Commander in Chief
Page 12
The state dinner is a lavish affair. French influentials gravitate toward Matt. That effortless grace; he’s in a room and it feels as if there’s no one else, and never was, and never will be.
There is just a natural charm about him—and the women, especially, don’t seem to miss it. I have my own admirers and try not to get jealous, especially because Matthew keeps glancing in my direction, and I can’t stop myself from stealing covert glances at him as well.
After all the guests depart, we remain chatting over after-dinner drinks with the French president and first lady.
“You two.” He motions toward Matt and me, then presses his fingers to his eyes. “The eyes don’t lie, eh? You are guests here; my wife and I hope you’re comfortable in one room rather than the two—in fact, I believe all the other rooms in the Élysée Palace were taken, weren’t they, chéri.”
Matt’s laugh is low and very masculine.
And very, very sexy.
“What happens in Paris stays in Paris,” the French president adds with a wink.
“I wouldn’t mind the opportunity to spend some private time with my first lady,” Matt admits. He shifts forward and eyes me challengingly.
“Opportunities like these are rare, eh?” The French president chuckles and lifts his glass. “To President Hamilton, and his enchanting first lady.”
Matt raises his glass and looks at me, and I clench my thighs together and take a sip. Only after that do I arch an eyebrow.
The French president’s wife smiles at me and sips from her wineglass.
Finally, after the longest day ever, we head to our room.
We close the door, and the surroundings are so alien, I feel a little homesick—but home stands before me, over six feet tall and virile, and I’m sunk into those knowing dark eyes and that half smile of his as he watches me take off my shoes.
I don’t even know what to do with my hands as Matt plucks his cufflinks open and sets them aside, his eyes never leaving mine.
Something about this aloneness—about having him all to myself, in this city—feels like another stolen moment. Like I’m taking something that doesn’t belong to me but I very much want to.
“Come here.”
I shiver at his gruff whisper. I know that he senses my homesickness, my longing. My homesickness for him. Home. And when he opens his arms, I go. I press myself to his side and bury my face in his neck and let him engulf me. God, I’ve wanted this so much.
“Come here,” he says again, as if he needs me closer still.
He drags me onto the bed and slips his arm under the opening at the back of my dress, gathering me to him, his hands spread on my bare back, my whole body pressed against Matt’s hard one in the most protective embrace I’ve ever felt in my life—it’s a wall of muscle and flesh and warmth and I bury myself even more into it, as close as physically possible.
Matt tightens his hold too.
I’m shivering and overwhelmed. His smell all around me. His hands on my back. The weight of his eyes on me. Matt’s hand brushing my hair back as he tries to peer into my face even though I’m trying to hide it because this urge to cry has to be jet lag. I can’t just break down for no reason. But I bury my face into his neck and fist the fabric of his open shirt, trying to get a grip on myself, letting the soothing motions of his hands massaging down the length of my back comfort me.
“I still love you.”
“I know.” His voice is low and thick and textured with emotion.
“I still want you like nothing in my life.”
“I know. Come here.” He drags me over him, holding me by the back of the head as he slips his tongue inside my mouth and kisses and kisses
and kisses
and kisses me.
He frames my face in his hands and his gaze bores into mine. “I love you. Very much, Charlotte. So much I couldn’t let you go. So much I won’t let you go. I’ve been in hell without you. You’re in my every waking thought and in my fucking dreams. I’ll fight to deserve you, to keep you by my side. I’m never making that mistake again, of thinking that I can’t keep you. I will. I will always keep you. Do you understand me?” He presses a kiss to my ear and murmurs fiercely, pulling me back and looking deeply into my eyes as he frames my face in his hands, “Do you hear me, baby?”
I peer up at him. “I didn’t hear the first part.”
A slow-growing smile suddenly deepens into laughter, then he falls sober. He shifts me to my back, his muscles rippling as he goes up on his arms. Looks at me directly, intently, his voice utterly low as he strokes his thumb down my jaw, eyes on mine. “I love you, beautiful.”
“How much? Like this?” I move my index finger and thumb as far apart as I can.
Matthew shakes his head.
“No?” I ask, disappointed.
“Immeasurably, baby. I love you immeasurably.”
He holds my face in his hands and gently kisses me, kisses me with immeasurable tenderness, immeasurable heat. Immeasurable love.
10
BACK
Charlotte
On our way back to D.C., we kiss at leisure in the bedroom of Air Force One. I’m on his lap, burning for him.
“I’m thirsty for you, too thirsty to get enough,” he growls.
We lose it. He sweeps down and grabs me against him, and I grab him by the shirt and kiss him back, raw and hot this time, out of control, his lips dominating and hungry, mine moving just as fast, an inferno of heat and longing blazing between us.
Matt coaxes my tongue into his mouth, groaning, massaging my butt with his hands.
“You’re mine. Say you’re mine.”
“I’m yours.”
“I’m sick of hiding. I understand we need to take it step by step with the public, but Charlotte, I want you in my bed—I want inside you. Two steps into my room, we’ll be tearing off our clothes and nothing is going to come between us—nothing.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of. I need to be sure I can truly be the first lady that the country needs.”
“You are not just your job—you are a woman, and you’re the woman I need.”
He covers my breast with one hand and thrusts his tongue into my mouth, faster, harder, and I’m dying from the way he seems to need me. I grab fistfuls of his hair, lost, moaning and groaning, our hands running over each other, our mouths crazy.
“Soon,” I breathe. He groans. “I’m sick of cold showers.”
“I’m sorry. I’m physically in pain.”
“Focus on what you’re sitting on and you’ll realize you’re not alone.”
I smile, quivering in desire. “Soon.”
11
ADJUSTING
Charlotte
Matthew has flown out for a meeting with the prime minister of Canada, and I spend the next few days adjusting to life in the White House.
I look at the menus on Sunday, and I tell the chef that I really don’t think we need to have fancy menus or fancy desserts on a daily basis, that plain apple pie will do.
He created this version of an apple pie that’s several layers, has a bit of cheesecake mingled in with the cinnamon apples, and I’ve never tasted anything so divine in my life.
“I’ve never gone to a restaurant with food as good as the food you cook, Chef.”
“It’s our job to keep you well fed and happy—and it’s our job to make you and our country look good with all our visiting foreign dignitaries.”
We’re hosting a state dinner for President Asaf in two months and before he left, Matt said, “Spare no expense.”
One of the things I learned upon arrival at the White House was that the first family pays for their personal expenses, including their staff and food. “Matt—I know your family has money, but you’ll leave with no money if you—”
He started laughing, then assured me, “Spare no expense. This is the United States of America, and the White House. It’s an investment.”
“If we stick to a reasonable budget for the state dinner, the State Department will foot the bill,” Clarissa assured me when I expressed my concern to her, later.
I occasionally wander around the house with the curator, asking him to teach me about the artwork and the relics. There is so much history here. So much heart and depth. I love it, but I haven’t seen Matthew for days.
There is just a natural charm about him—and the women, especially, don’t seem to miss it. I have my own admirers and try not to get jealous, especially because Matthew keeps glancing in my direction, and I can’t stop myself from stealing covert glances at him as well.
After all the guests depart, we remain chatting over after-dinner drinks with the French president and first lady.
“You two.” He motions toward Matt and me, then presses his fingers to his eyes. “The eyes don’t lie, eh? You are guests here; my wife and I hope you’re comfortable in one room rather than the two—in fact, I believe all the other rooms in the Élysée Palace were taken, weren’t they, chéri.”
Matt’s laugh is low and very masculine.
And very, very sexy.
“What happens in Paris stays in Paris,” the French president adds with a wink.
“I wouldn’t mind the opportunity to spend some private time with my first lady,” Matt admits. He shifts forward and eyes me challengingly.
“Opportunities like these are rare, eh?” The French president chuckles and lifts his glass. “To President Hamilton, and his enchanting first lady.”
Matt raises his glass and looks at me, and I clench my thighs together and take a sip. Only after that do I arch an eyebrow.
The French president’s wife smiles at me and sips from her wineglass.
Finally, after the longest day ever, we head to our room.
We close the door, and the surroundings are so alien, I feel a little homesick—but home stands before me, over six feet tall and virile, and I’m sunk into those knowing dark eyes and that half smile of his as he watches me take off my shoes.
I don’t even know what to do with my hands as Matt plucks his cufflinks open and sets them aside, his eyes never leaving mine.
Something about this aloneness—about having him all to myself, in this city—feels like another stolen moment. Like I’m taking something that doesn’t belong to me but I very much want to.
“Come here.”
I shiver at his gruff whisper. I know that he senses my homesickness, my longing. My homesickness for him. Home. And when he opens his arms, I go. I press myself to his side and bury my face in his neck and let him engulf me. God, I’ve wanted this so much.
“Come here,” he says again, as if he needs me closer still.
He drags me onto the bed and slips his arm under the opening at the back of my dress, gathering me to him, his hands spread on my bare back, my whole body pressed against Matt’s hard one in the most protective embrace I’ve ever felt in my life—it’s a wall of muscle and flesh and warmth and I bury myself even more into it, as close as physically possible.
Matt tightens his hold too.
I’m shivering and overwhelmed. His smell all around me. His hands on my back. The weight of his eyes on me. Matt’s hand brushing my hair back as he tries to peer into my face even though I’m trying to hide it because this urge to cry has to be jet lag. I can’t just break down for no reason. But I bury my face into his neck and fist the fabric of his open shirt, trying to get a grip on myself, letting the soothing motions of his hands massaging down the length of my back comfort me.
“I still love you.”
“I know.” His voice is low and thick and textured with emotion.
“I still want you like nothing in my life.”
“I know. Come here.” He drags me over him, holding me by the back of the head as he slips his tongue inside my mouth and kisses and kisses
and kisses
and kisses me.
He frames my face in his hands and his gaze bores into mine. “I love you. Very much, Charlotte. So much I couldn’t let you go. So much I won’t let you go. I’ve been in hell without you. You’re in my every waking thought and in my fucking dreams. I’ll fight to deserve you, to keep you by my side. I’m never making that mistake again, of thinking that I can’t keep you. I will. I will always keep you. Do you understand me?” He presses a kiss to my ear and murmurs fiercely, pulling me back and looking deeply into my eyes as he frames my face in his hands, “Do you hear me, baby?”
I peer up at him. “I didn’t hear the first part.”
A slow-growing smile suddenly deepens into laughter, then he falls sober. He shifts me to my back, his muscles rippling as he goes up on his arms. Looks at me directly, intently, his voice utterly low as he strokes his thumb down my jaw, eyes on mine. “I love you, beautiful.”
“How much? Like this?” I move my index finger and thumb as far apart as I can.
Matthew shakes his head.
“No?” I ask, disappointed.
“Immeasurably, baby. I love you immeasurably.”
He holds my face in his hands and gently kisses me, kisses me with immeasurable tenderness, immeasurable heat. Immeasurable love.
10
BACK
Charlotte
On our way back to D.C., we kiss at leisure in the bedroom of Air Force One. I’m on his lap, burning for him.
“I’m thirsty for you, too thirsty to get enough,” he growls.
We lose it. He sweeps down and grabs me against him, and I grab him by the shirt and kiss him back, raw and hot this time, out of control, his lips dominating and hungry, mine moving just as fast, an inferno of heat and longing blazing between us.
Matt coaxes my tongue into his mouth, groaning, massaging my butt with his hands.
“You’re mine. Say you’re mine.”
“I’m yours.”
“I’m sick of hiding. I understand we need to take it step by step with the public, but Charlotte, I want you in my bed—I want inside you. Two steps into my room, we’ll be tearing off our clothes and nothing is going to come between us—nothing.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of. I need to be sure I can truly be the first lady that the country needs.”
“You are not just your job—you are a woman, and you’re the woman I need.”
He covers my breast with one hand and thrusts his tongue into my mouth, faster, harder, and I’m dying from the way he seems to need me. I grab fistfuls of his hair, lost, moaning and groaning, our hands running over each other, our mouths crazy.
“Soon,” I breathe. He groans. “I’m sick of cold showers.”
“I’m sorry. I’m physically in pain.”
“Focus on what you’re sitting on and you’ll realize you’re not alone.”
I smile, quivering in desire. “Soon.”
11
ADJUSTING
Charlotte
Matthew has flown out for a meeting with the prime minister of Canada, and I spend the next few days adjusting to life in the White House.
I look at the menus on Sunday, and I tell the chef that I really don’t think we need to have fancy menus or fancy desserts on a daily basis, that plain apple pie will do.
He created this version of an apple pie that’s several layers, has a bit of cheesecake mingled in with the cinnamon apples, and I’ve never tasted anything so divine in my life.
“I’ve never gone to a restaurant with food as good as the food you cook, Chef.”
“It’s our job to keep you well fed and happy—and it’s our job to make you and our country look good with all our visiting foreign dignitaries.”
We’re hosting a state dinner for President Asaf in two months and before he left, Matt said, “Spare no expense.”
One of the things I learned upon arrival at the White House was that the first family pays for their personal expenses, including their staff and food. “Matt—I know your family has money, but you’ll leave with no money if you—”
He started laughing, then assured me, “Spare no expense. This is the United States of America, and the White House. It’s an investment.”
“If we stick to a reasonable budget for the state dinner, the State Department will foot the bill,” Clarissa assured me when I expressed my concern to her, later.
I occasionally wander around the house with the curator, asking him to teach me about the artwork and the relics. There is so much history here. So much heart and depth. I love it, but I haven’t seen Matthew for days.
