“If you win you’ll invite me to the White House—” tiny Matt says.
“Not IF, WHEN . . . you’re coming to the White House,” Matt promises.
He plays chess with the bedridden boy. The nurses start to line up out in the hall, grinning and ogling.
It’s not the fact that he’s doing this, it’s the fact that you can tell he’s genuinely having fun that touches me. I believed in him: Hamilton and all that the name represents. But right now if I’d never seen him and had a stupid little crush on him, if he’d never been raised under the spotlight and with the fame of his name, it’s today that Matt—for all the flaws the media tries to exaggerate—wins my vote.
When we leave, Wilson picks us up at the curb.
Matt is quiet.
I am too.
“Thank you.” His voice is low and sounds achingly honest.
“Makes me sad.” My own voice cracks, so I stop talking.
I glance out the window and try to regroup. He seems to realize he’s out of his element with a nearly weeping female in the car. “Let’s go get you some food.”
“No.”
He frowns, then his eyes gleam in confusion and amusement. “You’re too warm for politics, Charlotte. We need to toughen you up.”
“Take me sword fighting, but not eating. I’m not hungry right now.” I sigh and shoot him a sidelong glance. “It’s your fault.”
“Pardon?”
“I wouldn’t be in politics if you hadn’t run.”
“Says the lady who offered to help me when she was what? Seven.”
I arch my brows. “Eleven.” I thrust my chin out. “I can still vote for Gordon.”
“God, no. No,” he says emphatically. He laughs and runs his hand in frustration over his hair.
“Well, someone needs to knock you down a peg. Gordon Thompson has my vote,” I declare.
“You wound me, Charlotte,” he says.
“Oh you look so wounded, haha.”
He looks deathly sober except for his eyes, laughing at me. “My wounds run deep.”
“How deep? This deep?” I hold my fingers a hair’s breadth apart. He frowns, then takes them to readjust them to a centimeter. “This deep.”
I should laugh.
It was funny up until he touched me.
Now it’s warm and gooey and he’s looking at me with a frozen smile and intent eyes.
I see a flash of yearning in his eyes—yearning as deep as I feel, truly deep, not measured in tiny fractions.
I laugh, finally, as I try to stifle the sensations shooting through me. “Wow.” I look at the centimeter. “A centimeter. That’s deep.”
I refer to the space between his fingers, but I don’t know what we’re talking about anymore.
“I told you.” He smirks. He lowers his hands, and I can’t help but notice how strong and long-fingered they are as he drops them to his side.
Every living woman in America has probably had fantasies about Matt.
And I have him close enough that my senses swirl.
I remain affected throughout our ride.
My mind rushes, wondering . . . simply wondering.
Matt checks some emails, his thigh touching mine.
He doesn’t move it away.
I wonder if I want to move it away.
No. I’m out of air and burning inside. And I don’t want to.
I have to remind myself that what I’m doing here is so much more valuable than a silly little crush. What I’m doing here transcends beyond me . . . beyond even Matt.
Not only has campaigning been exciting, but hearing about Matt’s views and ideas keeps renewing my hope.
I hadn’t fully realized how much we missed a strong leader, an inspiring leader, until every time I stare at the one I want.
He could make such a difference. A man like him could make such a difference.
So we ride like this, in silent tension, my mind full of Matt and my body empty.
His eyes meet mine, burning with importance. “I want you to be my eyes and my heart, to keep me in touch with the real people out there, the ones my whole life I’ve never gotten to meet.”
“Okay, Matt,” I say.
And then he leans over, and I catch my breath and close my eyes when his lips brush my cheek—and he kisses me there. It’s as brief a kiss as the one he gave me when I was eleven, but I’m a woman now, and he is all man, and suddenly, unexpectedly, his arm starts coming around my waist and he’s reeling me toward him, pressing me against his side.
Next thing, I feel his head dip down slowly toward me, his nose grazing my cheek. My breath catches in my throat, and I feel myself fighting the urge to turn my head just a fraction of an inch and kiss him flat on the mouth.
He smells like mint and a little bit of coffee mixed with his cologne. I inhale shakily and feel his lips touch the spot on my cheek where his nose had just been. His lips are warm, soft, yet firm.
His hand grips my hip, holding me close to him, as he tilts his head and places a kiss on my neck. I let my head fall back, and he chuckles darkly, rubbing his nose lightly against my neck, nuzzling me.
He uses his hand to turn my head to face him, and as I look into his eyes, I feel my world tilt on its axis and spin in all directions.
Everything else is drowned out as all of the thoughts in my head center around only him, and me.
All I’m thinking is what I’m feeling. How hard my heart is beating. How my breath is coming in faster intervals. How my skin is warm and tingling; how my whole body seems to be holding its breath in sweet anticipation for Matthew to move again, to touch me again, to kiss another part of me.
I whisper his name and he groans, “You feel incredible.”
He leans in and kisses my collarbone, running his nose along my neck and inhaling me.
“God, and you smell so good . . .” he brokenly whispers. His deep voice burning through me, consuming everything in its path and leaving only this deep, almost primal need to be as close to this man as possible.
When I feel his tongue between his lips tentatively touch the skin on my neck, I hear myself moan.
He holds me closer to him, until I’m almost sitting on his lap, his head buried in my neck, kissing and nuzzling, licking and tasting.
I start to get worried, wondering where we are and when we will get to the campaign headquarters. I know no one can see us, since his car has black-tinted windows and a partition separating us from his driver, but still, something about this feels dark and forbidden.
“Not IF, WHEN . . . you’re coming to the White House,” Matt promises.
He plays chess with the bedridden boy. The nurses start to line up out in the hall, grinning and ogling.
It’s not the fact that he’s doing this, it’s the fact that you can tell he’s genuinely having fun that touches me. I believed in him: Hamilton and all that the name represents. But right now if I’d never seen him and had a stupid little crush on him, if he’d never been raised under the spotlight and with the fame of his name, it’s today that Matt—for all the flaws the media tries to exaggerate—wins my vote.
When we leave, Wilson picks us up at the curb.
Matt is quiet.
I am too.
“Thank you.” His voice is low and sounds achingly honest.
“Makes me sad.” My own voice cracks, so I stop talking.
I glance out the window and try to regroup. He seems to realize he’s out of his element with a nearly weeping female in the car. “Let’s go get you some food.”
“No.”
He frowns, then his eyes gleam in confusion and amusement. “You’re too warm for politics, Charlotte. We need to toughen you up.”
“Take me sword fighting, but not eating. I’m not hungry right now.” I sigh and shoot him a sidelong glance. “It’s your fault.”
“Pardon?”
“I wouldn’t be in politics if you hadn’t run.”
“Says the lady who offered to help me when she was what? Seven.”
I arch my brows. “Eleven.” I thrust my chin out. “I can still vote for Gordon.”
“God, no. No,” he says emphatically. He laughs and runs his hand in frustration over his hair.
“Well, someone needs to knock you down a peg. Gordon Thompson has my vote,” I declare.
“You wound me, Charlotte,” he says.
“Oh you look so wounded, haha.”
He looks deathly sober except for his eyes, laughing at me. “My wounds run deep.”
“How deep? This deep?” I hold my fingers a hair’s breadth apart. He frowns, then takes them to readjust them to a centimeter. “This deep.”
I should laugh.
It was funny up until he touched me.
Now it’s warm and gooey and he’s looking at me with a frozen smile and intent eyes.
I see a flash of yearning in his eyes—yearning as deep as I feel, truly deep, not measured in tiny fractions.
I laugh, finally, as I try to stifle the sensations shooting through me. “Wow.” I look at the centimeter. “A centimeter. That’s deep.”
I refer to the space between his fingers, but I don’t know what we’re talking about anymore.
“I told you.” He smirks. He lowers his hands, and I can’t help but notice how strong and long-fingered they are as he drops them to his side.
Every living woman in America has probably had fantasies about Matt.
And I have him close enough that my senses swirl.
I remain affected throughout our ride.
My mind rushes, wondering . . . simply wondering.
Matt checks some emails, his thigh touching mine.
He doesn’t move it away.
I wonder if I want to move it away.
No. I’m out of air and burning inside. And I don’t want to.
I have to remind myself that what I’m doing here is so much more valuable than a silly little crush. What I’m doing here transcends beyond me . . . beyond even Matt.
Not only has campaigning been exciting, but hearing about Matt’s views and ideas keeps renewing my hope.
I hadn’t fully realized how much we missed a strong leader, an inspiring leader, until every time I stare at the one I want.
He could make such a difference. A man like him could make such a difference.
So we ride like this, in silent tension, my mind full of Matt and my body empty.
His eyes meet mine, burning with importance. “I want you to be my eyes and my heart, to keep me in touch with the real people out there, the ones my whole life I’ve never gotten to meet.”
“Okay, Matt,” I say.
And then he leans over, and I catch my breath and close my eyes when his lips brush my cheek—and he kisses me there. It’s as brief a kiss as the one he gave me when I was eleven, but I’m a woman now, and he is all man, and suddenly, unexpectedly, his arm starts coming around my waist and he’s reeling me toward him, pressing me against his side.
Next thing, I feel his head dip down slowly toward me, his nose grazing my cheek. My breath catches in my throat, and I feel myself fighting the urge to turn my head just a fraction of an inch and kiss him flat on the mouth.
He smells like mint and a little bit of coffee mixed with his cologne. I inhale shakily and feel his lips touch the spot on my cheek where his nose had just been. His lips are warm, soft, yet firm.
His hand grips my hip, holding me close to him, as he tilts his head and places a kiss on my neck. I let my head fall back, and he chuckles darkly, rubbing his nose lightly against my neck, nuzzling me.
He uses his hand to turn my head to face him, and as I look into his eyes, I feel my world tilt on its axis and spin in all directions.
Everything else is drowned out as all of the thoughts in my head center around only him, and me.
All I’m thinking is what I’m feeling. How hard my heart is beating. How my breath is coming in faster intervals. How my skin is warm and tingling; how my whole body seems to be holding its breath in sweet anticipation for Matthew to move again, to touch me again, to kiss another part of me.
I whisper his name and he groans, “You feel incredible.”
He leans in and kisses my collarbone, running his nose along my neck and inhaling me.
“God, and you smell so good . . .” he brokenly whispers. His deep voice burning through me, consuming everything in its path and leaving only this deep, almost primal need to be as close to this man as possible.
When I feel his tongue between his lips tentatively touch the skin on my neck, I hear myself moan.
He holds me closer to him, until I’m almost sitting on his lap, his head buried in my neck, kissing and nuzzling, licking and tasting.
I start to get worried, wondering where we are and when we will get to the campaign headquarters. I know no one can see us, since his car has black-tinted windows and a partition separating us from his driver, but still, something about this feels dark and forbidden.
