Mr. President
Page 46
Then I quietly step out and go back to the viewing room, sipping my water.
The crowd soon disperses, and I find myself battling the urge to linger behind and ask Matt about his weekend. I head to the elevators with the crowd, doing my best to force myself to go home.
Matt frowns when I pass him dismissively. He moves abruptly to stop me, taking me by the elbow. “Hey.”
I look up and glance around, concerned that anyone could have seen. But they’ve all shuffled into the elevators.
We stare at one another, and there are a thousand messages in his stare that I can’t decipher but somehow feel, in my belly, like a tangle of crackling wire.
Lips tipping upward in an adorable way I try not to notice, Matt waves me forward. I cautiously walk with him. He has so much power he’s not just a person, but a presence.
He’s wearing a smile, a wicked little twinkle in his eyes as if he knows . . . everything.
He frowns down at me and jerks the knob of his office door open. “After you, Miss Wells.”
He smiles like a gentleman, but his stare is that of a naughty caveman as I go inside and he shuts the door behind him.
I inhale for courage, but there’s one thing about his office here in headquarters. The upper half is glass, and anyone who returns to the building could see us.
My heart is thudding madly as I hear him approach from behind. He slides one hand around my waist and pulls me back against the wall of his chest. “Hmm. Your hair smells good.”
I exhale.
“Always different,” he adds as an afterthought.
“We’re always hotel-hopping; I’m at the mercy of what’s offered in my room.”
“This is real, though. This is yours,” he murmurs.
He seizes my shoulders. His tanned, long-fingered hands giving me a delicious little squeeze.
I try to suppress my reactions as I turn around in his hold and lift my eyes to his face. He’s staring down at me quietly, as if trying to figure me out.
“So, Mark,” he says, his eyes scanning me.
“What Mark?”
He lifts his brows pointedly.
“Oh, you mean Mark.”
“Mark Conelly.” His eyes flick to the door, then to me. “What does he want with you?”
“Nothing. He’s just a friend.”
“You sure?”
There’s an odd little hum in my body when I see the roiling swirls of darkness in his eyes.
Is Matthew Hamilton, the man who has everything, the world at his feet, jealous?
The angle of his jaw looks about as sharp as ever. “I’m sure. Nothing’s going on yet.”
“Yet?”
“He wants a date, but I want to concentrate on the campaign first. I didn’t decline him outright because he was . . . speculating about us.”
“I see.”
I want to know what he’s thinking, but he shutters his gaze and simply looks at me.
“He’s too old for you,” he finally states.
“He’s one year younger than you,” I counter.
“He’s divorced. Completely ineligible for you.”
I shrug. “I have other options. My friend Alan has been trying to make things serious for years.”
His eyes widen. “There’s no winning this one with you?” He laughs and rakes his fingers through his hair, frowning in a mixture of amusement and puzzlement.
Although Matt looks calm, I fear there’s some sort of tempest lurking in his gaze. Something being held tightly under control.
I remain silent while I struggle with a thousand things I want to do or say. I missed him. I missed his face and the way he smells and the way the office buzzes when he’s here. I missed waking up with tangles in my stomach simply because I know I’ll see him. I also don’t like these feelings, but it’s hard to push them away when they’re simply . . . there. Stronger than ever when he’s near.
“Why are you even considering going out with him?”
“Because.” I glance away, and then whisper, “It could help dissipate any rumors between us. And because . . . you’re under my skin, Matt.”
There’s a silence.
I stay in place even when all my instincts tell me to walk away and not look back.
“Don’t go out with him.” He waits a moment, then adds, “With any of them.”
He draws me to his chest, shaking his head chidingly down at me.
I hesitate, then I lean forward and set my cheek there. He turns his head into my scalp and inhales. Then he nuzzles my nose and strokes his thumb across my lips. He presses gently down on my bottom lip to open my mouth and rubs his thumb over my tongue.
My eyes drift shut. I suck his thumb and then take his hand and turn it and kiss his palm. His hold tightens, and he drags his face lower, his jaw slightly stubbled as he presses his lips to mine.
We groan as our tongues flick over each other, again and again.
My hand fists his shirt. He slides his hand to cup my buttock and drags me a little closer as he parts me with his mouth and kisses me again.
I groan his name.
“Matt.”
He snaps his lips back and looks at me, breathing hard. Reality comes to me slowly. We’re at headquarters, with glass surrounding us. I’m kissing the Prince of America.
President Jacobs. Thompson. They would leap all over this.
Matt seems to know what I’m thinking.
“The guy you campaign for, I don’t know how not to be him. That’s who everyone expects me to be.” He touches his fingers to my cheek. “But with you it’s different.”
I exhale as his words sink in. What he means is that in the dark of night, he doesn’t want to be president, or Matthew Hamilton.
He wants to be just a man able to lose control without having a story the next day in the media.
I want to hold him to me, and I want to tell him that I love the way he loses control, and that I love the fact that he wears all of the expectations the world has placed on him because he just happened to be named Hamilton really well.
Instead I simply ask him for a ride home, wondering if a man as isolated as Matt has ever really let down his guard with anyone before.
“Lose the tails. I want to drop Charlotte off,” Matt tells Wilson after we get in the car, and Wilson makes a few movements—slipping into several underground parking lots to lose the tails before he pulls over in front of my apartment.
Matt follows me inside my building.
The crowd soon disperses, and I find myself battling the urge to linger behind and ask Matt about his weekend. I head to the elevators with the crowd, doing my best to force myself to go home.
Matt frowns when I pass him dismissively. He moves abruptly to stop me, taking me by the elbow. “Hey.”
I look up and glance around, concerned that anyone could have seen. But they’ve all shuffled into the elevators.
We stare at one another, and there are a thousand messages in his stare that I can’t decipher but somehow feel, in my belly, like a tangle of crackling wire.
Lips tipping upward in an adorable way I try not to notice, Matt waves me forward. I cautiously walk with him. He has so much power he’s not just a person, but a presence.
He’s wearing a smile, a wicked little twinkle in his eyes as if he knows . . . everything.
He frowns down at me and jerks the knob of his office door open. “After you, Miss Wells.”
He smiles like a gentleman, but his stare is that of a naughty caveman as I go inside and he shuts the door behind him.
I inhale for courage, but there’s one thing about his office here in headquarters. The upper half is glass, and anyone who returns to the building could see us.
My heart is thudding madly as I hear him approach from behind. He slides one hand around my waist and pulls me back against the wall of his chest. “Hmm. Your hair smells good.”
I exhale.
“Always different,” he adds as an afterthought.
“We’re always hotel-hopping; I’m at the mercy of what’s offered in my room.”
“This is real, though. This is yours,” he murmurs.
He seizes my shoulders. His tanned, long-fingered hands giving me a delicious little squeeze.
I try to suppress my reactions as I turn around in his hold and lift my eyes to his face. He’s staring down at me quietly, as if trying to figure me out.
“So, Mark,” he says, his eyes scanning me.
“What Mark?”
He lifts his brows pointedly.
“Oh, you mean Mark.”
“Mark Conelly.” His eyes flick to the door, then to me. “What does he want with you?”
“Nothing. He’s just a friend.”
“You sure?”
There’s an odd little hum in my body when I see the roiling swirls of darkness in his eyes.
Is Matthew Hamilton, the man who has everything, the world at his feet, jealous?
The angle of his jaw looks about as sharp as ever. “I’m sure. Nothing’s going on yet.”
“Yet?”
“He wants a date, but I want to concentrate on the campaign first. I didn’t decline him outright because he was . . . speculating about us.”
“I see.”
I want to know what he’s thinking, but he shutters his gaze and simply looks at me.
“He’s too old for you,” he finally states.
“He’s one year younger than you,” I counter.
“He’s divorced. Completely ineligible for you.”
I shrug. “I have other options. My friend Alan has been trying to make things serious for years.”
His eyes widen. “There’s no winning this one with you?” He laughs and rakes his fingers through his hair, frowning in a mixture of amusement and puzzlement.
Although Matt looks calm, I fear there’s some sort of tempest lurking in his gaze. Something being held tightly under control.
I remain silent while I struggle with a thousand things I want to do or say. I missed him. I missed his face and the way he smells and the way the office buzzes when he’s here. I missed waking up with tangles in my stomach simply because I know I’ll see him. I also don’t like these feelings, but it’s hard to push them away when they’re simply . . . there. Stronger than ever when he’s near.
“Why are you even considering going out with him?”
“Because.” I glance away, and then whisper, “It could help dissipate any rumors between us. And because . . . you’re under my skin, Matt.”
There’s a silence.
I stay in place even when all my instincts tell me to walk away and not look back.
“Don’t go out with him.” He waits a moment, then adds, “With any of them.”
He draws me to his chest, shaking his head chidingly down at me.
I hesitate, then I lean forward and set my cheek there. He turns his head into my scalp and inhales. Then he nuzzles my nose and strokes his thumb across my lips. He presses gently down on my bottom lip to open my mouth and rubs his thumb over my tongue.
My eyes drift shut. I suck his thumb and then take his hand and turn it and kiss his palm. His hold tightens, and he drags his face lower, his jaw slightly stubbled as he presses his lips to mine.
We groan as our tongues flick over each other, again and again.
My hand fists his shirt. He slides his hand to cup my buttock and drags me a little closer as he parts me with his mouth and kisses me again.
I groan his name.
“Matt.”
He snaps his lips back and looks at me, breathing hard. Reality comes to me slowly. We’re at headquarters, with glass surrounding us. I’m kissing the Prince of America.
President Jacobs. Thompson. They would leap all over this.
Matt seems to know what I’m thinking.
“The guy you campaign for, I don’t know how not to be him. That’s who everyone expects me to be.” He touches his fingers to my cheek. “But with you it’s different.”
I exhale as his words sink in. What he means is that in the dark of night, he doesn’t want to be president, or Matthew Hamilton.
He wants to be just a man able to lose control without having a story the next day in the media.
I want to hold him to me, and I want to tell him that I love the way he loses control, and that I love the fact that he wears all of the expectations the world has placed on him because he just happened to be named Hamilton really well.
Instead I simply ask him for a ride home, wondering if a man as isolated as Matt has ever really let down his guard with anyone before.
“Lose the tails. I want to drop Charlotte off,” Matt tells Wilson after we get in the car, and Wilson makes a few movements—slipping into several underground parking lots to lose the tails before he pulls over in front of my apartment.
Matt follows me inside my building.
