind drifts to the sounds she'll make, the words she'll say to you, the way she'll look into your eyes and ask you... something...
And you'd let her. Surrendering to the pull she has on you wouldn't be the craziest thing you'd imagined.
She could undo you with just a whisper or a single touch, and you would fall willingly.
You breathe out slowly, your body flushed with heat, your heart racing at the mere thought of her.
Dinner.
Were you at dinner, or was she?
You smile to yourself. You know, tonight is about more than food.
As you open your eyes, the desire still thrums through your veins. You could march back into her office and finish what you started, but you find it too hard to stand as your legs try to regain stability, and the sensation between them subsides.
You huff as you look at your desk, your lustful thoughts snuffed out by the realization that there are at least five things you could be working on right now.
And a meeting in 15 minutes.
Kamala would be there.
---
Kamala sat at her desk, signing paper after paper. Her glasses rested on the tip of her nose as she fiddled with a pen clenched between her fingers. She'd spent a good hour trying to compose herself after the exchange she'd just had with Jessica. Her hands wouldn't stop shaking unless she kept them busy.
She didn't let herself think about holding you, though. You were just down the hallway, a few doors away, and she could see you if she wanted.
But she bit her lip at the thought.
"Miss Harris, you have a meeting at five. Are you still able to attend?" a staffer asked, peeking through the door.
"Oh! Uh, what is the meeting concerning?"
"Trump and the allegations he's launching against you, Miss Rose, and your administration," they said bluntly. Kamala rolled her eyes—an unprofessional response, perhaps, but justified.
"No, I won't be attending. If they need a statement, tell them I will not engage with someone who attempts to have two people killed after losing," she said without an ounce of hesitation.
It wasn't fully what she wanted to say.
The staffer quickly scribbled down her response and nodded before leaving. Kamala sighed as she sank back into her chair.
She should go.
She needed to go. It was her job as president to attend these meetings.
She'd attended every single one since she came to the White House, but this time, she wouldn't bother walking to the door.
The memories had passed, you were alive and well, and things were going back to normal.
"Fuck. Come over for dinner?!" she cursed, mocking herself as a dull thud echoed in her skull when she slapped her forehead.
"What in the hell was I thinking? I live downstairs, for God's sake!" she muttered, pushing away from the desk.
She shot to her feet, her heart racing at what tonight might bring.
What exactly did she mean by "come over for dinner"? What would she cook? Would you come at a certain time? Was it to catch up? Was it to help you remember things? Or was it to help her distract herself from all the things that could go wrong in a few hours that she couldn't control?
The world was spiraling.
She hated this feeling.
Kamala stood in front of the window, looking out over the lively view of D.C. She'd lived here for years now, her vice presidency having taught her quickly about the city.
Spiraling... again... faster this time.
Her chest rose and fell, but her breath carried less and less weight with each staggered gasp.
Not a tear fell, though.
She was overwhelmed, and she wasn't afraid to admit it—it was a feeling she'd been outrunning her entire career. It was bound to catch up to her at some point.
At least it did some good for her public image.
She pushed the memories to the back of her mind, allowing the panic to pass as she took a sharp breath and smoothed her shirt.
She was going to that meeting.
Kamala picked up her key card, a pen, and a folder she carried to look busy, then left her office. She was cautious as she shut the door, noticing yours slightly open down the hall.
She steadied her breath as she walked down the hall, eyes trained forward, back rigid, and breath measured as she passed your door.
A sigh escaped her lips as she rounded the corner and headed toward the conference rooms.
Her heels clicked, and voices blurred together as she passed. She waved, smiled, and greeted everyone who engaged with her, as usual. She glanced at her watch.
Two minutes to spare as she entered the conference room to find no one else but you.
You sat quietly staring at the portraits on the wall, phone turned face down, as you examined everything you saw in detail.
She smiled as she noticed your focus, her movements slow as she shut the door behind herself and sat her things down on the table. Only a seat away, more purposeful.
"How is your time in the White House treating you?" She asked as she leaned against the rolling chair, her hands clasped around one another. She gives a slight tug as she stares at you.
You don't look at her; instead, you pretend you're still enamored by the decorations you already took the time to catalog in your mind as you wait for the meeting to start.
"Well enough, I guess it's been interesting—new job, new schedule, new people—I'm here with you, and we're-" You stop yourself short, the word bubbling in your chest pulling you forwards for a moment.
You can feel the tension rise between you both; she's closer now.
Her hand rested beside your own on the table.
"It's okay, baby... Take you like, take all the time you need, Jessica." She says as her hand comes to your chin, tilting your head upwards, but still you don't look at her; you bore your gaze into the ceiling above you.
"Hmm...you seemed to like this that night; what's so different now?" She hums as a soft guide turns to a definitive hold on your jaw, pulling your head to the side to make you look at her.
A rushed moan escapes your lips as she lets go the instant the door opens. Uniformed men begin to enter the room; they nod as they find a place to sit around the table.
You look beside you to see what Kamala is doing, and you find she's situated right next to you. Your heart races as you realize you'd been daydreaming as she moved closer.
You blush and push a curl from. Out of your face and straighten yourself as best you can.
"Lovely that we have a chance to have a meeting together today, right?" She says it with a wink and a smile before you can even muster up a response.
You bite hard and curse under your breath as you cross your legs. Your hands rest on your lap as the room settles around you.
—
She looks around herself as they settle into their seats, her expressions static as the room finally falls silent and no one seems to speak. The press secretary, some of Kamala's advisors, and some other admin staff are present. She pays them no mind, though; she looks down at the memo given for the meeting.
Response draft session
She sighs.
"My response to whatever he says is his attempts were desperate, an attempt to gain power where it is not deserved, and stolen through foul play." She barks angrily as she adjusts her seat in the chair.
"Miss Harris, that is a way to respond to most of the allegations being made, but we have a specific one that needs other attention." Her press secretary sighs; they rummage through their papers.
The press secretary slides the memo toward Kamala, who snatches it up with a clenched jaw. The document outlines the latest claim:
"Trump's camp alleges new evidence of an intimate relationship between Vice President Kamala Harris and a former staffer, citing photos and video that supposedly show sexual encounters. The unnamed woman, reportedly a former staffer, is suggested to have worked with Harris during her time as California's Attorney General. Sources hint that this is further proof of Harris's misconduct and abuse of power."
Kamala's eyes narrow as she scans the text, her expression hardening.
"This is just...absurd. Vanessa?" She murmurs under her breath.
"They're dredging up Vanessa to try to smear me? There's no truth to this, and they know it."
The press secretary leans in, voice hushed. "The issue is, it doesn't matter if there's no truth behind it. The story's out there now. We need to respond carefully or risk legitimizing the accusation."
You sit silent, staring between Kamala and the woman she's locked in an intense conversation with. No one else sitting at the table makes a move for anything; there's a long moment of silence, and your mind doesn't dare drift.
The heat between your legs is still there, but you are more scared now than aroused.
You realize it still may not be clicking how serious everything that happened was.
Kamala grips the edge of the table, her frustration palpable. "Then we'll do an interview. I'll clear the air and address the allegations head-on," she declares.
The press secretary's brow furrows.
"Kamala, if you bring up Vanessa, you know the consequences. If we explain the video and images away by releasing documents from Vanessa's trial—"
Kamala cuts in, "Yes, it would mean exposing the fact that the so-called evidence is actually footage of her assaulting me." She barks, a slight crack in her voice as she cuts herself off.
She took a moment to collect herself.
Her eyes darted to you for a moment.
"And Vanessa confessed to it during her trial. It would explain why there are images and recordings and make it clear I did nothing wrong."
The press secretary sighs, anxiety evident in her eyes. "But there's a problem, Kamala. If we release the documents, the confession, and trial materials, they will confirm the existence of the videos and photos. But it will not only lead to it somehow getting revealed that Vanessa's name, face, and voice were blurred and redacted from the released court's records to protect her identity as the accused. It'll redirect the heat onto finding the assailant, is what I'm saying!?" they say, their tone firm and somehow questioning.
Kamala's eyes flash with realization, and a mixture of anger and determination sets in.
"So it turns into a witch hunt for Vanessa, then? They'll start speculating and digging to find out who this woman is."
The press secretary nods.
"Exactly. And even before all of that, once it becomes public knowledge that you are the person in those videos and weren't a conscious partner, the narrative will shift. But it also means Vanessa's anonymity from the trial might unravel. The media will stop at nothing to figure out who she is and uncover every detail about the case."
Kamala takes a deep breath, her gaze hardening with conviction.
"If releasing the documents takes the target off my back, then so be it. Vanessa's confession was her own choice, and if her choice led to her life being ruined, then so be it. I don't care anymore if people want to play stupid games; they'll damn sure win stupid prizes." Kamala said, her heel striking the marble floor.
The press secretary looks hesitant.
"It's a calculated risk, Kamala. It clears your name, but we're gambling as always. If the public finds out who she is, it will ignite a media frenzy—people will start asking questions."
"Hard questions, President Harris."
Kamala seems to shudder at the word question. Your lips curl into a smirk. You fight a small highlight as you stare down into your lap and remember the stunned look on her face when she asked you to come to dinner.
"Open your mouth," and you did. How she tugged at your hair and told you to call her Kamala, and you did. It sent shivers down your spine. You opened your mouth, eyes locked with Kamala as she watched as you bit down on the brownie and took a bite.
Kamala leans back, determination etched across her face as the chair creeks.
You straighten up.
"Let them question. I've kept Vanessa's name protected because I wanted to move on and because it was what the court suggested. But I'm not about to let her attack me, however indirectly, and remain shielded by anonymity."
"Let her burn like that pumpkin in his damn tanning bed."
The press secretary exhales slowly, nodding.
She basically snarled as her face contorted in disgust. She pushed back from the table and took her things in hand; she tucked the folders under her shoulders and held her keys in a tight hold.
You bite down hard on your lips as you see that middle vain push against her skin.
God, that concussion really made you a freak.
She leaves the conference room without another word. The press secretary reaches across the table and collects the paper. A sigh escapes their lips as they fix their hair and stare blankly at the table.
"I'll have an interview arranged, and we'll prepare to release the necessary documents. But we'll need to anticipate the fallout. We can control the narrative to some extent, but the media is going to want to know every detail they can get."
Your shoulders square as you release; she's now talking to you.
"Jessica? Are you sure you can handle this?"
"Let them dig. I'm ready to do what's needed," you say with an eagerness you never had before.
Without thinking, you've just committed yourself to the first real scandal of Kamala's presidency.
And she doesn't seem to be taking it very well.
"Good, it's lovely to have someone who knows President Harris as personally as you do on my side," she says as everyone begins to pack up around you.
You're not quite sure what to do, so you follow them. You gather your few belongings and walk out, watching as they disperse into different directions. You're left wondering where to go next.
"Miss Rose, to the Oval Office, please. Miss Rose, to the Oval Office," you hear over the intercom. You perk up and begin taking the memorized path to your office, stopping by to drop off your things.
Then you're back in the hallway, making your way slowly down the corridor, wondering what Kamala could want.
You check your phone.
It's 3:14. Almost the end of the day.
"She's the devil. Look how she manipulates that young woman," a passerby mutters under their breath.
You walk into the Oval Office and shut the door softly behind you. You step up to her desk and sit in one of the chairs positioned in front of it.
You haven't seen her face yet. She's facing the windows, her head resting on her hand.
"Kamala? Are you alright?" You ask as you lean back in the chair.
"No, Jessica, I am not okay." she snaps.
You don't flinch. Instead, you stay silent. It's obvious she needs a moment.
"I'm sorry... Jessica, you were in the hospital, at home recovering, while everything was happening. During the medical frenzy, I had to release my medical documents. I... I had to do interviews. People were—less than supportive, but respected the evidence," she says, wiping her face as she turns to face you.
"Jessica, you and I both know that there are no cameras outside these walls that can see us."
You don't reach out to comfort her. You cross your legs and rest your chin on your hand, your eyes softening as you watch her.
She notices you taking in the sunset behind her, her features cast in shadow.
"You're not even listening," she sighs as she leans forward onto the desk, her hands splayed out, nails digging into the wood as if trying to claw at it.
"Sweetie, you could've asked a long time ago," she says, her voice softer as she reaches out toward you, slowly and cautiously at first.
"Kamala, I'm listening. I'm just waiting for you to say it."
"Say what, Jessica? That I'm... afraid of people knowing so much about me? About something I didn't even know until a few months ago." She responds, her tone slightly irritated.
This time, you lean forward, resting your arms on your lap, hands clasped as you look directly at her.
"Kamala... I remember how you held me that night. The way you rubbed those small circles into my hips and back... You slowly rise from your seat.
Your hands press against your knees, purposefully arching your back as you stand.
"You told me you were bisexual, but the way you looked at me that night—I saw your preferred type," you say as you now stand at the corner of her desk.
You catch her gaze lingering on your lower half. You let her stare for a moment before slowly stepping closer, rounding the desk.
"Isn't that right, Miss Harris?" You say, your voice low and teasing.
Her eyes flash with a sharp glint, her posture straightening. "Yes, Jessica," she replies as her gaze rises to meet yours, her hands pressing against the desk as she pushes back from her chair.
You can see her black suit and white button-up shirt outlined in the dimming sunlight.
"Still going to invite me over for dinner?" You ask playfully as you lean over her, your right hand planted firmly on the desk, your left gripping the back of her chair to hold her in place.
Your knees touch hers, your face hovering mere inches away. You don't need to guide her gaze to yours; she finds it on her own.
"Hell yes, I am," she says.
Her hands reach up to cup your face and pull you close. Her lips meet yours, and your breath catches. Her hands hold tightly to the back of your head and back, pressing you against her.
Your breathing quickens, each breath shallower than the last. Her lips are like heaven, never leaving your skin as they trail down your jaw and back to your lips. Each time, she redirects just before reaching the spot you so badly want her to touch.
A soft moan escapes your lips as her kisses travel lower, your body reacting differently than you remember from that night. Kamala goes lower...
And, as if you never learned to stand, your knees give way. Her hold and the sound of her kisses on your skin make you lean into her.
So you do.
Her grip on your head never wavers as she parts her legs and releases one hand to hoist you toward her. You kneel at her feet, your arms wrapping around her waist.
Her kisses grow longer and deeper as time goes on, each one better than the last. But your moans turn to hurried breaths as hesitation creeps into her movements. Her hands tremble, uncertain of what comes next.
You take her hands in yours and pull back from her kisses, finding it surprisingly more difficult than you remember.
"How about we actually have dinner; maybe even go on a first date? Sleepover... or already girlfriends' hookup night?" you say, suppressing a laugh as she glances at her watch.
"4:06," she murmurs with a smile. You realize the room is completely dark now; the hallway lights dimmed. It seems everyone has gone home.
Or perhaps the agents assigned to escort Kamala to the presidential residence have already walked in on the two of you and decided to leave discreetly.
"We'll go through the private entrance," Kamala says as she helps you to your feet.
Kamala's hand slips into yours as you leave the office, exchanging quiet smiles under the dim hallway lights. The click of your heels echoes softly, but neither of you rushes. Instead, she teases her fingers along your palm, brushing them with just enough pressure to make you shiver.
As you approach the private entrance, Kamala's hand slides to your lower back, her thumb drawing lazy circles that send heat through your spine. You bump her gently with your hip, and she chuckles low in her throat, leaning in closer.
"You know playing stupid games will get you some other type of Miss Harris," you murmur, throwing her a teasing glance over your shoulder.
Her breath tickles your ear as she whispers back, "I can't wait to find out what I get."
The two of you slip into the private elevator, the doors closing with a soft *ding*. Alone at last, Kamala presses you against the wall, her hand slipping under your pants to graze your waist. You laugh, trying to push her away half-heartedly, but she only leans closer, her lips brushing the corner of your mouth.
"I thought we said dinner first," you remind her with a sly grin.
"We're on our way, aren't we?" She teases, her fingers lingering a moment longer before finally releasing you.
When the elevator doors open, the residence is quiet, filled only with the soft hum of the air conditioning. The scent of freshly cleaned linens and faint lavender greets you. Kamala slips off her heels, kicking them aside as you lead the way to the kitchen.
She stays close behind, her hands gliding along your sides, occasionally giving your hip a playful squeeze. You swat at her hand, but she only laughs. "You're terribly missing, Harris," you mutter, biting back a smile.
"Since you prefer to be so formal, I'd prefer President Harris." She says, wrapping her arms around your waist from behind as you step into the kitchen.
"Persistent huge pain in my ass," you quip, trying to sound annoyed but failing as you smile at her expression.
Kamala presses a kiss just behind your ear, her voice soft as silk. "You love it."
You let out a breathy laugh, reaching for the aprons hanging by the door. "Okay, Ms. President. If we're cooking, you better suit up."
You drape an apron over her neck, smoothing it down over her black suit as her fingers brush your waist. She grabs a second apron, looping it over your head with the same care, fingers lingering on the bow as she ties it at the small of your back.
"Nice and snug," she murmurs, leaning in to nip playfully at your shoulder.
"Careful," you're worn with a grin. "You might get distracted and burn dinner."
Kamala laughs softly, her hands sliding down your arms until they meet your hands.
"Your right I could hate to mess up the dinner's beautiful skin," she said as her fingers trail lightly along, but the interaction doesn't last. She twines your fingers together for a brief moment before stepping back, giving you just enough space to grab a cookbook from the shelf.
Flipping through the pages, you raise an eyebrow at the extravagant dishes. "Chicken masala? Risotto? You want something fancy, or should we just make pasta and call it a night?"
Kamala hums in thought, resting her chin on your shoulder as her arms circle your waist. "Whatever keeps you here longer," she says quietly.
"No, we aren't going to spend all afternoon cooking; I want to start with you early."
"You're the president? Shouldn't you ever be in some meetings?" you say playfully, but your genuine professional side is showing.
You feel her breath warm against your neck, and for a moment, the world outside these walls feels distant and unreal.
She doesn't answer, and you don't care.
The scandals, the rumors—none of it matters here, in this dimly lit kitchen, wrapped in each other's arms, no windows, sadly.
"Pasta it is," she decides with a smile, reaching over you and flipping to a simpler recipe. "Hey, keep that up, and you get nothing!" You warned as Kamala chuckles, her hands roaming lazily over your waist as she presses closer. "What was the last time you were head over heels for this?"
You reach back, playfully swatting at her side. "Well, having almost died, I think I ought to start changing things."
"Like what?" she asks with a sly grin, her fingers dipping under the edge of your apron.
You glance at her over your shoulder. "Behave." You scold, "We said we're going to try dinner first." You add softly but still bluntly.
She raises her hands in mock surrender, though the mischievous glint in her eye makes it clear she wants you bad.
But not as badly as you want her.
You set the cookbook on the counter, already feeling the warmth spreading between you as you start gathering ingredients. Kamala stays close, her presence a constant, comfortable pressure at your back.
As you pull out a box of pasta, she leans down, planting soft kisses along the back of your neck.
"You keep everything in the same place?" You ask
"Just for you," she says, leaving another kiss on your skin, her lips warm and familiar. You roll your eyes, but there's no hiding the smile tugging at your lips.
"You know," you say, pouring olive oil into a pan, "if you keep that up, we'll never make it to dinner."
Kamala smirks against your skin. "We'll survive."
And as her hands find your waist again, you realize you really didn't mind.
It's a few hours later at this point.
Kamala's arms wrap around your waist, pulling you closer as you both stand at the stove, the scent of garlic and herbs filling the air.
She guides your hands as you stir the sauce, her front pressing against your back, the warmth of her body seeping through the fabric of your clothes. Her breath tickles the side of your neck, and she rests her chin lightly on your shoulder, watching as you mix the ingredients together.
"You're getting the hang of this," she whispers, her voice low and teasing.
"Well, I do have a pretty good teacher," you reply, leaning back into her just a bit.
I think we should start things a little slower... Hold the spatula at an angle... Uh huh, just like that, good..now clockwise."
Kamala's hands slide over yours, guiding the spoon with a gentle rhythm. For a moment, the world outside the kitchen seems to fade, and it's just the two of you, sharing this simple, quiet intimacy. She presses a soft kiss to the side of your neck before reluctantly stepping away to attend to the salad on the counter.
"That's really nice; now we can let that cool, and we can start with the chicken." She said she was still guiding your hand through the motions.
You shift the legend you're standing on and twist slightly.
It was your own brain messing with you...
The two of you move around the kitchen with a practiced ease, occasionally brushing against each other, sharing glances and playful remarks as you prepare the rest of the meal. At some point, she opens a bottle of whiskey, pouring two glasses that gradually grow emptier as the evening wears on. The kitchen fills with laughter, the air growing warmer, and the atmosphere more relaxed.
Eventually, you find yourself sitting on the counter, your head buzzing with the pleasant fog. Kamala is standing between your legs, her head resting against your chest as you play with her hair, fingers gently combing through the dark strands.
"I missed this," she murmurs, her voice slightly slurred as she nuzzles closer.
"I was so nervous I'd lose you. I spent the first week here crying because they wouldn't let me contact anyone outside the active administration." Her words come out jumbled, the whiskey loosening her tongue.
"And with all this stuff going on with Trump, ugh, it's just been meeting after meeting."
You look down at her, a soft smile tugging at your lips as you watch her try to sound serious. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyelids heavy as she struggles to keep her thoughts straight.
"Poor Madam President," you tease lightly, brushing your thumb along her temple.
She huffs a soft laugh, tilting her head to look up at you. "It's not funny," she says, though there's a smile pulling at the corners of her mouth.
"I thought I was going to lose my mind."
"Well," you murmur, wrapping your arms around her shoulders and pulling her closer, "you didn't lose your mind... and you didn't lose me."
Kamala sighs contentedly, letting her eyes flutter closed as she relaxes into your touch.
You press a gentle kiss to her forehead, your fingers continuing to tangle in her hair. "I'm not going anywhere," you assure her.
For a moment, the two of you stay like that, the only sounds in the room being the quiet hum of the refrigerator and the faint clink of glasses as Kamala sets hers on the counter. Then she leans back just enough to meet your gaze, her hand coming up to cup your cheek.
"Foods ready," she states, her lips curving into a small, almost wistful smile.
But she pauses and looks at you without another word; she leans in, her lips finding yours in a slow, tender way.
You lean forward and hold fast to her.
You're hungry. Starving. So you lean further into her kiss, hands ready to start undoing the buttons of her shirt.
Her hand comes to hold you and guide them away.
"Behave," she says, pulling away with a smirk.
You blush and lean back, hands moving to plant behind yourself as you watch her walk away.
—
You settle at the dining table, the warm glow of the low-hanging light above creating a cozy atmosphere. Kamala's foot finds yours almost immediately, lightly brushing against your ankle under the table.
It starts as a playful nudge, but soon her pointed heel trails up the side of your calf, gently rubbing and teasing.
You glance at her, and she meets your gaze with a mischievous smirk.
The two of you eat in silence, sharing content smiles between bites.
The flavors are rich and comforting, though the real heat comes from the subtle tension simmering just below the surface. Her foot travels higher, resting on your shin, and it takes all your restraint to stay composed, chewing slowly to distract yourself from the tingling warmth spreading up your leg.
When you both finish, you rise to clear the dishes, but Kamala catches your wrist, her touch firm yet tender.
"Sit," she insists. "Let me handle this."
You hesitate, but then nod, watching as she stands and starts gathering the plates. She moves with practiced ease, carrying everything over to the sink.
You follow; you're leaning against the counter beside her, your eyes fixed on the way her hands glide over the soapy plates. There's something hypnotic about the motion—the way her fingers curl around the edge of a dish, scrubbing with gentle force.
You swallow hard, a quiet moan escaping your lips as you shift slightly, pressing your thighs together. You can't take your eyes off her hands—the way they squeeze and scrub, the water cascading over her knuckles and down her forearms.
Kamala glances at you from the corner of her eye, a knowing smile curling on her lips.
"You know," she says casually, still scrubbing, "they do more than wash dishes."
You bite your lip, meeting her gaze with a sly smile.
"I remember," you reply, your voice dipping lower as you lean closer, your breath brushing against her ear.
Kamala pauses, setting down the dish she was washing, and turns to face you fully.
"Do you know?" She murmurs, her voice a sultry whisper as her hands reach out, fingertips grazing the edge of your waist.
You slide in closer, your noses nearly touching.
"Vividly," you whisper, your hand drifting to rest over hers, feeling the warmth of her damp skin beneath your fingers.
The air between you thickens, the charged silence filling with the quiet drip of water from the faucet.
She kneeled down in front of you, her hands digging into your full-figured hips, her nails sure to leave a mark. As her face flushes against your core, finding its pace and path around you with malicious intent.
"So does that mouth," she says.
You kiss Kamala without a second thought, and it takes no time at all.
The heat between you and Kamala builds rapidly, her kisses hungry and insistent as her hands tug at your clothes.
You stumble together through the dimly lit kitchen, your bodies pressed so close that the world around you blurs into a haze. Each touch ignites a fire that burns hotter, a need growing with every kiss and every gasp. The thought of the outside world—of prying eyes and photographs taken without your knowledge—fades completely from your mind. Here, there are no windows, no one to intrude. Just you and her, tangled up and desperate for more.
"Don't worry, they won't be able to get a shot other than in here; I don't know how long they've been there, but I don't care because this is my home and I can do what I want in it.
Kamala's lips crush against yours, and as you try to catch your breath, she doesn't relent, capturing each gasp with another deep, fervent kiss. Her hands glide over your body, finding the fabric of your shirt and pulling it over your head. You don't stop her, your own hands working to loosen her belt as you back into the hallway, inching towards the guest bedroom.
"Why aren't we going to your room?" You manage to ask between kisses, your breath ragged.
She grins against your lips, her voice a low murmur that sends shivers through you.
"If I wait any longer, I might just make you cook brownies," she teases, her hands pushing your pants down your hips.
"It's so nice watching you do such a meticulous task, especially when I'm really close to you." Her gaze trails over your body, lingering on your thighs as you squeeze them together, and a smirk plays at her lips.
"Your ass looks amazing when you press your thighs together like that."
The words send a surge of heat through you, and you pull her closer, your fingers curling into her hair as you kiss her fiercely. She pushes you into the guest room, the door closing with a quiet thud behind you. Kamala wastes no time, her hands working quickly to rid you of the rest of your clothes. You do the same, your fingers deftly unbuttoning her shirt, sliding it off her shoulders as her lips find the sensitive spot just below your ear.
She drags you towards the bed, the cool sheets contrasting with the heat of your skin as you fall back together, her weight pressing deliciously against you. The rhythm of your kisses quickens, and you find yourself clinging to her as if she's the only thing grounding you at this moment.
Her touch grows more insistent and the longer you let her work on you, your hands hold firmly to the side of her head as she kisses you again, and again, and again.
By the time she stops, you are both breathless.
Her hand trails now your stomach, palm pressed against your bare skin, you know where she's going.
"Shhh... staff isn't allowed in the presidential residence" She says as she leans back in with half lidded eyes and leaves another kiss on your lips, as her fingers wind around your panties she pulls them away from your skin.
You sigh and whimper, you're sensitive. And wet.
Her finger slips between your lip and runs along your clit with measured pressure.
"Shit, president Harris?" You grunt as you buck your hips, granting you a moment of pleasure that disappears as suddenly as it came
Before you can get used to her touch, she slips your underwear to the side and fills you with a finger. You take her with ease, the dull sensation of her being inside you enough to satisfy you for now.
She knows what she's doing, and she's deliberately making you wait. But you instantly start to release broken whines, your body sagging against her as you force your knees to buckle.
You hope she'll get the hint.
She holds you steady, though, her slow pace continues even as you rock your hips back and forth to break away. You're not in the mood for games anymore, you were going to get what you wanted.
She brings an arm around your waist and keeps the other one between her legs. How nice. You're trapped.
"There is no way I'm doing all that" she murmurs, deciding to pull what little she'd given you away.
But it's not long before she replaces it with three, you moan and fall forwards. Dull, unexciting thrusts from a single finger turns into one hard push into you, a squish sound to punctuate it.
God, she really hit that spot just now...