Chapter 8: Adrenaline Rush
The door to the empty conference room clicked shut behind them, cutting off the distant murmur of the dispersing crowd. The sudden silence was thick, vibrating with the leftover energy of the event.
For a second, they just stood there.
Rina leaned back against the door, her chest rising and falling a little faster than normal. The professional calm she’d worn like armor backstage was gone, stripped away, leaving something raw and glittering in her eyes. She looked at him, really looked at him, and Jon felt the air leave his lungs.
“So,” she said, her voice low.
“So,” he echoed.
He took a step toward her. Then another. The room was vast and dark except for the emergency exit sign casting a sickly red glow over the long, polished table littered with forgotten water glasses and abandoned notepads.
“That was…” he started, but words failed. He shook his head, a disbelieving laugh escaping him. “Teddy Kennedy. Howard fucking Dean.”
“I know,” she said, and a slow, triumphant smile spread across her face. It wasn’t arrogant. It was shared. It was for him.
“You were…” He reached out, his hand finding her waist, fingers pressing into the soft wool of her skirt. “You were unbelievable.”
“I was right,” she corrected, her smile turning sharper.
“That too.”
He kissed her then. It wasn’t gentle. It was a collision—all the pent-up, surreal tension of the last hour converting into physical need. Her mouth opened under his, hungry and immediate. She tasted like coffee and winter air. Her hands came up, twisting in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him flush against her.
The door handle dug into his hip. He didn’t care.
He walked her backwards, away from the door, his mouth never leaving hers. Their shoes scuffed loudly on the industrial carpet. A chair squealed as it was knocked out of the way. They reached the long conference table, and he lifted her, setting her on the edge. Water glasses shuddered. A plastic nameplate skittered off and clattered on the floor.
She broke the kiss, breathing hard, her eyes dark pools in the red light.
“All those people out there,” she whispered, her fingers working at the knot of his tie. “All those questions, all that fucking… performance.” She yanked the tie loose and started on his buttons. “And all I could think about was this.”
“About what?” he managed, his own hands pushing her blazer off her shoulders. It fell in a heap behind her.
“About getting you alone,” she said, her voice dropping to a filthy whisper. “About what I was going to do to you when I finally got you alone.”
His cock throbbed, already hard, straining against his zipper. Her words, her certainty, obliterated every other thought. He got her blouse open, fumbling with the small buttons, then pushed the lace of her bra down. Her tits spilled into his hands, cool and full, her nipples tight peaks. He bent his head and took one into his mouth, sucking hard, and she gasped, her head falling back.
Her hands were at his belt now, the buckle jangling, the zipper a harsh rasp in the quiet room. She shoved his pants and boxers down his hips just enough to free him. Her hand wrapped around his length, and he jerked against her palm, a choked sound catching in his throat.
“Look at you,” she murmured, pumping him slowly, her thumb smearing the wetness at his tip. “So fucking hard for me. After all that. Still so ready.”
“Jesus, Rina.”
“I want you inside me,” she said, her voice pure heat. “Right now. I don’t want to wait. I don’t want to go slow. I want you to fuck me on this stupid table.”
She hitched her skirt up around her waist, revealing the simple black cotton of her underwear. He hooked his fingers in the waistband and pulled them down her legs, tossing them aside. She was already wet, her folds glistening in the dim red light. The scent of her, musky and deep, cut through the stale coffee smell of the room.
He positioned himself between her spread thighs, the head of his cock nudging against her entrance. She wrapped her legs around his hips, her heels digging into his ass, pulling him closer.
“Now, Jon,” she commanded, her eyes locked on his.
He pushed into her.
She was tight and impossibly hot, and she took him in one smooth, deep stroke until he was fully sheathed, their bodies joined with a slick, perfect sound. They both went utterly still for a heartbeat, overwhelmed by the sheer, shocking intimacy of it.
Then she moved.
She rocked her hips, taking him even deeper, and a ragged moan tore from her throat. That sound unlocked everything. He pulled back and slammed into her, the table screeching as it scraped across the floor. He fucked her with a raw, driving rhythm, each thrust jarring through both of them. There was no tenderness here, not now. This was possession. This was release. This was the only logical conclusion to an day spent in the realm of words and power—this raw, grunting physical truth.
“Fuck,” she chanted, her nails scraping down his back through his shirt. “Fuck, yes, just like that. God, your cock feels so good. So fucking deep.”
Her words poured gasoline on the fire in his gut. He leaned over her, bracing one hand on the table by her head, the other gripping her thigh, holding her open for him as he pounded into her. The smack of their skin meeting filled the empty room, a lewd, rhythmic counterpoint to their gasps.
“You’re so wet,” he grunted, the words coming out coarse and unfamiliar. “So fucking wet for me. All that time you were talking to them… were you thinking about this? About my dick?”
“Yes,” she hissed, her back arching. “The whole time. Every word. I was thinking about you filling me up. I was thinking about you making me come.”
He shifted his angle, driving upward, and she cried out, a sharp, broken sound. He did it again, and again, finding the spot that made her eyes roll back. Her inner muscles clenched around him, a fluttering, desperate rhythm.
“I’m close,” she gasped. “Oh, God, Jon, don’t stop. Right there. Please.”
Her plea shattered the last of his control. He fucked her harder, faster, losing himself in the heat and the friction and the unbelievable reality of her. Caterina Lincoln, coming apart underneath him, on a hotel conference table.
“Come for me,” he growled into her ear. “Let me feel it. Come on my cock.”
That was all it took. Her body bowed off the table, a silent scream on her lips as the orgasm ripped through her. She clenched around him so tightly it was almost painful, wave after wave of shuddering contraction. Watching her fall apart, feeling her milk him, was too much. His own climax tore through him with blinding force. He buried himself to the hilt as he came, pulsing into her, a hoarse, guttural cry ripped from his throat that echoed off the empty walls.
For long minutes, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. He was still inside her, both of them slick with sweat, trembling with the aftershocks.
Slowly, he lowered his forehead to her shoulder. She brought a hand up, her fingers carding through his damp hair.
“Well,” she said softly, her voice raspy.
He laughed, a breathless, exhausted sound. “Yeah.”
He pulled out gently, and she winced, a slick sound between them. He helped her sit up. They fumbled with their clothes in the semi-darkness, a quiet, intimate clumsiness. He handed her her underwear. She stepped into them, then smoothed her skirt down.
He tucked himself in, zipped up, but left his tie dangling and his shirt hanging open. There was no fixing this. They looked exactly like what they were: two people who’d just had frantic, incredible sex in a deserted room.
She walked to the large window that overlooked the parking lot. He came to stand beside her, their shoulders touching.
“That was…” he started again.
“A lot,” she finished for him.
He nodded. “A good lot.”
She smiled, leaning her head against his shoulder. “A very good lot.”
They stood in silence for a while, watching the occasional car sweep through the lot below.
She turned to face him then. Her hair was mussed, her lipstick was gone, and she had never looked more beautiful. “Come on. I'm starving.”
He was still a little dazed, if he was being honest—not in a useless way, but in that sharp, hyper-aware way where everything felt slightly heightened. The past hour kept replaying in pieces: her on her feet in that ballroom, the way the room had shifted, the way Kennedy had said her name like it belonged there.
The way she’d just… moved through all of it.
Like it was normal.
They stepped back into the main hotel corridor, then down another level toward the restaurant—quiet, tucked just off the lobby, the kind of place designed for convenience more than atmosphere.
There weren’t really other options.
Boston proper had plenty, but here—across the river, near the Hyatt—this was it.
Rina didn’t seem to mind.
She slid into a booth without hesitation, dropping her bag beside her, stretching her legs out slightly under the table with a soft exhale.
“God,” she said. “That was fucking amazing.”
Jon slid in across from her, still watching her like he was trying to recalibrate his understanding of reality.
“Yeah,” he said. “That’s one way to put it.”
A waitress appeared, coffee already in hand, like she’d done this a hundred times for a hundred slightly wrecked conference attendees.
“Coffee?” she asked.
“Yes,” they both said at the same time.
They glanced at each other, smiling.
“Good call,” Jon added.
Rina nodded, already reaching for the mug as it hit the table, wrapping both hands around it like she needed the grounding.
There was a beat.
Jon leaned back slightly, studying her. Not subtly. Not trying to hide it.
She noticed. Of course she noticed.
“What?” she asked, one eyebrow lifting slightly.
He shook his head once, a small, incredulous smile pulling at his mouth.
“I’m just—” he started, then stopped, like he needed to find the right entry point. “I don’t even know where to start.”
She smiled faintly at that, not defensive, not performative.
“Start anywhere,” she said.
He let out a breath.
“Okay,” he said. “You’re at Harvard.”
“Yes.”
“You just… had that exchange with Ted Kennedy like he’s your uncle.”
“He is,” she said. "Well, like, one of those fake uncles that's always been in your life but isn't actually blood related."
Jon blinked.
“Okay,” he said. “Right.”
Another beat.
“And you’re… what, a freshman?”
She shook her head slightly, taking a sip of her coffee.
“Technically a sophomore,” she said.
Jon leaned forward, elbows on the table.
“How,” he asked, genuinely, “are you a sophomore at eighteen?”
She set the mug down, shrugging lightly.
“I started when I was seventeen,” she said. “And I came in with a lot of credits.”
“A lot of credits,” he repeated.
“Mm.”
He stared at her for a second, then laughed quietly under his breath.
“Of course you did.”
She smiled at that, small and unbothered.
“Okay,” he said, regrouping slightly. “So—yes, your family has… connections.”
“A few,” she said dryly.
“A few,” he echoed.
He tilted his head, studying her more closely now—not just impressed, but curious in a way that had shifted from surface to something deeper.
“How much of this is—” he gestured vaguely, then refined it, “—you, and how much of this is where you come from?”
She didn’t answer right away. Not because she didn’t have one—because she was choosing how to frame it. Then she leaned back slightly, her expression settling into something more thoughtful.
“It’s both,” she said.
Jon nodded, waiting.
“My family is… very intense,” she continued, a hint of amusement threading through it. “In a productive way.”
“I gathered,” he said.
She smiled.
“My grandpa—Papa Abe—” she said, and Jon felt that name land differently now, more personal, more grounded than the version in his head, “—used to question me like I was in court.”
Jon blinked.
“When?”
“Always,” she said. “At dinner. On walks. In the car. He’d just—pick something and start asking questions until I either proved my point or realized I didn’t have one.”
Jon let out a quiet laugh.
“That’s… terrifying.”
“It’s very effective,” she said.
“I believe that.”
She took another sip of her coffee, then continued.
“My grandma is a surgeon,” she said. “Like—top of her field. My mom’s a scientist. My dad’s…” she paused, then shrugged, “—very good at what he does.”
Jon shook his head slightly, absorbing it.
“So dinner conversations in your house were just… what, intellectual combat?”
“Mm,” she said. “Polite intellectual combat.”
He laughed at that.
“And you’re the youngest?” he asked.
“Of five,” she said.
That clicked something into place for him.
“Okay,” he said slowly. “That explains a lot.”
She tilted her head. “How so?”
“You had to keep up,” he said.
“Yes,” she said simply.
No hesitation. No false modesty. Just—truth.
“If I couldn’t keep up, I got talked over,” she added. “Or corrected.”
Jon smiled slightly.
“So you learned fast.”
“I did,” she said.
A beat.
Then, more quietly, but no less certain:
“And I liked it.”
He watched her for a second, something shifting again—not just admiration now, but something deeper, more rooted.
“Yeah,” he said. “I can see that.”
She met his gaze, steady.
“It’s not just… genetics,” she added, though there was a hint of a smile there. “But that doesn’t hurt.”
Jon laughed.
“No, I imagine it doesn’t.”
“I've always been naturally curious,” she said. “Which helps.”
“That definitely helps,” he agreed.
There was a pause then—not empty, just… settling.
The waitress came back, took their order—something simple, neither of them really thinking about it—and then disappeared again.
Jon leaned back slightly, still looking at her like he was trying to map something out.
“You know,” he said slowly, “I’ve been around a lot of people who think they’re the smartest person in the room.”
Rina’s eyebrow lifted.
“Mm.”
“You actually are,” he said.
She held his gaze. Then her mouth curved, just slightly.
“Usually,” she said.
He laughed, shaking his head.
“That’s—”
“I’m not going to pretend otherwise,” she said, cutting in lightly. “It’s inefficient.”
“That’s fair,” he admitted.
Then, quieter:
“You’re also… very normal.”
She blinked.
“Am I?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Like—you just had a conversation with Ted Kennedy backstage and then fucked me in an empty hotel conference room.”
She smiled at that, softer now.
“I wanted to fuck you,” she said.
“I know,” he said. “That’s my point.”
She studied him for a second, something in her expression shifting—less guarded, more open.
“You’re not intimidated,” she said.
It wasn’t a question. He considered that.
“I was,” he admitted. “For about thirty seconds.”
“And then?”
He shrugged slightly.
“And then you were still just… you,” he said.
She held his gaze. Something settled.
“Good,” she said quietly.
Jon smiled.
And for a second, neither of them spoke—just sat there, the noise of the restaurant around them fading slightly as the conversation settled into something deeper, steadier.
He’d meant it. She was the most fascinating person he’d ever met.
And somehow—
She was sitting across from him, drinking coffee, like this was just… the beginning.
The silence stretched, comfortable but charged, the kind that held more questions than answers.
Rina finally tilted her head, her eyes scanning his face like she was reading fine print. “Your turn,” she said, her voice quiet but intent.
“My turn for what?”
“The unveiling,” she said, a faint smile touching her lips. “I just gave you the crib notes on my whole deal. Who are you, Jon Favreau?”
He leaned back, the vinyl booth creaking. A grin spread slowly. “You want my resume? Because I can do that. It’s very impressive.”
“I bet it is,” she said, not laughing, just watching. “But no. Not the resume. The stuff underneath it.”
He took a slow sip of coffee, buying a second. The easy confidence he wore in a room full of strangers felt different here, under this specific, pinpoint focus. He could give her the polished answer—the one he’d give HR or a professor. It sat ready on his tongue.
He didn’t use it.
“I’m a Mass-hole,” he said, shrugging. “Through and through. North Reading born, Holy Cross trying to civilize me. It’s not working.”
That got a real smile from her. “Noted. And a Catholic school boy.”
“Lapsed. But culturally? Yeah, totally.” He swirled the dark liquid in his mug. “It’s in the DNA. The guilt. The community service. The… vague existential dread covered by excessive optimism.”
She nodded, understanding in a way that felt deeper than acknowledgment. “And the politics? That’s the optimism part.”
“It’s the ‘do something’ part,” he corrected, his tone shifting, becoming less performative. “The guilt without action is just self-indulgence.”
He saw her register the distinction. Her eyes stayed on his.
“So you do something,” she stated.
He shrugged again, as if it were simple. “I try. I ran this welfare solidarity project last year—connecting students with caseworkers, basically demystifying the system for guys on my hall who thought it was just free money for lazy people.” He made a face. “It’s mostly just a labyrinth of paperwork designed to make you give up.”
“And did they get it?” she asked.
“Some did. One guy, Brett, he actually volunteers at the food pantry now.” Jon’s smile was genuine, unforced. “Mostly I just wanted them to see the people in line as people. Not a policy problem.”
Rina was silent for a moment, her finger tracing the rim of her cup. “What else?”
“Habitat builds. This hospital visitation thing in Amherst. It’s bleak, but it matters.” He listed them without vanity, like reciting a grocery list. “I help run a resume clinic in Worcester. The College Democrats. The newspaper.”
“The newspaper?” She perked up. “You write?”
“Edit. Mostly. Op-eds that five people read.” He grinned. “And I interned for Kerry a couple summers. Filed a lot of papers. Listened to a lot of constituent calls about potholes.”
“A pothole is a policy failure,” she said, deadpan.
He pointed at her, a spark in his eyes. “See? You get it.”
Their food arrived—a burger for him, a salad she pushed around the plate. They ate for a minute, the clatter of plates and the low hum of the restaurant filling the space.
“And when you’re not saving the world or filing papers?” she asked, stabbing a piece of lettuce. “What’s the thing that’s just for you? The thing that doesn’t go on the resume.”
He paused, his fork halfway to his mouth. This was the part he usually omitted. It felt too personal, too disconnected from the persona of the guy who could run a meeting.
He set the fork down.
“I play piano,” he said, the words softer.
Her head came up. “Seriously?”
“Classical. Since I was seven. My Nonna made me. Said every boy should have one thing he does that’s just for beauty.” He smiled, a private memory flickering. “She was right.”
Rina put her own fork down, her full attention locked on him. The political sharpness in her eyes melted into something warmer, more intrigued. “That’s my favorite thing you’ve said since we met.”
“More than my pithy analysis of welfare bureaucracy?”
“Infinitely more.” She leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. “What do you play?”
“Chopin, mostly. Some Debussy or Rachmaninoff when I’m feeling ambitious.” He felt strangely exposed, like he’d shown her a childhood photograph. “It’s the only time my brain actually shuts up. The notes are just there, and you have to be there with them, or it falls apart.”
She didn’t say anything for a long moment, just studied him. He could see her fitting this new piece into the puzzle—the charismatic political animal who found his peace in intricate, quiet melodies.
“Oh,” she said softly. “I love Rachmaninoff.”
Jon smiled.
“Yeah?”
She nodded, her gaze dropping for a second, almost reflexively, like she was remembering something physical.
“That’s what I skated my long program to,” she said.
He blinked.
“Of course you did.”
She laughed, a little sheepish now for the first time in a while.
“It works,” she said. “It’s—big. Emotional. You can build a whole arc inside it.”
He watched her as she spoke, something in his expression softening—not just impressed now, but… understanding something about her that hadn’t been fully clear before.