Mr. President
Page 42
Matt grins and stares out the car window, stroking his chin thoughtfully, his smile still there as he softly admits, “That was insane.”
I hurry to bathe and make it on time for a staff dinner. I’m heading downstairs to meet Carlisle and other members of the team at one of the hotel restaurants. When the elevator doors open, only Matt is inside.
My heart skips, and we share a smile as I step in.
He smells so good, like cologne and soap, and the warmth of his body next to mine sort of intoxicates me.
“What are you wearing under there?”
“You’ll never know,” I say, tongue in cheek.
“Hmm. More like I’ll know by midnight.” He lifts one brow, warning me, and sort of kissing my lips with his gaze.
The mere thought of being in a room alone with Matt tonight does nothing to calm my body right now.
We step off the elevator, walking side by side with a good distance between us. He pulls out my chair when we arrive at our table, but Matt is typically courteous, so fortunately nobody seems to pay extra attention to that.
Except he grazes his thumb along the back of my neck as I take my seat—it’s a subtle touch.
Completely stolen.
And it takes all my effort to keep my whole body from openly trembling in response.
We sit through dinner as the team discusses and discusses and discusses, and I can’t quite calm the buzzing inside me. He’s watching me from across the table. I watch him take a sip of his water before he slips on his glasses to read the polling numbers Hessler brought.
I’m suddenly thirsty and take a quick sip as well, trying to read the folder in front of me. When we leave and shuffle up in groups to the elevators, Matt steps into the same one I do.
He’s standing to my left the whole ride upstairs. His nearness affects me so much that I almost can’t wait to get away.
My heart is whacking madly in my chest.
My shoulder burns where it grazes his hard one. I’m aware of how tall he is next to me, at least a head taller.
I’m aware of his every breath, slower than mine.
My floor comes up, and as I step out, I turn to say goodbye to the group. I look at Matt last.
He’s gazing at me piercingly beneath slanted eyebrows, looking a little thoughtful and a lot hungry, as if we didn’t just have dinner.
I go back to my room and wait for him to text me that the coast is clear. Ten minutes later, my secure campaign phone pings.
Ten minutes more, warm hands are sliding up my skirt to reveal my underwear. Pulling it down. Revealing every single wet fold beneath.
I’m in his room, and the next thing I know, Matt’s wet tongue is in me.
24
TOWEL
Charlotte
We’re in D.C. again.
Matt finished our last tour early and he requested a new expedited schedule, which I’ve worked on the whole night.
He said he’d meet me at his suite at The Jefferson, which he used tonight when two members of his detail informed us that his home was too swarmed with paparazzi.
Late in the morning, I knock on his suite door.
I primp my hair and then chide myself.
Stop primping, Charlotte!
I expect to find Carlisle here, but when Wilson opens the door and allows me in, I find only silence.
I wander past the living room with my printout in hand.
I freeze as Matt steps into my line of vision, his large body appearing in the open double bedroom doors.
He’s wearing nothing but a white hotel towel draped around his hips, his skin gold and smooth.
God help me.
The towel is hanging so dangerously low I can see the V at his hips. He’s got long legs with muscled thighs and calves, hair-dusted and tan. He’s also barefoot.
His hair is wet from a shower and slicked back, revealing his strong forehead and perfect features to their best advantage. Though he looks amazing in clothes, “amazing” cannot even begin to capture the complete athletic perfection of his shape and form and muscles. Every single muscle is defined and flexed hard.
And those incredible arms . . . the bulging biceps as he lifts the small towel he has in his fist and runs it over his hair to dry it.
He tosses the towel aside and runs his fingers through his hair as he turns his attention to me. “Did you get it done already?”
Oh.
Yeah.
THAT.
“Charlotte.” Chocolaty eyes begin twinkling, and my entire body flushes as I realize he clearly notices me gaping, his hair looking haphazard and even sexier as he props those glasses on his nose and reads.
I’ve tried to shift the next engagements so that our field team has time to arrive on the bus, but I can’t help that flying always gets us in earlier—even though Matt hates wasting time waiting.
“This pushes us back a day,” he says.
He groans in displeasure, and inside me, I feel a deep, instinctive, visceral tightening of my belly muscles at the sound. Not just my belly. My sex grips too. Even my chest seems to constrict. All of that in reaction to that very male, very sexy sound.
Reminding me too much of sex. Between Matt Hamilton and me.
“I’m sorry, Matt, I’m just . . . I can’t figure out how to get the rest of the team there on time to fit in another big speaking engagement. Maybe something small—”
“Hey. It’s all right.” He slaps the folder shut and eyes me. Can he tell I hardly slept? His gaze softens. “I should take you somewhere. Treat you to breakfast and coffee.”
I bite my lip.
Matt’s eyes darken.
I release it.
“I wouldn’t say no to a big vanilla coffee.”
“Let’s do it.”
I feel myself flush because—it sounds too much like a date.
“We can’t!” I laugh. “I can’t even stay here for more than a few minutes for fear of them watching us even more.”
He sits, and his thick thighs are revealed by the towel. “I’m sorry. I can’t really blame them for being obsessed with you,” I add.
He looks at me.
All I can think of are his hands on me. My hands creeping under the towel. Fingers touching his chest. And that big, heavy cock of his.
Wow. Did I just think that?
What is happening to me?
“Come kiss me.”
Matt seems to read my mind.
Startled by the command, I laugh and bite my lower lip. “What?”
I hurry to bathe and make it on time for a staff dinner. I’m heading downstairs to meet Carlisle and other members of the team at one of the hotel restaurants. When the elevator doors open, only Matt is inside.
My heart skips, and we share a smile as I step in.
He smells so good, like cologne and soap, and the warmth of his body next to mine sort of intoxicates me.
“What are you wearing under there?”
“You’ll never know,” I say, tongue in cheek.
“Hmm. More like I’ll know by midnight.” He lifts one brow, warning me, and sort of kissing my lips with his gaze.
The mere thought of being in a room alone with Matt tonight does nothing to calm my body right now.
We step off the elevator, walking side by side with a good distance between us. He pulls out my chair when we arrive at our table, but Matt is typically courteous, so fortunately nobody seems to pay extra attention to that.
Except he grazes his thumb along the back of my neck as I take my seat—it’s a subtle touch.
Completely stolen.
And it takes all my effort to keep my whole body from openly trembling in response.
We sit through dinner as the team discusses and discusses and discusses, and I can’t quite calm the buzzing inside me. He’s watching me from across the table. I watch him take a sip of his water before he slips on his glasses to read the polling numbers Hessler brought.
I’m suddenly thirsty and take a quick sip as well, trying to read the folder in front of me. When we leave and shuffle up in groups to the elevators, Matt steps into the same one I do.
He’s standing to my left the whole ride upstairs. His nearness affects me so much that I almost can’t wait to get away.
My heart is whacking madly in my chest.
My shoulder burns where it grazes his hard one. I’m aware of how tall he is next to me, at least a head taller.
I’m aware of his every breath, slower than mine.
My floor comes up, and as I step out, I turn to say goodbye to the group. I look at Matt last.
He’s gazing at me piercingly beneath slanted eyebrows, looking a little thoughtful and a lot hungry, as if we didn’t just have dinner.
I go back to my room and wait for him to text me that the coast is clear. Ten minutes later, my secure campaign phone pings.
Ten minutes more, warm hands are sliding up my skirt to reveal my underwear. Pulling it down. Revealing every single wet fold beneath.
I’m in his room, and the next thing I know, Matt’s wet tongue is in me.
24
TOWEL
Charlotte
We’re in D.C. again.
Matt finished our last tour early and he requested a new expedited schedule, which I’ve worked on the whole night.
He said he’d meet me at his suite at The Jefferson, which he used tonight when two members of his detail informed us that his home was too swarmed with paparazzi.
Late in the morning, I knock on his suite door.
I primp my hair and then chide myself.
Stop primping, Charlotte!
I expect to find Carlisle here, but when Wilson opens the door and allows me in, I find only silence.
I wander past the living room with my printout in hand.
I freeze as Matt steps into my line of vision, his large body appearing in the open double bedroom doors.
He’s wearing nothing but a white hotel towel draped around his hips, his skin gold and smooth.
God help me.
The towel is hanging so dangerously low I can see the V at his hips. He’s got long legs with muscled thighs and calves, hair-dusted and tan. He’s also barefoot.
His hair is wet from a shower and slicked back, revealing his strong forehead and perfect features to their best advantage. Though he looks amazing in clothes, “amazing” cannot even begin to capture the complete athletic perfection of his shape and form and muscles. Every single muscle is defined and flexed hard.
And those incredible arms . . . the bulging biceps as he lifts the small towel he has in his fist and runs it over his hair to dry it.
He tosses the towel aside and runs his fingers through his hair as he turns his attention to me. “Did you get it done already?”
Oh.
Yeah.
THAT.
“Charlotte.” Chocolaty eyes begin twinkling, and my entire body flushes as I realize he clearly notices me gaping, his hair looking haphazard and even sexier as he props those glasses on his nose and reads.
I’ve tried to shift the next engagements so that our field team has time to arrive on the bus, but I can’t help that flying always gets us in earlier—even though Matt hates wasting time waiting.
“This pushes us back a day,” he says.
He groans in displeasure, and inside me, I feel a deep, instinctive, visceral tightening of my belly muscles at the sound. Not just my belly. My sex grips too. Even my chest seems to constrict. All of that in reaction to that very male, very sexy sound.
Reminding me too much of sex. Between Matt Hamilton and me.
“I’m sorry, Matt, I’m just . . . I can’t figure out how to get the rest of the team there on time to fit in another big speaking engagement. Maybe something small—”
“Hey. It’s all right.” He slaps the folder shut and eyes me. Can he tell I hardly slept? His gaze softens. “I should take you somewhere. Treat you to breakfast and coffee.”
I bite my lip.
Matt’s eyes darken.
I release it.
“I wouldn’t say no to a big vanilla coffee.”
“Let’s do it.”
I feel myself flush because—it sounds too much like a date.
“We can’t!” I laugh. “I can’t even stay here for more than a few minutes for fear of them watching us even more.”
He sits, and his thick thighs are revealed by the towel. “I’m sorry. I can’t really blame them for being obsessed with you,” I add.
He looks at me.
All I can think of are his hands on me. My hands creeping under the towel. Fingers touching his chest. And that big, heavy cock of his.
Wow. Did I just think that?
What is happening to me?
“Come kiss me.”
Matt seems to read my mind.
Startled by the command, I laugh and bite my lower lip. “What?”
