His room is a little bigger than mine and his bed smells like him. I sigh and delight in the scent when I hear the knob turn—and the door shut.
My happy smile over being in his bed fades as my lashes open, and my eyes start to climb up powerful, long legs, narrow hips, and a crisp white shirt, unbuttoned at the top.
He. Is already. HARD.
He’s looking at me with incredible amusement, his eyes dancing, his hair spiked up as if he’s been very restless. Restless on his way home.
“Always full of surprises, aren’t you, Charlotte,” he says quietly. Taking in my baby doll.
I can’t breathe anymore.
I’m enveloped by the power and confidence he oozes, by the penetrating quality of his stare, by the male smile he wears.
Twisting my lips as I sit propped up on my arms, I shyly hold his gaze. “Do you like my welcome home gift?” I motion to the bow tying my baby doll together.
We’re both high from missing each other, I think—our adrenaline twisting and tangling invisibly in the room.
He crosses the room, reaching out to take my arm and help me to my feet. One tug and he’s flattened me against the flat wall of his chest. Another tug on my loose hair yanks my head back. The gasp that leaves me only serves to part my lips—and he’s there. His lips are there, brushing mine, ever so exquisitely. His breath trickling warmly into my mouth.
“I like the gift,” he says, fingering the bow at the top of my nightie, “though I haven’t opened it entirely yet.”
He tugs the bow, releasing it. Desire for him thrums in my veins.
“The fact that I’m nearly naked doesn’t mean that I’m ready to sleep with you.”
He parts the baby doll open. “The fact that I asked you to my room doesn’t mean I’ve been thinking about you.”
But I want him to think of me. Because I can’t stop thinking about him. I slide my hands down the front of his shirt. “No?” I rock my hips against him.
He tugs the fabric of my nightie off one shoulder. “No.” He leans down, lips whisking across the curve of said shoulder.
It’s amazing what he does to me.
He touches me and all my senses attune to the spot he’s touching.
His scent intoxicates me and his lips are the wickedest thing I’ve ever encountered. My eyes drift shut, and I angle my head back, gripping his hair. It’s slicked back when he’s in public, but I love how it gets spiky when he’s been raking his fingers through it.
I pull on it and bring his head up and he chuckles softly, grabs my face in one hand, and presses his mouth firmly—firmly, decidedly—on mine.
I’m in a free fall, and his eyes are shining with lust and yearning before he takes my mouth in a harder kiss. Our tongues tangle, his tongue strong, wet, thirsty. I can’t stop myself from opening his jacket, feeling his muscles under his shirt. Perfectly delineated.
Every time we kiss feels like the first time, but this time feels like it’s the only time.
As I unbutton his shirt and see the flag pin on his jacket, I am reminded of what a huge difference he’s making, how small I am compared to the millions of people whose lives he’s affecting.
“Matt, I may not have foreseen that people could hear . . .”
“I don’t see anyone here but you and me,” he rasps, and boy is he really looking at me.
I’ve got so much desire I’m trembling.
He growls as if he’s thinking the same thing, lifts me, and his hands are grabbing my ass. My hands instantly curl around his shoulders.
“God, you little sexpot, you hot little thing . . . I can’t get enough of you.” He bites and tugs my lip, then fits his mouth perfectly to mine again. He smells delicious. Of cologne and him, and my stomach tumbles with butterflies as he tugs and rips off my thong.
“Matt,” I say, startled.
“What?” He grins, pressing me against the wall, bracing me there so he can ease his hand between us to caress my bare sex between our bodies.
I groan, pushing my hips against him. He grabs my breast and squeezes my nipple. He sucks it, making me shiver.
“Oh god.”
“I can’t do the first lady against the wall, where are my manners?”
“Oh god, just do me.” I grab his hair and pull his face to mine, kissing his jaw as he carries me to bed and lays me down on the center, leaning over me.
I shiver beneath his warm hand trailing along my tummy.
His eyes coast over me, taking me in. His lips graze across mine again, warm and silky. I part my lips and he dips his tongue inside. He groans and allows our tongues to play for a while as his hands wander up and down my curves, slowly, in no hurry, as if he can command time to stop for us and we now have all the time in the world.
He eases back to remove his shirt and looks at me.
“God, you belong in my bed. Look at you.”
I swallow, part laughing and part groaning.
I’m desperate for Matt, but I’m nervous to have sex with him again. I’m nervous because it means so much, it feels so gargantuan. He knows how I feel about him and I’ve been waiting for this moment for so many lonely nights, missing him. It’s the first time we’re together after he’s said he loves me.
“I’m nervous,” I breathe.
Standing back calmly, he slowly shrugs off his shirt, revealing those glorious muscles of his. “Why are you nervous?”
“It’s just that . . . you’re the president. I feel . . .”
“Don’t be nervous. I’m still the same.” Shirtless in his slacks, he reaches out to spread my arms up over my head and trace his hands down my sides.
I rock my hips, moaning.
He inhales a long breath, his eyes catching mine. “So beautiful.” He grabs the back of my neck and pulls me forward, seeming to lose control, crushing my lips beneath his so hard and with such passion my head is spinning.
I grab him for support and arch up against him, my breasts aching as I rub my fingers along the back of his strong neck.
Matt unbuckles his belt and unzips, then he strips off his pants, and I gasp, his hardness springing free.
As he spreads his large body over me, I groan and reach for him, out of control, and Matt leans his head to my breasts and the hardened tips of my nipples, sticking his tongue out to lave one, then the other, slowly circling his tongue around the peaks. He suctions, slipping his hand between my legs, into my opening. His fingers move inside me, first one, then two, and I arch and jerk from the pleasure.
“What do you want, beautiful?”
“I want you,” I pant.
He leans down and sucks on my shoulder, pulling me closer. “I’ve been dying to get inside you. I can’t forget what it feels like to move inside you, have you lose yourself beneath me.”
He parts my legs wider open.
“Matt,” I say, my tone sober. And his eyes widen in question.
“I stopped using the pill, since we . . . well, I went to Europe and . . .”
He reaches out to his nightstand, and then rips open a packet with his teeth. “Don’t worry. My staff is very adept at making sure their president has all he needs.”
He smirks as he rolls on a rubber and I get wetter just watching him. He strokes me between my legs, then sticks his wet finger into his mouth as he grabs his cock with his free hand and teases it along my entry.
We groan together, kissing without restraint as he curls my legs around him, his voice gruffer by the second.
He penetrates me, his erection thicker than ever, pushing me apart. I moan softly and rake my nails along his back as I thrust my hips up for more.
“Take me in, that’s right, Charlotte. That’s right, take me, beautiful.” He starts thrusting in and out with vigor, his muscles rippling beneath my hands, his breaths coming fast and hard as he sets a rhythm.
I cry out, so loud I’m afraid security outside might hear us, but I don’t care, and neither does Matt. He releases a gut-deep groan and pulls my hands over my
head, fucking me harder and deeper, out of control and as if he wants to bury himself permanently inside of me, as if he wants to meld us into one.
I want him like a physical ache. I can’t stop running my hands over his arms, his shoulders, his chest.
He growls, “Come here,” and kisses me. Hard and with purpose. He starts slamming me full force—and I relish the taste of him again, the smell of him.
He sucks my breast again, and I take him, meeting every thrust with a rock of my hips in silent plea for more.
He slows the pace and pulls out, then rubs my clit under his thumb. I growl and he pushes his middle finger inside me, watching me. “So snug, and so wet and greedy.” He removes his finger, ready to fill me again.
I curl my legs tighter around him and lift my head, and press my mouth to his as he thrusts inside. And then he’s everywhere. Thrusting deep, tapping my heart as he withdraws and does it again.
I moan, he groans.
He’s the man I love and he’s fucking me like he means it, with strong, deliberate strokes that stretch me almost until I can’t bear it. I can feel in the way he moves, the way he touches me, bites me, licks me, that I wasn’t the only one dying for this.
He gives me a soul-wrecking kiss that makes me soar and I suck his tongue and use my thighs to bring him closer, our breaths exploding out at the same time as we arch to get closer and closer.
He thrusts harder, deeper, our eyes holding, our mouths crushing, our hands touching, our tongues tasting, our breaths barely enough to keep up.
I hear the slick sounds of him entering me, I’m so wet, and he’s so thick and hard and moving so fast, our bodies straining to get even closer.
“So good. So damn good I already want to do this again.”
“Yes,” I rasp.
Vision blurry with need. My mouth roaming his chest and neck and his hard jaw, the stubble there scraping my lips as I kiss him.
I’m shaking, needing, vulnerable, and he is oh so sexy.
I feel overwhelmed when he’s inside me, like I’m going to burst from what I’m feeling, connected with him, one with him—this man who’s never really given himself to anyone and is hesitant to let someone in. Who makes me want to claim him.
He pushes into me again, and the rumbling sounds leaving his throat tell me he’s just as ready to go off as I am. We fuck slower now, but just as passionately.
My body is snug around him and squeezing him, gripping him to keep him inside me. “Let me see you,” he says. “Come the fuck apart for me.” He looks down at me and kisses me, commanding my lips as he rubs my tongue with his and rubbing my clit with his thumb as he thrusts up deep against my G-spot. “Come.”
I start tightening around him, and the moment I begin to thrash, he tightens his muscles and arches back, and he growls in pleasure as he comes with me.
I’m too weak to move for a few minutes. Matt goes to clean off, then comes back and pulls me into his arms.
He nuzzles my neck, and I press as close as I can.
Oh god, I can’t get close enough.
I inhale his scent and clench my arms around his neck, hearing him chuckle softly against the top of my hair, his breath tickling me.
We lie there for minutes, naked . . .
sated . . .
and tangled with each other and the sheets.
The dusting of hair on Matthew’s chest is too tempting for my fingers. “I should probably leave,” I whisper against the thick column of his throat as I caress his chest and force myself to stop. “It’s one thing for the staff to speculate about us indulging in a quickie, and quite another for us to start pulling all-nighters together.”
I reach for my clothes as Matt rolls to his back and links his hands behind his head, a frown on his face.
“Let them. Let the rumors start. We won’t confirm anything until we want to.”
I hesitate for a moment. Just a moment. Then I shake my head. “It’s too soon. I know everyone is hanging on by threads, wanting to see what bills are to be passed in the next few months—those should be the headline news.”
His eyes trail over my bare back as I start dressing, silent, still frowning. “I’ll give them enough to talk about. I’ve got more than one bill in the works; I just need to be sure the parties will cooperate. But Charlotte,” he adds as I head across the room, raising one eyebrow. “We’ll be paying each other a visit every night.”
I bite down on my smile, a fuzzy feeling in my stomach. “Yes, President Hamilton.” I smirk and quietly open the door, exiting his bedroom and crossing the hall toward mine.
13
FIRST LADY
Charlotte
I’m so wicked. Bagging the president by night and being a devoted first lady by day.
I step out of the Virginia elementary school to a gust of wind and a bevy of reporters, some of whom were actually allowed into the classroom by the school as I read books to the kids, and told them how reading has improved my life dramatically, giving me knowledge of the things I liked and those I wanted to change in the world, too.
A little girl with cute curly pigtails mentioned that she wanted to grow up to be me, and I laughed, but told her I had a better idea—that she would make a far better her than she would anyone else.
I can’t stop thinking about that as I ride in the back of the state car to the White House.
I ride with Stacey beside me. I love how efficient she is, always whispering into her mic, opening and closing the doors, carving a path for me.
“My life used to be a little bit more normal,” I tell her, peering out the window at the White House as the gates open for us. “Have you worked at the White House for long?”
“Four years. I was on the previous first lady’s detail.”
“What can one expect from the life of a first lady?”
“The reality is a little messier than the cameras show. But . . .” She pauses.
“Tell me,” I prod.
She seems to hesitate, as if wondering whether she’s overstepping, but I suspect my eager eyes and smile encourage her to speak freely. “Mrs. Jacobs wasn’t as warm with the people as you are.”
I take a moment for this.
“You’re one of the people. They like that. You and President Hamilton. You both are.” She nods respectfully, then adds, “So many of us, especially women, dream of fitting in your glass slipper. Having the attention of the young, attractive president.”
“Matthew doesn’t—” I cut myself off, then say, “So the rumors have started already.”
“Everyone’s hoping, ever since he named you acting first lady.” She laughs, then says, “We respect him. And you. The White House is not only a place of business; we’ve taken care of whole families for a long time.”
Families. The thought sort of pricks me in the heart and makes me wonder what a family with my country’s president, the man I love, would be like. “Thank you for telling me this.”
She smiles. She’s been my shadow, along with other members of the Secret Service, and I’m always humbled and almost uncomfortable by the dedication they show. I’ve learned they speak in codes, and especially use codes for Matt and me. Stacey’s also unmarried at forty-four, eats a high-protein diet, and has eyes for Johnson, another member of my Secret Service team.
The rest of the week I spend making plans with Clarissa. I adore visiting places and having a chance to speak and interact with everyone, but I also notice people look at my detail and me with a bit of reverence. Whenever I mention the president, their eyes go wide and it feels like I just mentioned God.
I want them to know that the president is not only their driven and intelligent leader, but a human being as well—as am I.
If there’s one thing I know, it’s that the job of the first lady is determined by the first lady herself. I’ve been thinking of my predecessors, what they’re remembered for, and wondering what I will stand for as a first lady.
Jackie Kennedy turned the White House into a showc
ase of the evolution of America’s style and taste. She was a fashion icon, poised and elegant, who was the first to bring a curator into the White House.
Eleanor Roosevelt was a rogue in her time. She spoke about civil rights and women’s rights, and to this day she’s probably the most powerful first lady to have ever served. At the time, there weren’t any female reporters—they were barred from White House press conferences. But Eleanor held her own press conferences, aimed toward female reporters, in turn forcing the media to hire them.
Other first ladies have sat in cabinet meetings. Many of them have been hostesses, planning the state dinners—but most have done so much more. Pushing for schools without drugs. Improvements in healthcare and nutrition.
So I sit down with Clarissa and tell her I want to define the role the way I feel capable of doing—that I want to represent the president with the same vitality he exudes, keep myself busy and active, having a White House presence in as many states as possible, and not only scheduling talks and visits to schools, hospitals, and workplaces, but inviting citizens over to the White House as well.
I’ve found the time I’ve been here so exciting—so inspiring. I wish more people had the opportunity to be so close to all this history and the pulsing heart of America.
“I discussed with the president the fact that I want to make this house open to the public. I want to stay in contact with the people. I also plan to ask him permission to personally address some of the letters that arrive at the White House.”
Clarissa is nodding rapidly, taking notes. “Also,” she says, “they want to know more about you. Your job is unofficial; the press wonders how much influence you have, if you’ve got the president’s ear. They want to know more about their first lady. Lola is setting up some interviews here in the East Wing.”
Nerves hit me—but this is an opportunity to shed light on things I care about, not to focus on me. So I agree.