Commander in Chief

  “Close your eyes then, and think of me.”

  I close my eyes, giggling, feeling his eyes on me.

  Then I picture him, standing there watching me, in that towel, hot as hell. I picture the expression on his face when I gave him the portrait Alison made for me, in elegant black and white, with a sleek gold frame. I picture the way his eyes drank me up, almost as if I were alive in the picture and he expected me to leap out of the frame and make a grab for him.

  I start to breathe heavily, and then I feel the ghost of his touch, his knuckles running down my cheek. My lungs strain for more air as his hand drops a little more, to caress the skin revealed by my own towel.

  “You’re exquisite,” he says, breathing against my lips as he seizes the back of my head, and his kiss is so deep, my toes curl and all the atoms in my body seem to shudder.

  “Do you want me again?” I breathe. We just had shower sex again. We’re like honeymooners; it doesn’t matter that we’re back in the White House. I’m thirsty for him, and him for me.

  “Yes,” he says, tugging my towel loose. I swoon a little when he releases his own towel and draws me into his arms, skin to skin, mouths meshing, his hands stroking down my damp skin.

  The next day, after I hurried to get dressed and then watched Matt put on his suit and cufflinks to head to the Oval with Freddy, his escort, who was waiting at our door, I find, in my desk in the East Wing, a Post-it with his handwriting.

  Mrs. Hamilton –

  I love you.

  P.S. Nice skirt.

  I smile. I find it funny, because I told him that I would love to answer some of the mail that the White House receives daily. It was just days ago, in Camp David, and I find myself remembering as if I were back in his arms, right there.

  “Matt, you know all of the letters that arrive at the White House daily?”

  “Hmm.” He’s falling asleep, my head on his folded arm, resting right on his biceps.

  “You get a few on your desk every day. To answer,” I specify.

  “Uhmm.” He nods, ducking and tucking his nose to my nose, scenting me.

  “Would it be possible for me to answer a few too?”

  He smiles against my throat, and I hurry on. “I don’t have to, only if you agree.”

  “You like your letters, don’t you,” he says, stroking a fingertip along my abdomen.

  “Well, I suppose I do,” I say, smiling in the dark.

  “I’ll write you my answer then.”

  I scowl. “What? You’re going to write me a letter?” I ask, dumbfounded. How complicated does he want this to be?

  Then I realize he’s writing with his fingertip, on my skin. Tingles race along my body as I glance down and watch, rapt, as his finger forms the letter,

  Y

  My core clenches, god he’s so sexy, I can’t stay still. I suppress the urge to squirm as his long finger draws, slowly, the letter,

  E

  And then, exquisitely slowly, around my belly button, the letter,

  S.

  He’s still smiling but looking down at me now, his eyes glimmering. “Content, wife?” he husks out.

  I purse my lips and then press them to his, where I murmur, “Yes,” before he bites my lower lip, then draws it slowly into his mouth, and that’s about all the business talk of the night.

  Now I see his note, right atop a pile of letters. He knows I love my letters—and I find that Matt’s note is only the first out of dozens of letters that will now be left on my desk.

  I store it in my drawer, still getting a shock whenever my eyes land on my hand and I see the glinting engagement and wedding rings on my finger.

  Matt

  “You’re telling me it’s a dead end?”

  It’s me and Cox again at the Oval.

  “Looks like it, Mr. President.”

  Cox motions to the images of the letters, each photographed in a ziplock bag, on my desk. “We’ve run the letters similar to the one sent to you, all those we could find dating back to your father, and all the prints match White House staff. One shows a print from an external.” Cox pulls out an image of a large, balding man. “We sent a team. The guy worked at the Post Office in Milwaukee around the times the letters were dated. He doesn’t remember a thing.”

  I rub my thumb restlessly over my lower lip. “Any other leads?”

  “Negative, sir.”

  “Let’s keep digging.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He exits, and for a second, I grind my molars and glance at the photograph of my father on my desk as I pull out the files and get prepped for my meeting with the Attorney General.

  28

  THE UNEXPECTED

  Charlotte

  A week after our return from Camp David, I slip on my bra and feel a little bloated as I step into my skirt.

  Last week when I realized I was late, I attributed it to the huge life changes of the past few months, plus the fact that the pill could be making everything screwy, but now I’m concerned.

  I’m just not that irregular. I never have been.

  I can’t stop thinking about it as I do an interview in one of the White House rooms. The moment we’re done, I call up my press secretary. Lola is thirty-five, young and feisty, and I’ve developed a good friendship with her. Although I may be closer to Alison, as she’s new to the White House like me, Lola is a bit savvier on secrecy and I really need this to be between us. She meets me in the Yellow Oval, where I’ve been pacing nonstop.

  “I need a favor.”

  “Anything.”

  “I need Kayla to come visit me. And to find a way to discreetly bring me a pregnancy test.”

  “That’s not necessary. I’ll set you up.”

  “Thank you, Lola.”

  It doesn’t take her long. Less than an hour later, she returns with an unlabeled plastic bag in hand. “Okay, I was careful with who I asked. I ordered several brands, too.” She hands them over, smiling. “I’m nervous and excited for you.”

  “I’m nervous and excited too.”

  She leaves, and I rush down the hall to the Queens’ Bedroom and go through the whole procedure. Four times. Each of those times, it’s positive.

  I’m pregnant with Matthew Hamilton’s baby.

  I look at the tests in bewilderment, amazement, excitement, and fear. Complete, paralyzing fear.

  Shock slaps me.

  I’m confused, wandering restlessly down the halls as I wait for him to wrap up in the West Wing for the day. I call Portia and ask her when I can see the president. He’s in a cabinet meeting, but she assures me she’ll let me know when he’s done and fit me in before he meets with his national security advisor.

  Forty-eight minutes later, I walk into the Oval, and Matt is looking down at some papers, his glasses perched on that elegant nose of his, one of his hands gripping his hair as if he’s frustrated. Some bill not quite there yet, I suppose.

  “Matthew?”

  I breathe in shallow, quick gasps and place my hand on my stomach as he raises his head, concern etched on his face.

  “I’m pregnant.” My voice is quiet, worried, but it lands like a gigantic weight in the room.

  Matt slowly pries his glasses off to look at me, raising an eyebrow. His face set, thoughtful, strong and unreadable. There’s a glimmer of hope in his eyes—hope and something raw and primal.

  “I’m pregnant. I’m trying to stay calm and not freak out,” I admit, my voice trailing to a whisper.

  His eyes flash as if he’s fighting some unnamable emotion; he lowers his head for a long, eternal minute.

  And then he sets his glasses aside and kicks his chair back, crosses the room, grabs me by the chin so my eyes are level with his, and reaches out and puts his hand on my stomach, lowering his head, his chest expanding as he inhales and sets his forehead on mine.

  “Say it. Again,” he growls.

  Ten minutes later, I’m looking at a hand resting against my belly as we lie on his bed. My heart is rac
ing and practically about to jump out of my body.

  He hasn’t really said anything. He simply opened the door to the Oval, jerked his head in the direction of the hall, and I followed.

  I followed down the hall, and up the stairs to the residence—and to his room, where he shut the door with a soft click.

  I lie down in his bed, watching him kick off his shoes and come to sit beside me, his hand pulling my shirt up and resting on my stomach—his eyes as firmly fastened to me as his hand is.

  I start to speak. “I know this is crazy but I . . .” My voice breaks then, because the hand starts to gently rub against my belly. A soothing motion that just makes me exhale and melt farther into the bed pillows.

  His skin tan and smooth, his hand contrasts with the milky white skin of my stomach as it rises and falls with each breath I take.

  I look at that hand and feel waves of emotion crash against me. Excitement, fear, amazement . . .

  His head is now bent down to my stomach. He hasn’t said anything yet. I am practically bursting with nerves.

  “Matt . . . please say something,” I beg softly.

  I didn’t know how he would react, and I even considered showing him the “positive” marking on the first pregnancy test I took. Never mind the three subsequent positives I got after that. But I didn’t. I just spoke the words.

  God. He was just sworn into office, is just laying down his plans to create real change in the country. A baby is the last thing he needs right now . . . it would overwhelm him and stress him beyond belief.

  But now, there is no avoiding it, and my heart is clenching as I look at this man, his soft, dark hair hovering over my stomach, his hand soothing my belly.

  I realize he may be disappointed. Or maybe contemplating how to handle this. The press conferences we need to hold, how to tell his mother . . .

  Then I feel his eyes on me.

  His eyes are impossibly dark, as if he’s fighting some emotion he doesn’t want to feel or acknowledge. “I don’t even know where to begin . . .” His voice thickens, but his expression tells me what he doesn’t speak in words.

  He cups my face in both of his hands and kisses me fiercely, telling me everything I need to know.

  Suddenly, as he sucks on my tongue with so much thirst that my toes curl, I really want to cry.

  Because I didn’t plan for this baby. Neither did he.

  But I want it. I want him to want it too.

  When he draws back, he glances down at me proprietarily, his eyes lit up like firebrands, his expression so harsh with emotion and yet so tender. “I love you,” he says quietly, cupping my face in one warm hand. “You know that.”

  His lips kiss my forehead as he whispers, “God, I really don’t want to fuck up now.”

  He pulls back to bend over my stomach again, and I see the look of amazement in his eyes as he kisses right below my belly button. He rubs his cheek against that same spot and our eyes lock.

  We’re having a baby.

  Holy shit.

  A million realizations start to rush into my head.

  I have this man’s baby inside of me. We’re going to be a family. I’m going to make him a father. I’m going to be a mom!

  Holy crap!

  Are we ready?

  I look at him and he sees the worry in my eyes and shakes his head, signaling me not to worry.

  I nod my head and whisper, “What if we’re not ready?”

  He looks at me and comes up to a full sit beside me, taking me into his arms.

  He rubs my back with his big, warm hands, and I let myself be supported by him completely.

  “I’m scared,” I breathe.

  I love him so much I feel like my heart will break with the magnitude. I feel tears well up in my eyes as I think of all he is and all he has done. He is more than I ever wished for, more than I ever dreamed of, and I cry silent tears, thanking the world and the universe for giving me such a man.

  “I love you, Charlotte,” he says against my ear. He turns my head to look into my eyes. “I’m not going to lie, I’m scared too. I don’t want to leave this child fatherless. Worse, I don’t want to be my father—not to you, not to this child.”

  I see the fear in his eyes when he says that, and I am reminded of his life growing up in the White House.

  “I know you didn’t want a family while in the White House. I feel awful that you’ll be burdened—”

  “It’s no burden. I want this baby as much as I want you.” He looks at me, then swallows. “Holy shit.” He chuckles.

  He frames my face in his hands and looks into my eyes.

  “I want it. I’m going to be here for you, and for this baby.” He sounds as determined as a warlord. “Jesus, beautiful. Come here.”

  I push my fears aside as he pulls my face in closer to his and kisses me with a tenderness so beautiful and loving, I don’t know whether to smile or cry.

  I guess people weren’t kidding when they say pregnancy hormones make you very emotional . . .

  I laugh a little at that and he smiles back to me.

  “Charlotte . . . I am incredibly turned on by the idea of you carrying my child . . . our child . . . inside you.”

  His eyes hold mine as he says, firmly, “This is perfect. The timing. The woman. The baby . . . Please, I don’t want you worrying,” he warns, shooting me a stern look.

  I nod, my fears assuaged as I look into his eyes and realize he is completely right. I have never been more in love. More committed to someone as I am to him.

  I know he will try to make this work, somehow.

  I realize I not only want to be his wife, I want to be his children’s mother, and I want him to be the father of my children. I want to have a family with this man. I want this baby more than anything and as I look at him gazing at my belly again, I know this is perfect, and that we’ll be okay.

  It’s my turn now as I take his face in my hands and tell him, “Matthew Hamilton, I am so in love with you, I don’t know what to do with myself anymore.”

  He smirks and kisses my lips. “You’re going to pamper yourself senseless, because I want nothing but the best for my baby and its gorgeous mother.”

  I laugh and then groan. “Gorgeous? If I’m like my mother, I’m going to be a sight for the time of my pregnancy.”

  He shakes his head, then his gaze travels down to my stomach again and he growls, “You’re going to look incredibly sexy, not to mention completely desirable. I won’t be able to keep my hands off you . . .” He trails his tongue from my navel to my panty line, and all of a sudden things take a very different turn.

  I play along with his game and give an exaggerated sigh. “I don’t know, Matt . . . I think you’ll want me to sleep in my room instead of with you because I’ll take up too much bed space and might not be too attractive.”

  He looks up from where he was licking, to my dismay, but the look on his face makes me laugh because this man is completely serious. “The day I’m not attracted to you, I’ll be dead,” he says, as he unbuttons my pants.

  “What are you doing?” I exclaim, excitement building both in my heart and somewhere else. I feign concern and say, “Are we having sex?”

  “You can’t be serious! We’re having tons of sex,” he asserts, kissing along my stomach. “I’m not the kind of man”—he kisses again—“to deny himself his woman.” Another kiss. “I think it’s arousing as hell that you’re carrying my child and it makes me want to give you all kinds of pleasure.”

  “Really?” I say. My heart practically combusted hearing his words.

  “Yes . . . starting right now.”

  I feel him pulling down my pants, and along with them my panties.

  My breath catches in my throat. “Matt . . .”

  “Shhh . . . let me,” he says.

  I gulp and nod, unable to produce any words as his warm tongue slowly licks along my inner thighs.

  “Don’t you have work to do?” I peep.

  “I’ll go back
to work as soon as you come. On my tongue, baby,” he croons, a low command, licking his warm tongue around and inside me.

  He’s back in the Oval in twelve minutes flat.

  I’m just that easy.

  Or maybe the POTUS is just that good.

  He calls the White House physician to come look at me, and he declares both mother and baby to be healthy and the delivery date to be early December. Now I’m visiting with his mother in the Red Room.

  “When Matt called to tell me the news, I couldn’t believe I’d be a grandmother so soon,” she tells me, her expression animated, her eyes shining as she passes me a cup of tea and sits across the coffee table from me.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Hamilton.”

  “Eleanor, please. Have you decided when you’ll announce to the world?”

  I shake my head. “We haven’t discussed it. I suppose we can’t keep it to ourselves for very long.” I smile, spreading a hand over my jacket, right over the baby.

  Her eyes cloud over, and she pauses midway to taking a sip of her tea. She sets her cup on the table, her expression sober, and almost surreally understanding.

  “I know this lifestyle can be harsh, especially with a baby on the way. You feel watched, vulnerable, and like you don’t have the right anyone else does to make a mistake. It gets easier, but never too easy.” She smiles encouragingly, then says, “I could hear the concern in my son’s voice when he told me he was going to be a father. You know he worries he’ll do the same things his father did, make the same mistakes . . .”

  She trails off, then continues.

  “He is a great man, like his father—ambitious, determined, noble. He will stand by you—he won’t ever want to be the one to hurt you, or abandon you or this baby.”

  She becomes misty-eyed and presses her lips as if trying to get a grip, then stands and comes over to take a seat next to me. She takes my hands in hers, squeezing. “Welcome to the family to both this little baby . . . and you, Charlotte. I haven’t had the opportunity to say . . . welcome.”