Under His Protection Read online

  Under His Protection

  By

  Isabella Laase

  Copyright © 2019 by Stormy Night Publications and Isabella Laase

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published by Stormy Night Publications and Design, LLC.

  www.StormyNightPublications.com

  Laase, Isabella

  Under His Protection

  Cover Design by Korey Mae Johnson

  Images by Shutterstock/Pete Hoffman and Shutterstock/Pelevina Ksinia

  This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  More Stormy Night Books by Isabella Laase

  Isabella Laase Links

  Chapter One

  From his corner post in front of the Oval Office, Special Agent Alejandro Cruz had eyes on everything and everyone, constantly surveying the perpendicular hallways that led to the office of the Chief of Staff to his left and all the way back to the Cabinet Room to his right. His communication piece kept him in contact with the other agents on duty, giving him eyes and ears across the impressive eighteen-acre complex, but in most cases, the glorified windowless broom closets found in the West Wing were not nearly as prestigious as the jobs that came with the epitome of power.

  Despite having top secret security clearance, Cruz remained in the hallway. His job was to align himself with the web of protection that followed the president wherever he went, combining technological superpowers with the brute force and intelligence of the over three thousand special agents and fourteen hundred uniformed officers who represented the core of the Secret Service. Whether it was a trip to Geneva to speak before the World Trade Organization or a golf game at a Maryland country club a few miles down the road, the potential dangers required all of his skills and concentration.

  Protecting President Bradford in the eight hundred square feet west of the Executive Mansion, however, was the one place where Cruz allowed himself to breathe a little easier. The White House team relied on the latest in technology from infrared sensors and impenetrable bulletproof glass to robotic drones that maintained constant surveillance. A fully equipped counter-assault team was close at hand, along with bomb-sniffing dog handlers and snipers on the rooftops. And if all those failed, military jets were on standby if anybody were stupid enough to invade the no-fly zone.

  Her angry shrieks reached him before she rounded the corner from the main lobby. “For god’s sake. Get the hell away from me, already.” Despite the layers of protection surrounding the Oval Office, nobody could stop the storm that was coming, and he steadied his temper. He’d been trained to take a bullet without thinking twice, but dealing with President Bradford’s only child was a job for the most patient of agents and he sure as hell didn’t fall into that category.

  A skinny young intern came from the press briefing room with his attention divided between his cell and a pile of reports that teetered dangerously in his arms. “Watch where you’re going, asshole,” snapped the bitchy First Daughter. The intern cringed, pushing himself against a wall and pulling his overly large stack of paper against his chest in a panic. Instead of working to avoid a collision, Victoria bumped against him, sending the unstapled pages across the hallway with a dismal finality. The poor guy stared in shock, but the self-righteous bitch just smirked before turning toward the Oval Office.

  With a determined snarl, she set her eyes on Cruz’s position, and he spoke softly into the wire he always wore on his sleeve. “Princess is on her way to the Eagle’s Nest.”

  The security team had long since started the practice of using code names to identify the extended family and close staff to the president, but the obvious ‘spoiled’ adjective was generally left unspoken when she was close enough to hear. During his almost two-year tenure at the White House, Cruz had had limited contact with twenty-three-year-old Victoria Bradford, a recent college grad who’d returned full-time to DC a few months earlier, living in a prestigious Woodley Park high-rise off Connecticut Avenue and driving away Secret Service protection with consistent regularity. It was the job from hell, and he’d breathed a sigh of relief every time he’d managed to bypass the miserable assignment.

  He stood his ground, tilting his chin slightly and making direct eye contact with the curvy blonde whose outfit probably cost more than a week’s pay for half the behind-the-scenes people who worked at the White House. She was a good-looking woman, however, and it was hard not to appreciate the fine lines of her breasts in the tight black blouse that showed a little too much skin or to avoid the second glance at the smooth ass rounding out her pale wheat linen slacks. He may have been a highly trained professional, but he wasn’t blind.

  But after his quick survey, it didn’t matter what she looked like. Cruz had a job to do and even the president had no legal authority to stop him from doing it. The little shit wasn’t going to interrupt a meeting with the nation’s top military leaders, the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the head of the National Security Administration, and the Secretary of Defense, along with more minions than he thought could fit in the room. It didn’t take a lot of brains to realize that there were high stakes involved. The White House press corps had been in a frenzy for hours, and the instability over sovereignty in the South China Sea had reached epic proportions with one angry country sending warships to tick off another.

  Facing his unnerving stare-down, she slowed, but crossed the final distance with a determined glare of her own. “Excuse me,” she said snippily, tilting her chin. “I need to see my father.”

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Bradford,” he responded firmly. “The president is in a meeting right now. If you’d like to return to the Residence, I’ll be sure to notify his secretaries that you’re waiting to see him.”

  He wasn’t shocked when she didn’t move. “I don’t care who the fuck he’s talking to. I’ve got to talk to him, and it’s only going to take a minute. Move.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not going to happen, ma’am,” responded Cruz, crossing his arms over his chest. “Would you please move away from the door.” There wasn’t a hint of a question in his tone, and he widened his stance to ground his position.

  At six foot three and two hundred pounds of weight-lifting muscle, he understood the impact that his physical size should have had over his immediate problem, but unfortunately, the little spitfire didn’t register the same understanding. Throwing her infamous curly blonde hair over her shoulder, she tried to move around him, getting so far as to put her hand on the doorknob before he grabbed her wrist. “Stop,” he demanded in the same tone he’d used when dealing with his little sisters when they were driving him nuts. “I’m not going to tell you again.”

  “Get your fucking hands off me, you son of a bitch!” The high-pitched screech grated across his skin, but he didn’t let go of her until she’d tak
en a step away from the door. He’d have paddled his two little sisters’ asses if he’d ever heard them use language like that, but the values instilled by his immigrant parents wouldn’t have allowed any of their six kids to disrespect a place of reverence and authority. Having come to this country from an unstable dictatorship as children, his parents fully appreciated the benefits of a democracy. There was no explaining any of this to Victoria Bradford, however, so Cruz remained silent, never taking his eyes off of her and standing firmly in front of the door.

  Two of his colleagues had entered the hallway to provide backup against the obnoxious threat to the president’s day. Victoria evaluated each of them, the glare burrowing deeper into her face. For a brief second, he thought she’d try to push past him a second time, but instead, she turned with a swirl of that thick blonde hair. “There’s more than one door to the Oval Office, asshole,” she hissed over her shoulder as she started down the hallway.

  Nodding to Special Agents Monica Bukowski, who was moving closer from his left, and Tim Rivers, who’d started down the hall from the lobby, Cruz spoke into his communication piece. “Princess is on the move. Will follow to make sure she finds her way to the castle.” He’d get her sorry ass back to the president’s private quarters if he had to drag her, but she knew her way around the West Wing better than the average terrorist. With the three agents effectively cutting off her exits, she pushed past Bukowski and slipped into the president’s private study that had a back door to the Oval Office.

  Cruz groaned. He didn’t really blame their newest special agent for her failure; nothing short of tackling the little bitch would probably have stopped her. Grappling with the president’s daughter on the floor of the West Wing didn’t sound like much of a career move, but Cruz was close enough behind her that he could stick his shoe in the frame to prevent her from shutting the door. Silently nodding to the other two agents to cover his post, he entered the room, closing the door behind him to give them both a little privacy.

  She hadn’t calmed. Walking toward the back hallway that led to the Oval Office, she continued to shout. “Listen, Special Agent What-the-Fuck, I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but I’m Victoria Bradford and nobody stops me around here.” As he got closer, her tone rose. “Get away from me!”

  Cruz covered the gap in three short steps and for once, Victoria showed a little common sense, slowing down and paling slightly. “Ma’am,” he said through clenched teeth. “With all due respect, your father and several high-level government authorities are dealing with a crisis. If you go in there right now, not only will you disrupt their progress, you’re going to be embarrassed by their reaction.”

  Looking uncertain, she actually hesitated, giving some indication that he’d found her weak spot. She’d had a lot of bad press over the last few years, so the need to avoid a semi-public tantrum wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. Seeing a small sign of reasoning, he continued in a calm tone. “Let’s go over to the Residence, and he’ll be there as soon as he can. Whatever you have to say to him can wait.”

  It was the wrong move. “I’m not going to the Residence,” she snapped, her anger resurfacing like a twisting flood. “I’m only going to be a minute.”

  She took another half a step, but this time, Cruz grabbed her wrist, twirling her in a circle until she faced the opposite wall. “What the hell are you doing? I said, keep your fucking hands off of me.” She screamed loud enough for the entire West Wing to hear, pounding on his chest with as much force as her lightweight body strength allowed. When both of those tantrums failed to lessen his grasp, her long, well-manicured fingernails connected with a long scratch down his left cheek.

  She couldn’t have been more than five foot five, so he pulled his head out of her reach, using his free hand to gently rub his battle wound and garnering a tiny spot of blood on his fingertip. Still holding tight to her wrist, he figured he was too far down the proverbial rabbit hole to stop his attempts to control her. “I’m not going to let go while you’re fighting me,” he warned dangerously. “Stop being a brat before I...”

  He didn’t finish the sentence before the little shit’s teeth connected with his forearm. Biting down forcefully through the blue suit and dress shirt, she made a sound that reminded him of his mother’s cocker spaniel protecting a hot dog, and his arm began to throb. He still didn’t let go of her, nor did she of him, but digging hard to find his last vestige of professionalism, he spoke in a dangerously calm tone. “Let go of me. Now. Or I’ll paddle your ass until you can’t sit down for a week.” The last part snuck out about the same time he realized that professionalism was no longer an option.

  Surprisingly, she obeyed. A pair of dark eyes contrasted with the shock of blonde hair to showcase an emotion other than anger. A sadness. An anxiety. Perhaps even a touch of fear. He started to feel bad for taking such a strong stand and moved back a step to give her a little space. “Good girl,” he said, releasing her wrist to ruefully rub his arm. “Let’s take it easy, and we can go someplace else to talk about this. If you don’t want to go to the Residence, how about I take you down to the Navy mess and get you a cup of coffee? They have great desserts down there, too. My treat.”

  Victoria nodded slowly, and he silently congratulated himself on his people skills. If he could put Victoria Bradford on a calm path, he could handle any threat coming at the president, even if he did walk away from this one with a small casualty. He prepared to speak calmly and reward her with a gentle smile for her compliance when she kicked him with her high-heeled black leather shoe. Probably aiming for his crotch, she landed a firm blow on his inner thigh when he thankfully turned in a last-second defensive move. Picking up a heavy glass paperweight from the president’s desk, she held it like she was ready to send a hand grenade at his head and backed away slowly toward the Oval Office. “Fuck off, Special Agent What-the-Fuck.”

  The lack of respect toward both him and this place of honor combined with the language no self-respecting professional should use, but his anger toward the self-righteous, entitled, privileged little bitch matched the throbbing in his arm, the sting on his cheek, and the likely growing bruise on his thigh. The last of his patience snapped, and he grumbled loud enough to make her run. She got a good foot or two away from him before he caught her a second time, grabbing her by the wrist and rescuing the expensive paperweight in a single move. Twirling her around, he rested his foot on the coffee table and bent her fighting, squirming self over his knee, then smacked the backside of her expensive slacks, making sure to deliver a good sting.

  The spank caught her attention, and she twisted slightly to stare at him with wide eyes, her mouth fully agape. When it became apparent that his move had effectively shut her up, he followed up with a few more swats for good measure, each one a little harder than the next. The layered effect finally caused her to cry out, wiggling in a futile attempt to escape his iron-clad grasp, and moving her hands across her bottom to protect what was left of her privacy. The corrective action to her sculpted little ass satisfied his need to discipline her, but he gathered her wrists with his free hand and firmly delivered a few more spanks that rose her to her toes.

  “Stop,” she squealed like a little girl, her bad attitude officially dissipated. “I’m sorry. Just stop.”

  “Now that I have your attention,” he said dangerously, allowing her to stand on her own. Her gaze fell to the floor and her cheeks burned a bright red. “Let’s assume that you aren’t going to be a mean-spirited brat anymore. Nobody likes it when they have to deal with your tantrums, so you have two choices. You can leave this room on your own two feet, or you can stay here with me. If you leave, you can go anyplace you want as long as it’s out of my sight and nowhere near the Oval Office. But if you stay, I’ll give you the spanking that somebody should have given you years ago. And it’s not going to be over those slacks, little girl, so pick.”

  A far cry from the little shit whose teeth marks still burned on his arm, she’d mel
lowed dramatically, staring at him with those soulful eyes that could have melted a glacier, and for a brief second, he thought she was going to choose the spanking. Not that he would have minded turning that pretty, firm ass over his knee for a longer session, but it was probably better to leave that for the casual playmate he found on his days off. For a million logistical reasons, a submissive Victoria Bradford would never work for him, no matter how well she filled out those pants.

  Nodding slowly, she turned and walked toward the door, rubbing her ass and glancing innocently over her shoulder until he gave her a nod of approval and pointed his finger to keep her moving. When she quietly closed the door behind her, he sighed, pleased to have averted a disaster. Putting the paperweight back in its rightful place on the president’s desk, he ran a final check of the perimeter, glancing toward the short hallway that led to the Oval Office. Hidden from view a foot or two back in the shadows was William Collier Bradford IV, President of the United States.

  “Fuck,” he thought to himself. Nodding politely to the president, he looked for any sign to gauge how long he’d been standing there. Faced with nothing, Cruz acknowledged, “Sir,” and left the room, wondering exactly how long he was going to have a job.

  Chapter Two

  He’d spanked her. My god, the son of a bitch, Special Agent What-the-Fuck, had actually whacked her on her ass, leaving both sets of cheeks burning, one with mortification and the other with a stinging pain that still formed the imprint from his palm. He’d warned her, but in all of her sheltered years, nobody who’d worked for her father had ever talked to her like that. Nobody had ever even threatened to lay a hand on her, much less followed through, and the humiliation of having her ass smacked by a total stranger wasn’t going to dissipate with the pain.

  Standing in the middle of her father’s study, every fighting instinct she had wanted to take on the Secret Service with a full-blown tantrum, but his biting contact had ignited a tingling of gratification, spinning through her system and swelling her clit until it throbbed. Too quickly, the stinging turned to a cozy warmth, inexplicably leaving a damp spot on her panties and an aching emptiness between her folds. She couldn’t help but wonder what a skin to skin connection would have felt like; if the smack would burn stronger and longer, filling her emptiness and spurring the pleasure to a full-blown orgasm.