By Lacy

I can hear CJ’s distinctive voice bidding Carol’s entrance. She pokes her head in the door and says, "She’s here."

Once again I hear CJ’s voice, only more muffled this time. "Is she ready?"

"Yeah," Carol nods and whispers. I’m on the verge of barging into the Press Secretary’s office, when Carols steps aside, holding the door open to allow me entrance.

Now, I’ve got the voice inside my head. You know the one. It’s the voice that emerges from you whenever you go to one of those slasher films. It’s the voice that screams, ‘Don’t go in there!’ Carol places a hand on my lower back, which, at first, is comforting. Until she gives me a good hard shove.

I stumble into CJ’s office, tripping over my big high heels and right into Josh’s arms. He’s wearing that face that says he wants to laugh, but that it would not be prudent at this juncture. He rarely used this face before we became intimate, but now that he’s my boyfriend he’s learning to master it. He’s a very smart man.

I stand erect and make an attempt at regaining my dignity. Dignity, which I now realize, was lost when my whole impersonation of Miss Marple began.

"Josh," I begin, "You have to get dressed. You’re going to be late." I’ve slipped easily into assistant mode, because right now it’s a comfortable place to be.

"We have to get dressed," he corrects. "We’re going to be late."

"I’m ready," I say indicating my hair and face. "All I have to do is put on the dress." Which I’m still avoiding.

"I think it would be okay if the two of you make a fashionably late entrance," CJ interrupts. This is when I notice that we’re not really alone. Of course, CJ would be there, since it’s her office. But then there’s the other guy. The one I mentioned earlier who looks buff and scary, but isn’t any Secret Service agent I’ve ever seen before.

"New detail?" I ask.

"He’s your detail," CJ says. "For the evening.

Detail? I’m getting a detail? I take a moment to examine the guard. He’s not wearing the standard Secret Service tux worn for black-tie White House functions, which tells me this isn’t quite kosher.

I turn back to CJ, and that’s when I notice the dress hanging on the wall behind her. I hate her -- she always gets the best clothes.

"Wow, CJ," I say. I’m trying not to sound bitter or green with envy. "Your dress is amazing."

It really is an amazing dress; I wouldn’t lie about that. It’s a vision of Blackberry taffeta and delicate chiffon. It’s a dream. It’s a Vera Wang.

"It’s not my dress," she claims.

"Oh, of course," I realize. "It’s borrowed."

"No," she smiles. "It’s bought and paid for." She casts a sly glance in Josh’s direction, and my eyes follow hers.

"It’s your dress," Josh asserts.

A moment passes between the time Josh speaks the words and the time that my brain actually processes them. Mine? But-- wait--

It’s my dress? I can’t afford a Vera Wang! Movie stars wear Vera Wang, not assistants to the White House Deputy Chief of Staff. I look at the dress and I’m unable to tear my eyes from it. The bodice is made of Blackberry taffeta with a straight strapless neckline. It drops down into a V-formation where it meets the skirt, made of layers of silk chiffon. The skirt will move and flow, like floating on a cloud. Each layer of chiffon gets progressively darker giving it a depth that my eyes want to get lost in.

"Donna?" I hear Josh’s voice calling me. "Donna? Say something."

"Mine?" My throat has gone dry and my ability to use multi-syllabic words has deserted me.

"Yes," Josh chuckles.

"You bought me a dress?"

"I thought you might need something special," he explains.

"You bought me a dress?" I just can’t seem to get past the fact that the dress is mine.

Or that Josh purchased it — for me.

"What do you think?" he asks.

"Josh," I say. "It’s a Vera Wang."

"I know," he smiles.

"You don’t know anything about women’s fashion," I point out.

For a second he looks as though he’s gearing up a heated denial. But then he remembers to whom he is speaking. "CJ was very helpful," he admits, sheepishly.

"CJ got the dress?"

"No," CJ interrupts. "I made a few calls, but Josh selected the dress all on his own."

My Josh? My hopelessly clueless boyfriend picked this dress for me? I reach out to touch the soft material, my fingers lingering over the cloud of silk chiffon.

"You got me a dress," I whisper. My eyes have begun to tear up, which undoubtedly will lead to raccoon eyes. My throat is dry and working overtime to keep the tears from actually coming.

"Yes," he says. My stare shifts from the dress to my boyfriend. Make that my tremendous and exceptional boyfriend. "I thought…when I saw it…it was yours, I just had to ransom it." God, isn’t that the sweetest thing to say? My gaze pierces his, which forces him to look away.

A little known fact about Joshua Lyman. He hates giving gifts, and this is why. He doesn’t know how to handle the gratitude. He’s very clumsy about it. He’s such an undeniably confident person at all times, in all things — but when he’s staring into the eyes of a grateful gift-receiver, his confidence deserts him. He hems and haws. He even blushes.

The problem is that, no matter how hard he tries to hide it, Josh has a very giving nature. He’s very good at choosing gifts that will say just the right thing — make just the right impression. But he can’t reconcile his embarrassment of gratitude with his need to be present for the receiver’s reaction. So, for him, gift giving is a trade off. That’s why he doesn’t do it very often.

He’s got that look on his face. The same expression he wore when he gave me the book on Alpine skiing, one Christmas. In those days, I wanted to throw my arms around him and plant one on him. But I couldn’t, so I just had to settle for the arms part. Not so, this time.

Before he has a chance to get any more uncomfortable under my gaze, I launch myself at him, and plant that kiss on him that I wanted to give him two Christmases ago. He deepens the kiss, wrapping his arms around me and pulling me closer.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you," I spout between kisses.

The sound of CJ clearing her throat reminds us that there are others in the room. Our faces turn to meet hers.

"Well, this is just disgusting," she says, but the smirk on her face belies the words.

I turn back to Josh, and can’t hold back the giggle building inside of me. He’s now wearing my lipstick, and I notice that it’s a perfect shade for my new dress.

That Carol’s a sly one.

I gently wipe the color from his lips, and he smiles. "There’s more," he says.

"There’s more?"

He collects a velvet box from CJ’s desk and hands to me. The words ‘Harry Winston’ are embossed in gold on the velvet lid. Struck speechless, I open the box to find what must be an exorbitantly expensive diamond bracelet, glittering back at me. It’s breathtaking, with its five bands of shimmering diamonds set in gold.

"Oh, Josh," I gasp. "It’s too much."

"Donnatella," he sighs. "The dress is yours to keep, but the diamonds have to be returned."

Suddenly the presence of the guard in the room becomes crystal clear. He’s not my detail. He’s here to protect the borrowed gems and to return them when the party is over. I don’t care that the bracelet has to be returned, not really. What I do care about is that Josh has a put a lot of thought into making sure this night will be a memorable one for me.

I kiss him again and whisper, "You are going to get so lucky tonight."

"I’m already lucky," he whispers back.

"Okay," CJ interrupts us once again. "I’m nearing my sentimental threshold. You two scram. I have to get dressed, and so do you."

I take the dress from the hook on the wall, being sure to hold up its hem so that it won’t drag on the floor. I touch the material reverently, as though it might crumble in my hands

The guard follows us out of CJ’s but Carol stops him before he can follow us through the now-empty bullpen. I follow Josh into his office and close the door behind us.

"What’s with the monolith out there? Isn’t he going to follow us around all night?"

"No," Josh replies. "An agent will be called to baby-sit him until the parties’ over and it’s time to return the bracelet."

‘It’s beautiful, Josh, and worth several thousand dollars, at least."

"Fifteen," he says, which causes my jaw to gape. "I picked that, too. Did I not mention that?"

I hang the dress on the hook with his tux, and cross the room to him. He takes me in his arms and I plant another kiss on his lips. We taste each other until our lungs need air

"I just can’t thank you properly here." My breath is coming hard and fast. My skin is on fire, and my body is screaming for his touch.

Josh backs me up against the desk, places his hands on my waist, and lifts me until I’m sitting on the newly cleared surface. I’m forced to raise the hem of my skirt a bit so that he can stand between my knees.

"Maybe…you could give me a little preview." He doesn’t wait for my answer but simply attacks my mouth with his. He squeezes the back of my neck, and I tilt my head backwards until his mouth can reach the smooth and sensitive column of skin there.

"Josh," I moan. His hands are unbuttoning my jacket and slipping it from my arms, all while his hot mouth ravages my neck. He looks down at me as he begins to work the buttons on my shirt.

"It has to come off anyway," he justifies with a shrug.

"Yes it does," I agree. My hands travel up his chest, and he’s forced to cease and desist with my buttons as I slide his sports jacket off his shoulders and it hits the floor. My hand reaches for his tie, hooking a finger under the knot.

"It has to come off anyway," I echo.

"Yes it does." He chuckles that sexy laugh of his as I tug on the tie and drop it to the floor before I begin to work on the buttons on his shirt. "That too," he says.

"This too," I agree.

It's just supposed to be a preview. A little look-what-you're-going-to-get-when-we-get-home kind of thing. But our pulses and our temperatures quickly escalate, and so does the situation. I tell him that we shouldn't -- not here, but he assures me that we won't be caught because everyone's at the party.

Isn't that just a like a man?

Anyway, the little 'thank you' turns out to be a big 'thank you' with clothes being thrown in a big pile, and before we know it we're having sex right there on Josh's desk. It's a good thing I cleared it off this morning or this could be really uncomfortable. What can I say? I swear this will never happen again. We'll never again bring our sex life into the White House. But just this once -- it's...he's...we are astounding

He tears my heart out and rebuilds it stronger with a single kiss. Words cannot express the things I feel for this man. Words simply aren't enough. That is why, at this moment, we do what we do. Not for any thrill of laughing in the face of convention, but because we must.

It seems somehow fitting. After all, this is the place where our relationship grew -- where the history Josh likes to talk about happened.

TBC

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