Commander in Chief
Page 22

“Oh, thank god.”
“Yeah, thank god.”
“And you. And them.”
He rakes a hand through his hair, then pulls me to him, pressing his lips to mine. Pressing them hard.
“Mr. President,” a Secret Service agent says. “Marine One’s ready, sir.”
“Let’s go,” he tells the agent as he reaches for the suit jacket he has draped behind his chair. “They’re flying them in. I’ll be there to receive them.”
“I have to do a talk at a middle school in New Orleans.”
He nods. “I’ll see you this weekend.”
He’s flying to Fort Lee.
I watch out the window as several marine helicopters depart at the same time. Only one carries Matt.
19
HOME
Matt
I spend two days with our men and their families. I engaged in a meeting with some of my generals, and requested several new and detailed plans for the handling of the Middle East crisis.
It’s late evening when I climb into the state car along with Wilson, who joins me in the back as we head to Marine One to return to D.C.
“She’s home?” I ask Wilson.
It’s pretty convenient that my agents have constant contact with her.
I’m eager to see her. I shed more than my clothes when I’m with her. I shed every preconceived notion of who I should be. My last name, the presidency, everything is gone—only I remain. A man, flesh and blood, not perfect, but trying his damn best to be, and a man who wants her. Bad.
“Yes, sir.” Even Wilson sounds amused.
Shit, I’m too old for this.
My heart is pounding like a wild thing and I’m drumming my fingers on our way there.
Just remembering the way she gave herself to me, open to whatever I needed, so sweet and vulnerable, makes me thirstier, hungrier.
I reach the White House and Jack is barking at the top of his lungs. “Go find her,” I say.
And I follow him as he dashes up the steps and stops at her room, wagging his tail.
“Good boy.” I pat the back of his head, then I twist the knob, telling him under my breath, “Stay,” and walk inside.
She’s reading on the bed. Looking up to see me, her eyes widening, her mouth parting in a tiny O.
I clench my hands. The need to protect her burns me on the inside. To rid the world of every evil, every injustice, everything that could hurt her or anyone like her.
I’m wired, have had little sleep, and am instantly hard. I should step away, chill with a glass of wine. Fucking unwind. But I couldn’t move away if threatened with a bullet to the head.
She uncurls that sweet body and comes to her feet, setting her book down.
I head over to where she stands at the foot of the bed and pull her to me, lowering my head. A graze first, my lips on hers. It turns hungry. One second, two, and my hands are diving into her hair, grabbing her to me.
“You seem happy to see me.”
“You know damn well that I am,” I growl, feeling possessive, smiling at how pleased she seems.
She smiles happily and nibbles on my lips, and I groan and nibble harder, faster. She’s so sweet; she is sweet inside and out, and I’ve developed a sweet tooth of the kind I’ve never had.
I want to marry this girl. I want to marry her now.
We kiss. I’m getting into the taste of her, the feel of her, the freedom of her mouth, her wandering hands, melding the taste of espresso in my mouth with the mint in hers.
I push her down on the bench at the foot of the bed and then crouch before her, parting her ties and pushing her lacy pajamas up to her hips. She’s bare underneath the silk, her pussy pink and wet. My cock pulses relentlessly against my zipper. I suck her clit into my mouth and slide my fingers into her sweet wet sex, one first, then another, then one more, stretching her. Rubbing her G-spot. Watching her arch her back and make those noises deep from within her throat that I can’t get enough of.
I’m thick to the point of pain.
I strip her of her clothes, and then I strip too. I kiss her, slow and thorough, sticking my tongue inside. She starts coming when I drive inside her. I stop kissing her for a moment—watching her come. Just like that, all over my cock. I take her mouth and kiss her quiet. She moans and gurgles during orgasm, tilting her hips up against mine.
I hold her down and ram as hard as I can, barking as I release, pushing us hard until it’s over.
“You missed me,” she says, smiling, her face reddened with exertion, a sheen of sweat coating her skin.
I smile back, then look down at her, staying inside her for a while.
“Yeah.” I brush my knuckles down her cheek.
She’s the kind of woman you keep and cherish, the one you want to enjoy a full, complete life with. But she hasn’t been hardened by the political life that women like my mother have. Charlotte is soft, soft and sweet, everything that politics is not. I don’t want it to touch her. I get off on the idea that somewhere in the world, people harden and push so that others can keep their innocence. She was one of those others. But that changed the night our men were taken. I can see the tiny shadows in her eyes. It kills me that they’re there, but along with those is the steely look of a woman, of a woman coming into her own.
And much like the sweet, fiery girl . . . this woman? This woman is mine.
20
AMERICA
Charlotte
No matter how much I love the White House, there is something about going out and interacting with America itself. I know I’m not the only one who gets inspired by this closer view of our country; Matthew does as well.
He’s intelligent at reviewing the changes, but the ideas for changes—the realizations of what this country really needs—sometimes don’t come at you in the Oval. They come at you in the street, while shaking a veteran’s hand and thanking him for his service, looking into a little boy’s eyes and realizing all he wants is a family.
Matthew Hamilton is the president of the United States—and now is the time he’s putting his ideas into action.
Now is the time when I realize that I can make a difference, through him, through the White House, if I am only brave enough to step out of my comfort zone and make real changes. Even small ones. The tiniest change is still change, the ripples from it sometimes farther and wider than you’d ever think.
I notice even our presence anywhere inspires people—gives people hope. The hopeless are hopeless no more. We stand for something. We stand proudly for that something.
We’ve been touring the country, me on a mission to speak to women and children while Matt takes on several projects, evaluates the proposed bills, and puts the pedal to the metal on all the changes he wants to take place during his first four years.
I’m not used to this lifestyle, to having so many people tend to me—assistants, makeup artists, the Secret Service. Sworn to secrecy, they’d give their lives for us. I’m humbled by their service. I’m also not used to all the attention and the frequent invitations from fans and supporters, or the requests from charities who clamor for Matt’s endorsement or mine.
I’ve scrambled to keep up. I’m in California now, the land of the stars and the paparazzi, and things have been getting hectic. Matt said he’d join me after accepting an invitation to NASA.
Several of his managers and chiefs, along with Alison and me, have just finished a shoot promoting clean energy when he arrives on Air Force One from his NASA tour. I ask my detail to drive me to the airport to greet him, and I watch him descend from the plane in a black suit and a crimson tie, surprised when he pulls me close to him and flat-out kisses me on the mouth.
The press has a field day with it:
Hamilton Holds Nothing Back From the First Lady
That night, after he went to dine with a list of influential Hollywood figures, the latest headline caught our attention in Matt’s suite:
Psychic Communicates with Ex-President Hamilton. “Matt Will Exact Vengeance!”
“Sounds like him, doesn’t he?” Dale Coin says—almost as if he believes this psychic could truly impact Matt’s own memory of his father.
Matt smiles wryly and lets the newspaper fall back with the others, but when he looks out the window, his eyes have darkened.