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It’s actually nine fucking hours to goddamn wherethefuckever Helsinki actually is, and without Jonah to keep Gary distracted, Amy’s the length of a bag-strap from choking the fucker.
Thank God, or Diageo, that Air Force Two carries more booze than it does passengers; this is a flight crew that knows what the hell is up. She can justify the doubles because it’s afternoon in Washington, but a whole lot later in Scandinavia, and frankly in cold places they expect you to do your job half-wrecked, to prevent hypothermia or some shit.
If she drinks three doubles quickly enough, Amy can almost, almost black out the looming clusterfuck of walking Selina through the intricacies of European culture. The Vice President might be a lot of things, but her idea of high culture stops at the Chesapeake goddamned bay, and that’s just a bunch of clams flapping around in the dirt, pretty much.
Naturally, Dan shows up as she’s considering waving down the stewardess for a fourth. Ugh, flight attendant, whatever. It’s not like they’re flying United here, the woman is probably a military-grade ninja or something. Or maybe a Cabinet Secretary, who can keep up?
“Gary’s like, three, four minutes top from jimmying the lock on the door,” Dan announces, flopping down beside her in what’s usually the press section. He kicks his pretentious Italian-whatever shoes off and finally undoes his tie, letting it hang loose around his neck. Amy should slap him right on his stupid freckles and tell him she’s regrouping to deal with the intercontinental shitstorm, but the heart just isn’t in it, and she vaguely, embarrassingly skims her palm over his cheek instead.
“You think she can start a war with France, all by herself?” Amy asks, putting her empty glass on the table with just a little too much force.
“Fucked if I know,” Dan admits. “They’ll only surrender anyway, so who gives a crap?”
“Okay, write that down, and have it printed and laminated under the heading of ‘Jesus Fucking Christ Nobody Make These Jokes’, can you do that?”
“Do I look like I’ve got a branch of Kinko’s in my ass?” He fires back, unmoved by Amy’s very imminent crisis. “I can’t believe Mike is back there working for Kent while I’m going to the most pointless summit in the history of pointless summits.”
“Boo hoo,” Amy mocks, because her aggravation never gets a fair hearing before the thundering hoofbeats of Dan and his stupid manpain take over. “I’ve got to teach Ado Annie in there how not to commit diplomatic suicide. Don’t we have a Secretary of State for this shit?”
“Last I heard he was banging his newest aide in New York, so...”
“You’re shitting me? Isn’t she like, my age?”
“Mid-forties?”
“Go back to the cabin, dicksplash,” Amy groans. “Leave me to my drinks.”
“You know, we’re not gonna be on a plane this empty again for a while,” Dan says, leaning in. “I mean, no Press, no hangers on, no White House babysitters...”
His finger hooks in the cuff of her blazer as he says it, one blunt fingernail scraping over her wristbone; she hates that he knows to do that, and hates even more that she can’t bite back the little hiss of interest.
“But we do have Gary and a very pissed-off Veep,” Amy reminds him, a Hail Mary pass in her non-attempt at resisting. “And the agents.”
“Then we’ll be quick,” Dan assures her.
“Not usually a problem for you,” Amy agrees. His hand snakes behind her neck then, and the first kiss has a hint of sharpness that she has to admit she doesn’t entirely dislike.
“Ready to join the mile-high club?” He mutters as the kissing moves to her neck, and there’s a graze of teeth then that’s definitely a fuck you or a threat, and Amy jerks away just a little in warning because she is not living through an entire trip hiding something as fucking pathetic as a hickey from Dan Egan.
“I’m already a Gold-level member,” she lies, through suddenly gritted teeth when his tongue swirls in the hollow of her collarbone, his fingers already unbuttoning her blouse. And so, yeah, maybe when she changed for the flight she went with practically see-through and the camisole underneath, because she knows what he likes even as she pretends not to give it to him. “I worked the campaign, remember.”
“Like you would have fucked any of those losers,” Dan murmurs. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I like you desperate. But you have never been that desperate.”
“You want to argue about this?” Amy demands. “Or you wanna get on with it before someone comes looking for us?”
“Is that your way of saying ‘skip the foreplay’?” He asks, grinning at her even as his other hand is sliding along the inside of her thigh.
“Don’t you always?” She accuses.
“My dad always said good-looking guys don’t need to waste time on foreplay,” Dan admits with a shrug.
“Proving that being a douchecanoe is, in fact, genetic,” Amy tries to make it bite, but her words fade out in a sudden hiss as Dan’s thumb grazes embarrassingly damp panties.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Dan says, and then he grabs the damn seatbelt and clicks it into place over her lap. Before Amy can question it, he’s shrugging off his jacket and dropping to his knees. All this legroom in the rear cabin is like an advert to never fly commercial again, as his maddeningly long fingers grip her knees and wrench her thighs apart. She’d complain, but even that little bit of roughness has made her wetter, and Dan probably already knows that.
“Dan Egan on his knees,” Amy breathes, and the kisses along her thigh are punctuated with a bite.
“Don’t get used to it,” he grumbles, shoving her skirt up like it isn’t Donna Karan. Prick. Any retort dies on her tongue as his nose bumps against her clit for just a second, then his hands are scrabbling at the black lace she definitely didn’t wear just in case, and his nails scrape down her thighs before he stuffs the panties in his shirt pocket. His nails are perfectly trimmed, too, because he probably has manicures more often than Amy ever does.
He doesn’t tease, at least, because a moment later he spreads with his thumbs, and okay the seat isn’t that luxurious, so Amy hooks her right leg over the armrest to allow a little more room. Then it’s a swipe with the flat of his tongue and Jesus fucking dammit, it’s been too long since Amy got anyone beyond a quick and functional fuck after four martinis with a breakfast meeting looming.
Her body is lighting up all over like Times Square after a power outage and damn that pretty, clever, irritating mouth, because Dan has her trembling before he even gets to the sharp little sucks over her clit.
And if she goes off like a rocket without all that much work on his part, well, fuck it. Says more about how stressed she’s been than any skill on his part, but the smugness is already radiating off him.
So she shoves him with her right foot, her favorite black heels still in place, thank you very much, and it’s surprising enough to catch him off guard. He doesn’t land gracefully, but Amy unbuckles and straddles him without much ceremony at all.
A cursory glance around the corner, but no sign of movement elsewhere on the plane. She unbuckles his belt, reassured by how hard he already is when she presses against his crotch, and so what if he’s gonna have to change his pants after? It’s not like Dan ever just lies back and takes it, and his hands are already under her open blouse, pulling her bra down further to get at hard nipples that he plays like a fucking XBox controller, but damn if those flicking thumbs aren’t exactly what Amy’s in the mood for right now.
He nods towards his suit jacket, and she fumbles for his wallet and the condom within without having to stretch too far. Dan smirks as she struggles with the foil for a second, but he’s gasping when she gets the latex in place and rolls it on with firm strokes.
There’s a thud from somewhere not too far away, and they both hold their breath for an agonizing moment until there’s no further noise.
“Come on,” he hisses. “You’re not leaving me with blue balls this time, Brookheimer.”
“Don’t give me ideas,” she warns, and God the thought is kind of intoxicating. Except it’ll just turn into a zero sum of him trying to turn her on again for the rest of the flight to get his, and that will escalate as the trip goes on, and Amy has no intention of getting caught giving a blowjob in the Hall of Flags or something. Although, they do have a pretty boring meeting there, so maybe after...
Focus, she tells herself. He’s already rocking his hips in impatience, and Amy has Dan right where she wants him. She’s almost tempted to bend forward and kiss him, but that’s not really what this is about.
Instead, she guides him between her thighs, and with just a bit of impatience on his part, he slides home with the most contented little sigh. And no way she’s not mocking him hard for that, just as soon as she forgets the sigh of contentment at the pressure just where her body is craving it most.
His hands are on her hips now, her skirt falling back down from where it was shoved up on her waist, covering his fingers and making the softest rustling noise as skin slaps against skin, and Amy’s not really in it for finesse as he picks up the pace, jamming his thumb against her clit and fuck, fuck, fuck that’s almost enough right there.
He grunts when he comes, like the pig that he so frequently is, no matter what he tries to paint himself as with his man bags and moisturizing. Amy slaps him on the chest once, twice, and then the pressure builds too far and she’s coming, biting back an honest-to-fuck cry of pleasure that she’s not giving him credit for.
“Not bad,” he says, grinning as he tries to catch his breath. Amy’s just clambering off him when Gary appears, and the sneaky fuck didn’t even make a sound. If he was watching, she really will kill him.
“The Vice President wants to see you, Amy,” he says, in between staring with his mouth open. Amy stands, turning away to fix her bra and her blouse as quickly as she can, wincing at the wetness already smeared down her thighs.
“You can fuck off now, Gary,” Dan says, standing up and actually shoving him after doing up his pants. “Keep your fucking lemur eyes to yourself, you hear me?”
“Right,” Gary says, like he’s in on the joke. “I know how men do, Dan. Dana and I--”
“Shut the fuck up about your blow-up girlfriend, Gary,” Amy growls as she pushes past him.
“She’s real!” Gary yells after her. “She just had lunch with me and Selina!”
“Oh, I’m gonna tell her you called her by her first name,” Amy hears Dan teasing before she hurls herself into the first bathroom. She can’t take too long, or bitchfire will be raining down on her for not responding fast enough.
Amy presses a wet paper towel between her legs, and although she’s fucking pissed at getting caught, she’s still smiling as she looks at herself in the mirror. Just wait ‘til Dan sees the dress she brought for the dinner.