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iowa, a place to grow

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"Jesus fucking Christ."

A hotel room in Iowa. Somewhere on the campaign trail. The minibar is well-stocked. The television is only showing Law & Order reruns and Antique Roadshow. It's snowing.

Amy's gone out of her goddamn mind.

Dan looks up at her. He's got a red, wet mouth, and two days of stubble. She's got beard burn on the insides of her thighs as a result.

"Why'd you stop?" She twists her fingers around his hair, yanks. Dan likes that. A discovery made during their week-ish of actual dating.

“Sorry,” he says. “Didn't know you were in a rush. What's on the schedule, hot date with Jonah at the Applebee's down the road?”

“It's probably closed because of the storm,” Amy tells him. She doesn't know how mentioning Jonah hasn't made his dick wilt. “Also, ew. You don't need to be talking right now.”

“You're such a fucking pain,” he says, but he leans back in, bites the soft inside of her thigh. She squirms, but he's holding her open with big hands, and he gets his mouth back on her, all long strokes and little flicks of his tongue until she's making too much noise.

“Yeah,” Dan says, mouth tucked into the crease of her hip. “Like that.” He slips a finger inside her, then another, crooks them up and curls his tongue around her clit. She lets her head fall back so she doesn't have to look at his face, bucks fruitlessly against his grip. She comes, loud enough that anyone next door can hear. Goddamnit.

She wants him to fuck her. Wants to keep going. There's got to be someone to blame for this. Maybe she'll blame Iowa. Fucking Iowa, with its presidential primaries, and inconvenient snowstorms, and soulless yet available political operatives.

"Amy," Dan says.

Dan's good in bed, for reasons that are entirely career- and ego-based. Still--

“No,” Amy says. “I'm getting on top.”

He holds his hands up. “Hey, you wanna do more of the work, be my guest.”

“Your sexual reputation looks like more and more of a lie every day.”

“Please.” Dan jacks himself a couple times before sliding on the condom. Amy manages to hold back the crack about communicable diseases. He continues, “maybe if this was the first time and I was trying to seduce you for access.”

She pokes at his wrist with her nail until he moves his hand, then wraps a hand around his dick so that she can lower herself down, keeping it slow so she can watch how Dan's eyelids flutter. How his mouth hangs open but he doesn't speak. He's more controlled than her, but-- not always. It feels good to make him give it up even the tiniest amount.

For a while she takes it slow, savoring the feel of him, liking how he’s grabbing at the sheets like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

She doesn't know why it's always Dan. Or she does. Dan is an awful person, an egomaniac, maybe a sociopath. He's good at sex because it could help advance his career. He's memorized how she likes to be touched because it could help advance his career. But who gives a shit, because Amy's just as bloodthirsty as he is, and she's better enough that she knows she'll come out ahead.

“Come on,” he says. “Amy, god--”

Her thighs are shaking. Being on top is a goddamn workout. He slips his fingers between her legs, and it's just pressure but it's the good kind. She's grinding against his hand and rocking on his dick and Dan's this close to begging. It's great.

Amy braces herself with a hand on his shoulder. Her nails dig in and Dan hisses, hips snapping up. “Fuck,” he says, and she does it again, doesn’t know if she’s helping out or being mean.

The cliche of fucking another political operative on the campaign trail in Iowa. Amy would hate politics, except that she’s disgustingly good at them, and Amy would hate Dan, except-- no, most of the time she hates Dan.

He grabs her hips, and that changes the angle just enough; he’s still touching her and she’s close, she’s gonna come, she wants to come before he does, wants to win that race too. She lets her head fall forward, sweaty blonde hair escaping her ponytail, works her hips until she’s coming for the second time, teeth catching her lip so that she doesn't give Dan the satisfaction of saying his name.

"Jesus," Dan says. "Can I--"

"Yeah," she says, and he flips them so that she's on her back, drives into her until he's coming too, moaning embarrassingly into her ear, and she rakes her fingernails down his back. She's sensitive and sore and it feels good, and when Dan collapses on top of her she scratches her hand through his hair for a minute before telling him to get the fuck off.

He gets off.

“Thanks.” she says, picking up the remote and turning on the television. Law & Order comes on.

Dan quirks an eyebrow at her. “Thanks?” he says. “You’re ditching all this--” he gestures at his chest-- “for a crime show rerun?”

Amy gives him an arch look right back. “You want to fucking cuddle?”

“No.” Dan crosses his arms over his chest. The effect would be more intimidating if he wasn’t naked. “I don’t want to fucking cuddle, Amy.”

“Good,” she says. “Because that’d be some dumb shit.”

“Alright,” he says, and heads into her shitty little hotel bathroom to clean up. She’ll have to do the same, but she won’t while Dan is in there. Everything is a bad idea in Iowa, no matter the result.

Dan comes out and looks around for his pants. Amy watches him through slanted eyes. He finds them eventually, hops into them, finds his undershirt too. She doesn't know where his button-down went.

“Enjoy Law & Order,” he says, tucking his shirt into his pants. Dan's always fucking prepared.

“Mmm,” Amy says. She tugs at the sheet until she feels less exposed. She doesn't like feeling like that in front of Dan. It's discomforting. “I'm sure I will.”

His mouth twitches. It might be a grimace, it might be a smile. “See you in New Hampshire.”

“You think it'll snow there too?” Amy asks, as guileless as possible-- she definitely fails-- and Dan looks like he wants to slam the door as he leaves.

He doesn't, of course. That'd let someone else know he was there.

She's probably going to fuck him in New Hampshire. She's probably going to fuck him straight through Super Tuesday. She fucking hates the campaign trail.

Amy turns up the television, rubs over the purpling mark he left on her thigh, and rolls her eyes.