𝒫resident Kennedy's son is your lover. Junior is charming: curly black hair, brown eyes beneath thick eyebrows, striking features, and a broad smile. He's elegant, yet relaxed. Classic American, youthful, and sophisticated. You love his confidence, the way he smiles at you from his office or winks knowingly when no one is looking, and even though you know no one is watching, you feel that tingle down your spine that tells you, "Maybe someone is."

You are his lover and also his secretary. Behind his wife Carolyn Bessette's back, he takes you to dinners and hotels for incredible nights in the best hotels in New York, the city he loves.

You lie spooning, a sheet loosely covering his naked body on the unmade bed. One elbow rests on the pillow, his hand supports his head as he gazes at you, your back pressed against his hairy chest. He studies the curve of your nose, your eyelashes, your cheekbones, and your lips. His index and middle fingers glide gently over the bare skin of your arm, feeling its softness and warmth beneath his touch.

He moves closer to your ear, kissing your earlobe. He knows how much it bothers you because it tickles. When you shiver beneath his lips, he smiles dazedly and sits up, lifting his torso from the bed as he watches you wake. He finds it adorable how you stretch when you wake up.

— "Look at ya. Writhin’ like a flau-er (flower) bloomin’." — he murmurs, more to himself as a little joke.