Mr. Prime Minister Read online

  Mr. Prime Minister

  Jessica Ashe

  Contents

  Copyright Page

  Books by Jessica Ashe

  Get Your Free Book

  Free bonus book

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Epilogue

  Get Your Free Book

  Hard SEAL

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Epilogue

  Get Your Free Book

  Dirty SEAL

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Epilogue

  Get Your Free Book

  Books by Jessica Ashe

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2017 Jessica Ashe

  Cover Design by Mayhem Cover Creations.

  MR. PRIME MINISTER is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons or their likeness is entirely coincidental.

  This book contains mature content, including graphic sex scenes and adult language. Please do not continue reading if you are under the age of 18 or if this content is likely to offend you.

  All characters in the book are 18+ years of age, not blood related, and all sexual acts are consensual.

  All Rights Reserved.

  Books by Jessica Ashe

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  Bad Boy’s Honor

  Bad Boy’s Secret

  Royally Screwed

  Hard Tackle

  Blitzed by the Brit

  Picture Perfect

  Hard SEAL

  Dirty SEAL

  Mr. Prime Minister

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  Your copy of Mr. Prime Minister includes two free bonus novels; Hard SEAL: A Bad Boy Next Door Romance; and Dirty SEAL A Military Romance.

  Mr. Prime Minister is a standalone novel, however it does include characters who first appeared in Hard SEAL and Dirty SEAL. I recommend reading those books first if you haven’t already, but if you don’t then it shouldn’t impact your enjoyment of this story.

  Please note that because of these extra books, Mr. Prime Minister will finish at about 33% on your Kindle.

  Prologue

  Janie

  The leather straps hold my wrists firmly against the solid oak bedposts. There’s a security guard outside the room, but if I scream, no one will come.

  Wade left the television on. BBC One cuts to the news where he is giving a speech. It’s eight o’clock, which means I’ve been tied to the bed for over half an hour.

  He talks to the nation in the serious, dominant tone of voice that had me aching between my legs from the moment I met him.

  Wade’s every bit as awe-inspiring in the flesh as he is on television. More so. On television, you don’t feel his eyes burn into your soul. You don’t hear him discipline you when you’ve been naughty. You don’t have to beg for what you so desperately crave.

  Thousands—no millions—of women would kill to be in my position right now. In this bed. In these restraints. Naked. Wet. Desperate for him to return.

  His speech is over and he walks back inside. My heart races in anticipation. Any minute now he’ll be back to finish what he started with me. Soon he’ll be in this surprisingly large bedroom, kissing me all over my naked body, and making me squirm with pleasure under his touch.

  I try and calm down. I tell myself to be patient and not to beg, but I know it’s impossible. The second he’s within reach, my untied legs will reach out and clasp around him, pulling him close and trying to force him inside me. I can’t help it. I never can with him.

  How many women around the world are fantasizing about him right now? He has different public personas depending on his mood. He can be cheeky and charming, dominant and fierce, or anywhere in between. My fantasies change depending on his mood. Playful sex when he’s charming; aggressive sex when he’s dominant.

  Women might be fantasizing about him, but I’m the only one who’s living the dream.

  It’s hard to believe this is real. Maybe I’m dreaming it.

  The door opens and closes quietly.

  I don’t look around. I can tell it’s him from the heavy, deliberate footsteps. He told me to lay here quietly, so that’s what I do. There’s only one important word I need to use—if I want—but I’ve never used it before and can’t imagine starting tonight. Wade always knows where the line is, and never crosses it.

  He undresses next to the bed, kicking off his shoes and throwing his shirt down on the floor. I want to look around at his naked chest to admire the skin stretched tight over his firm pecs and abs. That’s not allowed. Not tonight. Tonight I’m here as his plaything, and not as one of his many admirers.

  I don’t look at him until he stands at the foot of the bed and climbs on, kneeling between my legs and admiring my sex, slick with the excitement that has been coursing through me for nearly an hour.


  He lifts his gaze and our eyes finally meet.

  “Have you behaved?” he asks firmly.

  I nod my head. “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m not sure I believe you. Are you sure you’ve been a good girl?”

  “I promise, sir. I have behaved. I’ve been a good girl.”

  “And I suppose now you want your reward?”

  “Yes please.”

  His hands stroke my thighs, parting my legs wide at the same time. His thumbs slide towards my wetness, but stop agonizingly close. I try to push my pussy towards his hands, but he holds firm.

  “No,” he commands. “You’re not behaving. If you don’t behave, you don’t get your reward.”

  “I’ll behave,” I reply quickly.

  He leans down and I breathe a sigh of relief. I’m finally going to get my reward. I wrap my legs around his and hold him close against me, feeling his hard cock press against my slit.

  “What are you doing?” he whispers in my ear.

  “I thought—”

  “Did I tell you to move?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Now you don’t get your reward. I’m going to have to punish you instead.”

  My moan is a contortion of pleasure and despair. I’m not going to get his cock inside me just yet, but what’s coming next is possibly even better.

  He opens my leather restraints, but only long enough to flip me over onto my front before fastening them again.

  His hands run down my back until they reach my supple, tender ass cheeks. The red lines from my last punishment only faded a few days ago, but there will be new ones soon unless I utter the safe word.

  Not a chance.

  I spread my legs so he can see just how eager and wet I am for him.

  “Are you ready for your punishment?”

  “Yes,” I moan in reply.

  “Yes, what?”

  I groan deeply as his finger trails down my pussy lips but refuses to slide inside.

  “Yes, Mr. Prime Minister.”

  Chapter One

  Janie - Six Months Earlier

  “Are you sure you’re up for this?”

  “Yes, Stephanie,” I reply forcefully, trying to hide my nerves. My hands shake slightly as I take a sip of coffee, and look around the café to make sure that we’re still out of earshot. Stephanie has brought along her assistant, Meghan, but there’s complete trust between the two of them. Given some of the stories Stephanie’s broken over the years, it seems safe to assume Meghan can be trusted. Otherwise, the café’s nearly entirely empty.

  I’m about to break God-only-knows how many laws. I have every right to be nervous. I’m also a little excited. I’m working with one of—if not the—best investigative journalists in the world, with the goal of breaking a story that will change my life. If everything goes to plan, Stephanie’s newspaper will hire me permanently as a journalist and my college degree won’t be wasted after all. Plus, Mom will stop bugging me to ‘get a proper job.’

  “No one would blame you if you wanted to back out,” Stephanie says. She sounds sincere, but she might just be covering her back. I certainly can’t claim I was pressured into accepting this job. Not unless you count the pressure of needing to pay rent.

  “I’m not going to back out,” I insist.

  “Do you still have your doubts about this assignment?”

  “Plenty,” I reply truthfully. “The Prime Minister hasn’t done anything wrong that I know of, and the public loves him. We should give him a chance to run the country before trying to ruin him.”

  “He’s dirty, Janie, I know it. When you’ve been around as long as me, you notice when people have skeletons in their closet, and Wade Chambers has an entire walk-in wardrobe full of them.”

  I do wish she wouldn’t use the word ‘dirty’ to describe Chambers. He looks dirty all right, but not in the way Stephanie’s thinking. Within days of him bursting onto the political scene, there were thousands of pages of fanfiction written about him—most of it of the ‘adults only’ variety.

  “If he is dir… corrupt,” I reply, “then surely that would’ve come out during the campaign.”

  “What campaign?” Stephanie replies. “He appeared out of nowhere, and suddenly he’s our new Prime Minister. He barely even has a Wikipedia page. It’s unprecedented for someone to capture the public’s attention like that. I don’t know how he did it, but I don’t like it.”

  “I’ve got a fair idea,” Meghan mutters under her breath.

  Stephanie sighs loudly. “Meghan, I’d like to think the UK electorate knows better than to be swayed by a man’s good looks.”

  “Then you’ve not been paying attention,” Meghan says. “Anyway, he’s not just good-looking. He’s the full package. Didn’t you see the debates? One second he can be smooth and charming, and then the next he’s angry and passionate. In the space of two minutes, you can go from wanting to have a beer with him, to wanting to hug him, to wanting to—”

  “Yes, okay, thank you, Meghan.” Stephanie turns to me with a concerned mother look in her eyes. “Last chance to back out.”

  We’re all taking a risk, but I’m the one most likely to get caught and to Stephanie’s credit she hates that. She’d much rather do this herself, but she’s far too well known to go undercover as a secretary.

  “I’m fine, Stephanie,” I say firmly. “Anyway, we shouldn’t get ahead of ourselves. I haven’t landed the job yet.”

  “You will. They don’t invite every candidate to 10 Downing Street for an interview. You must be down to the final two, maybe three at most. If the Prime Minister is corrupt, then I’m willing to bet his chief of staff is as well. That means you should be able to… you know… charm him.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind.”

  Stephanie assumes that because I’m in my mid-twenties and vaguely attractive that I must know how to flirt and use my ‘womanly ways’ to get what I want. Flirting is an art form I’ve never mastered. The extent of my flirting ability is wearing slutty clothing, and even then I usually end up falling over a lot and looking ridiculous. Besides, I can hardly dress slutty at 10 Downing Street.

  “Do you want to practice the interview again?” Meghan asks. “Last time you were a bit shaky trying to talk about your secretarial work at Bio Pharmaceuticals.”

  It’s hardly surprising that I’m uncomfortable talking about my time working at Bio Pharmaceuticals. It’s a lie. I’ve never worked there and hadn’t even heard of it until recently. My résumé needed a big name company on it to jump out at the recruiters. That’s the only outright lie, but there are more half-truths on there than in a politician’s press release.

  “I’m okay,” I reply. “They grilled me on previous work experience at the last interview. This one should be more of a personality test to make sure I’m a good fit for the office. I’m worried about the background check, though.”

  “They’ve already done it,” Stephanie says. “After your first interview, they started phoning the numbers you provided for references. Hopefully, my American accent was convincing enough. Don’t worry about the security stuff. It’s not like you’re going in there wearing a wire or anything.”

  “I’m lying about my college degree.”

  “You’re pretending you don’t have one. That’s the opposite from what they’ll be checking for.”

  “And you don’t think they’ll have an issue with hiring an American?” I ask.

  “I doubt it. You have UK citizenship as well, and you’ve lived here for over a year. Given all the positive comments the PM made about immigrants during the election, he’d be a bit of a hypocrite not to hire someone with dual citizenship.”

  No one at the first two interviews seemed concerned by my American accent. I was the one with the problem. One of my interviewers had a thick regional accent—‘scouse’ I think—and she had to repeat everything twice for me. I guess she found it funny because she put me through for another interview.

  “We should
n’t talk much from here on out,” Stephanie says. “We’ll meet back here in a few weeks as arranged. If you get anything too juicy to wait, then contact the number I gave you.”

  “Good luck,” Meghan says.

  I take the tube back to the apartment I have all to myself. Stephanie didn’t want me to share with anyone else during the assignment in case I got found out, so she’s paying for me to have my own place. In London, that practically puts me in the 1%. It’s a level of luxury I’m not used to.

  The next morning, I spend longer getting dressed than I did for my prom. My usual cheap pantsuit won’t cut it—I have a prime minister to impress.

  I manage to show up late. Finding Downing Street is easy; finding the right entrance is not. Google Maps directed me to Downing Street, but you have to use the entrance on Whitehall instead of just casually walking up to the front door of the British Prime Minister. Makes sense.

  Eventually, I find the security checkpoint, and walk up to an elderly man with a clipboard. His colleagues are using tablets, but they’re also considerably younger. And less friendly.

  “Good morning, ma’am,” the security guard says cheerfully. “May I take your name please?”

  “Janie Tucker. I’m here for an interview which starts in about five minutes.”

  “In that case, we had better get you through quickly. Although, knowing this place, they’ll already be behind schedule.” The security guard—Lionel, according to his name tag—ticks me off on his piece of paper and motions to a small table. “I’m afraid I’ll need to look through your bag.”

  I place my bag on the table and feel strangely nervous, even though there’s nothing in there to cause concern. It’s not like I’ve brought along an empty notepad titled ‘Government Secrets to Sell to the Press.’

  “Thanks,” Lionel replies, as he hands back my bag. “You look nervous.”

  “I’m meeting with an important man. It’s scary stuff.”