Mr. President
Page 53
I smile at the guards as we walk past, and I pull an umbrella out of my handbag. Matt holds it above our heads as I curl against his side and we begin walking up the street.
The rain is coming down so hard that the umbrella provides little protection. I begin laughing and point toward a deserted covered fruit stand. “We should get under that awning.”
“Nice ploy.” He shoots me a smirk and a knowing look—as if I’m intentionally trying to steer him off to the side.
I open my mouth to set the record straight, but before I can, Matt firmly pulls me toward him and tenderly presses his lips to mine. His hand slides around my waist, down to my butt, gripping me tight against him.
He lowers the umbrella a bit, shielding us from prying eyes. He tightens his grip, his mouth hungrily devouring mine.
The moment is electric, mind-blowing—his mouth as wet as the raindrops on my hair, sweet and minty and hungry. His shirt wet, plastered against his sculpted chest.
His tongue moves over mine. I deeply inhale the scent of his cologne.
Delicious. Intoxicating.
Then, as if stirred from a beautiful dream, I suddenly come to my senses.
“Are you crazy?” I whisper and pull free, my voice barely audible through the pounding rain.
He grins, eyes dancing. “Yes.”
I laugh, and he’s smiling, but his smile doesn’t last long.
He pulls me back against him and rests his forehead on mine, his eyes searching my features. “Tell me how I can satisfy this country when I feel so lacking? Tell me.” He squeezes me, silently asking for an answer.
I know what he means.
He means that he has me, but not openly, and I have him, but not for long. What we have satisfies our physical cravings, but we’re left wanting more.
Matt gingerly tips up my chin as he lowers his face to mine. First he nuzzles my nose and strokes his thumb across my lips. He presses gently down on my bottom lip to open my mouth. My eyes slowly drift closed and my mind goes blank as he tenderly presses his lips to my cheek. I inhale deeply, and so does he.
“How do you not get bothered by it? The press following your every move? This is the first time we’ve been outside without being followed,” I say breathlessly.
“I grew up with dozens of lenses surrounding me—they were never far away. I grew blind to the extra eyes, and most days I don’t mind being watched.” He glances at my lips, then returns his gaze to mine, and quietly adds, “But sometimes they’re so close I feel like I have no space to breathe.” He smiles down at me and lifts the umbrella. “Let’s go—we have a rally to attend.”
“Washington Square Park. I still can’t believe we secured the permit—although it’s probably because your family owns a good portion of New York.”
He smirks. “Maybe it’s because I’m charming.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t bet on it,” I lie.
The rain barely stopped in time for the rally—but that didn’t deter the crowds. On the contrary. They filled the park, and even the surrounding streets were packed.
He kills it at the Washington Square Park rally.
After rousing the crowd to a “HAMILTON! HAMILTON! HAMILTON!” we head back to the hotel in several cars. I ride with him and Carlisle. The city is alive, bursting with light and night noises as we approach our hotel.
I’m silent and in awe. I’m in New York with the hottest man I’ve ever seen, riding in the back of a luxury car, heart thumping in excitement and a hot little tingle between my thighs because of his nearness, and because he’s got his hand resting just where he can brush his thumb over my thigh—and lounging in his seat as if that hand belongs there.
I suppose I should take it off, but I like the way it feels too much to do that.
It excites me, true. But it also relaxes me. I’m taking in the Village, Midtown, and then, Fifth Avenue all along the east side of Central Park.
“We’re getting good media coverage,” Carlisle announces.
“Good,” Matt says.
I smile, so proud of him today.
Rain or shine, the Hamilton team campaigns.
That night, I wait for him to message me through the secure campaign phone that the coast is clear, and when he tells me he’s coming over, I unbolt my door and pull him into my bedroom.
I’m still deliciously sore from the fuck he gave me last night—fucks, actually, and there were three: one slow and gentle, one fast and primal, and a very wet and passionate one in the shower—when I get to the New York field office the next morning. Carlisle and Hessler summon us all together, as they frequently do. We’re briefed in an eight-by-eight room, crowded with all of us. Matt stands in the corner, leaning against the wall, arms crossed as he lets his managers do the talking.
My eyes meet his across the crowd. It’s only a glance. That’s all we give each other. But it’s enough to make my tummy go crazy.
“Let’s run down what’s been going on,” Carlisle begins.
I slide my eyes back to Carlisle and focus on the rundown.
Shit is getting real and we’re going to need to bring the big guns to every event, and be aware that our competition will be aware of our every move.
President Jacobs, sixty-five, conservative, a peacemaker, a bit too weak-spined.
Gordon Thompson, fifty-nine, radical, a bit too war-loving.
Carlisle shoots us all a dire look and then looks at me a little too brazenly. “Just to be clear, we are working with the best independent candidate the USA has ever seen. No third-party candidate has ever won. This will be unprecedented. Matt Hamilton was born for this; we all know it. Not always the favorite one prevails in politics. It’s the one who wrangled more support in his campaign. So it’s up to us to make his supporters multiply like freaking Jesus did the bread. Okay?”
Everyone nods.
My throat closes and guilt starts creeping up my throat. I nod vigorously.
Carlisle nods, appeased.
“Let’s get our candidate back to the White House where he belongs.” He gives a final nod, and we all scatter. I head to the door of Matt’s office with his itinerary in hand.
“Good morning, Charlotte,” he says as he enters and waves me inside.
“Good morning, Matt.”
The moment I shut the door, Matt lifts me up to the desk, and I gasp in surprise but hang on to his shoulders for support. The possibility of getting caught makes me scan his office—then I realize we’re not at headquarters, that this office has no windows. Walls mean privacy for us, and I go loose and pliant in his arms, wet and instantly ready.
The rain is coming down so hard that the umbrella provides little protection. I begin laughing and point toward a deserted covered fruit stand. “We should get under that awning.”
“Nice ploy.” He shoots me a smirk and a knowing look—as if I’m intentionally trying to steer him off to the side.
I open my mouth to set the record straight, but before I can, Matt firmly pulls me toward him and tenderly presses his lips to mine. His hand slides around my waist, down to my butt, gripping me tight against him.
He lowers the umbrella a bit, shielding us from prying eyes. He tightens his grip, his mouth hungrily devouring mine.
The moment is electric, mind-blowing—his mouth as wet as the raindrops on my hair, sweet and minty and hungry. His shirt wet, plastered against his sculpted chest.
His tongue moves over mine. I deeply inhale the scent of his cologne.
Delicious. Intoxicating.
Then, as if stirred from a beautiful dream, I suddenly come to my senses.
“Are you crazy?” I whisper and pull free, my voice barely audible through the pounding rain.
He grins, eyes dancing. “Yes.”
I laugh, and he’s smiling, but his smile doesn’t last long.
He pulls me back against him and rests his forehead on mine, his eyes searching my features. “Tell me how I can satisfy this country when I feel so lacking? Tell me.” He squeezes me, silently asking for an answer.
I know what he means.
He means that he has me, but not openly, and I have him, but not for long. What we have satisfies our physical cravings, but we’re left wanting more.
Matt gingerly tips up my chin as he lowers his face to mine. First he nuzzles my nose and strokes his thumb across my lips. He presses gently down on my bottom lip to open my mouth. My eyes slowly drift closed and my mind goes blank as he tenderly presses his lips to my cheek. I inhale deeply, and so does he.
“How do you not get bothered by it? The press following your every move? This is the first time we’ve been outside without being followed,” I say breathlessly.
“I grew up with dozens of lenses surrounding me—they were never far away. I grew blind to the extra eyes, and most days I don’t mind being watched.” He glances at my lips, then returns his gaze to mine, and quietly adds, “But sometimes they’re so close I feel like I have no space to breathe.” He smiles down at me and lifts the umbrella. “Let’s go—we have a rally to attend.”
“Washington Square Park. I still can’t believe we secured the permit—although it’s probably because your family owns a good portion of New York.”
He smirks. “Maybe it’s because I’m charming.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t bet on it,” I lie.
The rain barely stopped in time for the rally—but that didn’t deter the crowds. On the contrary. They filled the park, and even the surrounding streets were packed.
He kills it at the Washington Square Park rally.
After rousing the crowd to a “HAMILTON! HAMILTON! HAMILTON!” we head back to the hotel in several cars. I ride with him and Carlisle. The city is alive, bursting with light and night noises as we approach our hotel.
I’m silent and in awe. I’m in New York with the hottest man I’ve ever seen, riding in the back of a luxury car, heart thumping in excitement and a hot little tingle between my thighs because of his nearness, and because he’s got his hand resting just where he can brush his thumb over my thigh—and lounging in his seat as if that hand belongs there.
I suppose I should take it off, but I like the way it feels too much to do that.
It excites me, true. But it also relaxes me. I’m taking in the Village, Midtown, and then, Fifth Avenue all along the east side of Central Park.
“We’re getting good media coverage,” Carlisle announces.
“Good,” Matt says.
I smile, so proud of him today.
Rain or shine, the Hamilton team campaigns.
That night, I wait for him to message me through the secure campaign phone that the coast is clear, and when he tells me he’s coming over, I unbolt my door and pull him into my bedroom.
I’m still deliciously sore from the fuck he gave me last night—fucks, actually, and there were three: one slow and gentle, one fast and primal, and a very wet and passionate one in the shower—when I get to the New York field office the next morning. Carlisle and Hessler summon us all together, as they frequently do. We’re briefed in an eight-by-eight room, crowded with all of us. Matt stands in the corner, leaning against the wall, arms crossed as he lets his managers do the talking.
My eyes meet his across the crowd. It’s only a glance. That’s all we give each other. But it’s enough to make my tummy go crazy.
“Let’s run down what’s been going on,” Carlisle begins.
I slide my eyes back to Carlisle and focus on the rundown.
Shit is getting real and we’re going to need to bring the big guns to every event, and be aware that our competition will be aware of our every move.
President Jacobs, sixty-five, conservative, a peacemaker, a bit too weak-spined.
Gordon Thompson, fifty-nine, radical, a bit too war-loving.
Carlisle shoots us all a dire look and then looks at me a little too brazenly. “Just to be clear, we are working with the best independent candidate the USA has ever seen. No third-party candidate has ever won. This will be unprecedented. Matt Hamilton was born for this; we all know it. Not always the favorite one prevails in politics. It’s the one who wrangled more support in his campaign. So it’s up to us to make his supporters multiply like freaking Jesus did the bread. Okay?”
Everyone nods.
My throat closes and guilt starts creeping up my throat. I nod vigorously.
Carlisle nods, appeased.
“Let’s get our candidate back to the White House where he belongs.” He gives a final nod, and we all scatter. I head to the door of Matt’s office with his itinerary in hand.
“Good morning, Charlotte,” he says as he enters and waves me inside.
“Good morning, Matt.”
The moment I shut the door, Matt lifts me up to the desk, and I gasp in surprise but hang on to his shoulders for support. The possibility of getting caught makes me scan his office—then I realize we’re not at headquarters, that this office has no windows. Walls mean privacy for us, and I go loose and pliant in his arms, wet and instantly ready.
