Commander in Chief

  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.

  “Not vengeance. Justice.”

  My eyes widen when I see the shadows in his gaze.

  The press has been all over the Middle East conflict—Matt has been talking to the generals, executing several covert operations to clear our men out of there. Aside from that, everyone is still hung up on us dating. And his kisses, and the fact that he takes my hand to help me out of the car and doesn’t necessarily let go. The fact that he puts his hand on the small of my back when leading us somewhere.

  All of it has been photographed and recorded, to my continued blushing about the celebrity of our now open relationship.

  A reporter observes, “It does seem that the president appreciates having Miss Wells around, as we can see in this short video, where not only the public seemed enchanted by Miss Wells and her cute little purple dress at the state dinner held for President Asaf, but the president himself didn’t look at anything else for a brief but very obvious moment. What we all want to know is how this is going to play out and whether our president’s head will be in the right place.”

  He powers off the TV, leaning back and looking at me with a silent, dark expression as our staff leaves us alone for the night.

  Matthew booked only one suite for us—another fact that was recorded.

  I swallow and look out, remembering all the people that have been gathering around him, how much they crave just a glimpse of their president.

  “I don’t want to distract you. The media seems more hung up on us than what you’re doing. I don’t know that I like that.”

  “They focus on what gives them ratings. So be it.” He looks at me as if he thinks I’m the cause of their ratings—not him, the most coveted bachelor shamelessly chasing after me—and glances at the eagle pin I’m wearing on the right side of my dress. I know he loves it when I wear it. His voice lowers a decibel. “Every presidency has had its defining moments. We don’t know what they will be for us. Battling ISIS. Nuclear war. Cyber war.” He tells me, “Do you know what the problem is with the past decades of elections, and why the candidates’ views shift so dramatically, their promises unkept, after they take office?”

  “What?”

  “The day you’re sworn in, you become privy to confidential information—everything you need to know to run the country. Information that’s sensitive, powerful, from espionage, delicate treaties, foreign relations. Some of this knowledge crushes the candidate’s dreams of what he wished to accomplish. People get disappointed, and the country continues carrying the weight of decisions made even decades ago, three presidents past.”

  I’m transfixed, wanting to know more.

  “Every president leaves the office looking aged far more years than those he served. It’s the hardest office in the land. I swore I’d never walk in. Every time
my dad and I flew back on Marine One, onto the lawns of the White House, and he would tell me, ‘We’re home,’ I’d say, ‘Home to jail.’ And he’d say, ‘Yes, son.’”

  “What did you find, Matt?”

  “Nothing without loopholes. Treaties not to our benefit. Dangers lurking that we must tread carefully around. This is why I’m here, Charlotte. I knew this wouldn’t be simple. But I’m sick and tired of watching the train wreck and doing nothing to stop it. I know what it takes to run the country—it takes your very soul, and tough calls that might not always be the right ones. But we deserve someone willing to make them and back them up, make us thrive again, even if he has to sacrifice everything to do so.”

  “But your father sacrificed his life,” I say miserably.

  He rubs the back of his neck, then drops his hand with a sigh as he tugs his tie a bit loose. “I’m not sure he was killed because of the presidency.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Cox and I suspect it was something personal, more than his policies.”

  A thousand—no, a million—knots wind up in my stomach. “Matthew, please don’t put yourself in danger. You’re the commander in chief; you can’t be opening a can of worms, like my dad once said.”

  “I will take care of myself. And Charlotte,” he specifies, his eyes darkening as he shifts forward to brush his thumb along my jawline, until he uses it to tilt my head back by the chin. “I will take care of you. Do you hear me?” He holds my gaze with steely determination. “You and this country. Go to sleep now.”

  He kicks off his shoes and throws his tie off as I take off my clothes and slide into bed in my lingerie, under the sheets.

  “I bet you joined me here because you missed me.”

  “Not one bit,” he says too easily, grabbing some papers and bringing them to the chair by the bed.

  “Not a little bit?” I put three centimeters between my fingers.

  He narrows his eyes, then from his seat, leans forward and squishes my fingers. “Maybe that.”

  “You’re a dick.”

  He scowls. “Hush, you don’t talk to your president like that.” He slips his glasses on and starts thumbing through the papers.

  “I just did, Mr. President. Sir.”

  He laughs, sets the papers on his lap, and reaches out and strokes my hair. “Go to sleep. I’ve got to read up on something.”

  I lie down, Matt, with those sexy glasses, reading but sporadically glancing up to check on me, as if it gives him peace to watch me sleep. The monsters lurking in the shadows can’t get close to me, not with him here.

  “Do you remember the boy we visited when campaigning?” he asks.

  “Of course. They named him after you!”

  “I followed up on him. I invited him to the White House. He and his parents will be gracing us with their company next month.”

  “You kept your promise.”

  “Of course I kept my promise.”

  I squeal and I leap out of bed to throw myself at him, tackle-hugging him and raining kisses on his face. “You’re the best!”

  But the best is truly Matt’s low, quiet laughter as I pry off his glasses and shower him with my appreciation. He tugs the papers I just sat on and sets them aside, letting me rain kisses all over him.

  Getting instantly hard.

  “Now that missed me at least,” I whisper in his ear.

  His voice is gruff as he cups my face gently in both hands, and his eyes are hot and liquid as they coast over my face. “You know I missed you, girl. You know I miss you.” He lifts my hand and laces our fingers, running his thumb along mine, and then he lifts my fourth finger to his mouth and wraps his lips around it, licking it clean.

  “What are you doing?” I gasp, suddenly more aroused than ever.

  “Hmm. You taste good.” He smirks, letting go of my hand and grabbing a fistful of hair as he crushes my mouth beneath his.

  Once back in the White House, Matt schedules a few press conferences during the week. I steal into a couple just to hear him.

  I love Lola introducing him. “Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States . . .”

  I love how the room shifts and reenergizes when he enters. How everyone seems to feel more important, wants to do more, be more in his presence; the man has red, white, and blue running in his veins. American royalty: the country’s new commander in chief. The press can’t get enough of him.

  He speaks to the reporters casually, as if they’re longtime friends, as if he’s used to speaking to them, which is quite true.

  I’m actually sorry that Clarissa told me I needed to look at some crucial issues about the upcoming state dinner this morning, causing me to miss the last press conference.

  21

  HEADLINES

  Matt

  “Make no mistake about it. Right and left need to be working together. There needs to be an understanding and full cooperation to move forward. Globalization is a must not only for society, but for our industry, for our trade, for our personal growth, for our mental understanding. We’re working on eliminating the fragmenting of our society. Right and left wings against each other . . . those burnt bridges we’ve encountered? They must be rebuilt. The misinformation that helped lead to those breaking points must be addressed. The White House will have more open communication—online, via letters, and through appointments with the president. New knowledge about our policies, our passed bills, and our plans will be at your fingertips. We’re opening up more than we ever have with a new portal, and . . . ladies and gentlemen . . . the portal will go live tonight.”

  I stop there, letting the press corps take notes before I proceed, changing my tone to a more personal one.

  “I’m sure you’re all wondering why I’m telling you this, since Lola would have done just as good a job as I did, or even better.” I smirk, then pause.

  “Starting today, I too will share something important to me,” I admit, cocking my head from one side of the room to the other, meeting their gazes. “The most important thing that has happened to me next to the death of my father, and being elected your president.”

  Heads rise from their scribbles.

  I know they can tell I’m talking about more than policy now.

  I know these reporters, and they know me.

  Some of them I grew up with. Some of them were with me in college. Some, even, I’ve known since my father was here.

  Oh yes, they know me.

  “I’m sure it may not be a surprise,” I say, clearly and succinctly, meeting their eyes as candidly as I can. “I am in love with the first lady of the United States. At the moment, a dozen vans from District florists are pulling up at the White House, and the staffers are helping me fill up her room. I’m going to ask her to marry me. Today.” I smile and lean closer to the microphone. “If you have any extra time, say a little prayer that she agrees.”

  “Go get her, Mr. President!” someone yells.

  “I will.” I grin.

  I show them the ring from my pocket. “My father’s mother had two large diamond earrings, which she gave to my father. The first diamond, he gave to my mother. The other to me. I want it on her finger. I’ve measured and calculated, and I think I’ve got the size right.” The thought that I may not makes me frown as I look at the ring, then I shake my head as I tuck it away. “And don’t think I’m asking her because Jacobs said I needed a first lady—though it’s true I like the outfits she wears.”

  The correspondents laugh.

  I chuckle too, and lean into the mic again.

  “I think she is marvelous. She is untouched by politics, unmarred and untainted. She is absolutely, brilliantly humble. Honest, hardworking. And it would be my honor that she accept to be my wife. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a country to govern and a woman to woo.”

  “Which is the most difficult, President Hamilton?”

  “The latter, for sure.” I grin again, then nod. “Good day, ladies and gentlemen.”
r />   “When’s the wedding?”

  “As soon as possible. Today if I have my way.”

  22

  ROSE GARDEN

  Charlotte

  The White House smells of roses. In fact, the East Wing of the White House where I usually work is filled with them. We got back a week ago and I don’t think I’ve ever watched so many staffers, one after the other, pile into the room with more and more flowers.

  “What is this? Is there a state dinner somebody forgot to tell me about?” I ask, panicked.

  Clarissa’s eyes go to the door, and Matt is there, lounging casually, looking at me.

  I gulp.

  Clarissa scurries out of the room, along with the rest of the staffers.

  Intense emotion forces its way into his eyes. “Did you like my welcome home gift?”

  “I didn’t leave home. I mean, I did, but I got home a week ago.”

  “That’s right. You’re home for good. At least until my term is over. You’re home with me.”

  He starts walking.

  “Don’t, Matt.” I don’t know what’s happening, but I’m not sure I’ve ever seen that particularly fierce look in his eyes before.

  “Then come here.” He pulls me close. “I love you. I love you and I want to marry you.” He inhales, kissing my jaw.

  He slips something into his mouth and then takes my hand, lifts my finger to his mouth, and works a ring onto my finger with his tongue.

  I gasp, my heart hammering. He licks the finger base to tip.

  “Hmm. You taste good.”

  “Matthew . . . the country—”

  “They’re all holding their breaths, waiting to know if you said yes.”

  “What? You’re crazy!”

  “For you.”

  I stare at him, stunned.

  “They know, Charlotte; they’ve known for a long time how I feel about you. It’s nothing I’m ashamed of, nothing I can hide anymore—nor do I want you to.” He slips his hand over mine, and we watch our fingers link together. Mine and his.