Commander in Chief

  He leaves his lips there for long, delicious seconds, as if he wants to brand that kiss on me. I feel his love for me down to the marrow of my bones.

  When he eases back to smile at me, his tortured eyes show me the pain he’s witnessed, the darkness that will always stay. It sends my pulse spinning, a need to comfort him hitting me with such force, it’s overwhelming.

  I reach out to hold the back of his head, trying to cradle him even though I’m in bed and weak, and he’s the one standing, the one holding it together—like he always is.

  Once in my private room, with my parents, Matt’s mother, his grandfather, and Matt, I watch his address to the nation from his desk in the Oval on TV, one that was aired while I was delivering.

  He’s wearing a somber black tie and black suit, and he looks directly at the camera as he speaks. “As of twenty-two hundred hours, we engaged in air combat over the hostile region of Islar. The mission was successful. We have confirmation that the five terrorists behind the attack have perished.”

  Silence.

  “These are sad times for us as a country, every time one of us dies to ensure that here, we can keep on living our lives to their fullest. We need to honor those sacrifices, ensure that we continue prospering as we have until now, not only financially, but as human beings. Now more than ever we need to stand together. We need to fight the fights that matter. For freedom, for security, for our loved ones. We’re a kaleidoscope, all different, but what unites us is our love of this country. Our pride in being American. American we were born. American we will die.”

  There were two American casualties. The media called it a victory, but Matt and I know better. No one wins in a war. But you protect your own. We don’t have only one son; the citizens of the United States are our family.

  Two days later, I’m allowed back home, and Matt and I have to plan a whole process of introducing the baby to Jack.

  Down the hall from our bedroom, I decorated the baby’s room by having the walls painted with pastel-colored forests and installing a white crib with a baby-blue coverlet. So many baby toys have arrived since the announcement of him being a boy, we’ve donated at least two-thirds of them to charities. This is one privileged little boy, and I’ve been amazed by the love our baby has been getting from America.

  For the first few weeks until he sleeps through the night, though, I settle him with me in the Queens’ Bedroom across the hall from Matt, where I have a crib set up and a rocking chair, and I wait in the rocking chair with the baby blinking up at the ceiling in wonder as Matt brings Jack to the door.

  “Come here, boy,” he says, striding across the room.

  Jack drops to his haunches, warily crawling across the room to where Matt now stands before me.

  “It’s Matthew Junior,” I say, shifting slightly forward to let Jack sniff him.

  The baby makes a soft, happy gurgling sound and Jack’s tail starts wagging, and I glance up at Matt, and as my hot husband smiles a quiet I told you so, I sigh in relief. I was mildly concerned Jack would be a danger to Matthew Jr.

  But I’m already realizing he’ll be our son’s mischief buddy for sure.

  Oops.

  37

  MEDAL OF HONOR

  Charlotte

  “Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States, Matthew Hamilton, accompanied by the Medal of Honor recipient, Sergeant Swan.”

  After what happened the day Matthew Jr. was born, a hero emerged. General Swan is visiting the White House today, where he’ll receive the highest recognition, the Medal of Honor.

  He proved his courage in the Middle East when his unit was ambushed, braving enemy fire and ignoring injuries as he tended to wounded comrades.

  I know that nothing weighs more heavily on Matt’s shoulders than sending our men and women into danger, and he told me that being a man who always admired those who served in the military, and having failed to do so himself, this is the greatest honor he’s ever been bestowed, next to being president—to be able to award this medal to those who serve, and serve so well.

  I watch from the chairs lining the room as both men walk up to the podium, Matt sharp in a blue suit, the sergeant in his uniform, as Matthew addresses the audience.

  “Courage is not a virtue we are born with. It is a virtue we exercise—a choice that we make. Courage is when our men and women selflessly volunteer to defend our country, and keep us safe.” He keeps it short. Simple. As he removes the medal from the box, he walks up to the sergeant.

  Once the medal hangs firmly around the soldier’s neck, Matt puts out his hand.

  Applause echoes around the room.

  The soldier is emotional, lips pursed tightly as he fights his emotions.

  Matt slaps his back and shakes his hand, and I hear him tell the man, personally, not for the cameras, “Thank you for your service. We sleep at night thanks to our men and women, our armed forces out there defending and protecting our nation.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President,” the soldier croaks out as he faces the spectators again with red eyes.

  38

  DANCING ON THE BALCONY

  Charlotte

  It’s day thirty-nine postpartum with mere hours to hit the exact forty-day mark, and he waits for me on the balcony of the second floor while I finish feeding Matty. I find him leaning on the railing, thoughtful as I step outside.

  When he turns to watch me approach, a heady mix of lust and love envelops me.

  Matt smiles. He slips an arm around my waist and draws me close. The gardens are quiet outside, and he begins to move with me. I shut my eyes. He sets his forehead on mine.

  We start swaying to some sort of music in our heads, the music outside the White House, in the silent gardens, the D.C. streets, the rustle of our clothes as we move.

  I open my eyes and find myself staring at a swirl of dark as he holds me to him, one of my hands within his, and we’re moving all this time, getting closer, turning around on the Truman Balcony, and then he lowers his head, and the next second his lips are slanting over mine. Slowly, tenderly, he takes my lips as if I’m precious—as if I’m the most precious thing this man has.

  I open to him.

  He probes lightly, leisurely, without any hurry at all, his tongue rubbing over mine, caressing me. His hands go to the back of my head, gently stroking down my hair.

  We’re still dancing.

  But now we’re kissing as well, and my body reacts in the usual way. I’m breathing hard, completely enveloped by his warmth, his strength, his scent.

  He whispers in my ear, “I miss my girl.”

  “She misses you.”

  His eyes sparkle. “You’re tempting like you have no idea.”

  “I should go sleep.”

  He looks wolfish, catching my wrist and pinioning me in place. “Not happening.” He smiles, laughing. “Come here.”

  His coaxing look weakens me head to toe. A slow fire between my legs starts building into an inferno of heat. My heart’s beating too fast in my chest as Matt reels me toward his six-feet-plus frame.

  He raises my hand and presses my fingertips to his lips. When he slips his tongue out to lick my fingertips, I gasp. He eases back and our gazes lock.

  He says, “Day thirty-nine,” with a curl of his lips.

  I nod, breathless. Wondering if he’s thinking what I’m thinking.

  My hands go to his shirt, fisting the fabric. I meant to stop him. Didn’t I? We still have one more day to go. But all I know is his mouth is on mine again, and it tastes divine, and I want more of it, and my fingers are clenching his shirt tightly and I can’t breathe. His hands slide down my sides, cup my ass, and pull me toward him. Closer.

  The ache between my legs intensifies as his cock bites into my abdomen. He’s so hard, his kiss warm and sensual as he drags his lips to my ear, where he whispers, “Sleep with me tonight.”

  I press back against the railing, watching the moonlight play across his gorgeous face. “But it’s day thir
ty-nine, and Matthew Junior—”

  “Matthew has a nanny—I would rather he stay with the nanny tonight so I can spend some quality time with my wife.”

  I swallow, knowing already that I cannot wait a second longer. “I’ll think about it for a few minutes,” I lie, sliding my hands up the flat wall of his chest, going up on tiptoe, my voice husky. “In the meantime, I’ll have a little more of this.” I kiss him.

  Quick as a devil, hot as sin, he moves me around and sways me against him in some dark, forbidden tango.

  He grabs me like I’m the sexiest thing ever.

  I moan and edge back to the railing, leaning on it as I fumble with my skirt, pulling it up as much as possible so he can wedge himself between my legs.

  He fills the space between my thighs and he looks at me reverently as he smooths my hair behind my forehead, and he ducks his head so that his teeth graze my skin. He nips the curve of my neck and shoulder. Waves of pleasure rush down my spine, and before I realize it, I’m pulling him closer and rubbing up against his flat chest.

  “Matt . . .”

  “Yeah.”

  I can’t speak, can’t think as his lips flutter over my skin, his groan warm over my throat.

  “God, I want you. I miss you. I miss the scent of your skin, the sounds you make.” He catches my skin between his teeth and tugs gently. I gasp, and he releases me. His tongue flicks out, circling a slow, wet path to ease the sting. He slides his hand between our bodies, caressing me between my legs.

  I’m trembling as I lean on the balustrade, then I boost myself up and curl my arms and legs around him and whisper in his ear, “I love you.”

  He lifts me higher. My legs tighten around his hips, my arms around his neck as he kisses me fiercely and crosses the balcony to the door.

  We’re in his bedroom faster than I imagined possible.

  Desire crackles in our kiss as he shuts the door behind us. My fingers wind into his hair as he lays me down on his bed, our kiss heated but tender. Our breathing is uneven, mine quick and shallow, his deep and harsh. He drops to his knees on the bed and lifts my skirt, grabbing the hem and raising it to my hips. I groan as he presses his mouth on my abdomen.

  And then his tongue.

  So delicious.

  So hot. So quick. So expert as he kisses my navel, then kisses the scar of my C-section.

  He works his lips up my tummy and toward my breasts, and he cups them under my blouse and gently caresses. He flicks his thumb around the peak, then eases my top upward and sucks it until I groan. “I can’t wait, Charlotte. I’m starving for you.”

  I rip open his shirt in my urgency. He runs his hands up and down the sides of my body. We both bare each other as quickly as we can. By the time he’s got me stripped, I’ve shoved his pants down his legs and he’s kicking them off and stretching on top of me.

  He’s so beautiful. His muscles smooth and hard, perfectly delineated. I remembered how gorgeous he was, but I suspect he’s been working out a bit more than he had been—sexual frustration, maybe. The thought makes me melt. He really looks a bit thicker and more muscular, and I let my fingers enjoy his hard work. I lean over and kiss his nipple, my fingers brushing over the dusting of hair on his chest.

  I’m rewarded by a low, pained sound. “Lick it harder,” he says. Voice rough and raw.

  “Matt,” I moan.

  He releases a smile as he looks down at me, eating me up with his eyes, caressing me everywhere. He tells me I’m gorgeous as he moves his finger inside me. “Do you have any idea what you do to me, Charlotte?” He seizes the base of his cock and leads it to my seam. There.

  Right

  At

  My

  Opening.

  My breath goes. I fist the sheets beneath me. And my eyes roll into the back of my head at the sheer pleasure of feeling my husband drive inside me again. Inch by inch. Slow. With so much care, I can feel his body vibrate.

  We’re heart to heart, skin to skin, heat to heat.

  He palms the side of my face, looking into my eyes. I mewl softly, tilting my hips to encourage him to move. But still he doesn’t, just looks at my whole face, our breathing ragged as he allows me to adjust to the feel of him again.

  I bite my lip breathlessly. “Please,” I beg.

  “I love you,” he gruffs out, brushing his thumb along my lower lip, leaning over to flick his tongue out and soothe the skin I just bit.

  He starts moving—slowly, exquisitely slowly. His body powerful and in control, making love to mine. He makes love to me as if I’m a virgin, as if it’s my first time and he wants me to never forget it.

  And in this moment, all my world is him as I undulate beneath him, relishing the closeness, his nearness, him. He is the most powerful man in the world. He is determined and strong and ambitious, he is noble and honest, and he is also true and unwavering—not once does his desire waver; on the contrary, even with a remaining one-month bump that I hope to be able to run off once I resume exercise, I have never felt so sexy to him, so precious, or so loved.

  And on this day, the mystery of our love grows, and I realize that it keeps changing, evolving, deepening with every experience we share, every kiss not given and every kiss given, every whisper and every word unsaid. I have never in my life felt the kind of love I feel for him—and as his hands caress me tenderly, the tension in his body evident as he tries to be gentle but hinting at his simmering desire, the deep words of love he whispers in my ear, beautiful and perfect and his, I know he feels it too. And I know that this feeling is probably as mysterious to him as it is to me, and just as wondrous.

  39

  GROWING

  Charlotte

  Matt Jr. is growing so fast, he’s walking already—and absolutely has the run of the household, with everyone oohing and aahing over our charming boy.

  I grow too, right along with him.

  I grow fully into the role of first lady.

  Of mother.

  Of wife.

  Of hostess.

  Of mistress of the White House.

  Of champion of children.

  Of the president’s lover.

  One year turns into two, the years consisting of diapers and cradles and children’s toys, of red carpets and trumpets blaring as we receive foreign dignitaries at the White House, of black-tie events that embody the might and majesty of the United States.

  Foreign leaders receive a royal welcome with the state arrival ceremony, flourishes and flags, sentinels and orchestras. The press corps waits on standby for these events, eager for a video chat. The chef plans the perfect meals, down to the perfect artistic design to present each dish.

  We have stage performances. Andrea Bocelli, and the ballet. We celebrate wins from our teams, and decorate every Christmas with a gigantic tree with knitted ornaments (Matty proof).

  More than that, the White House is the center where a dozen new treaties have been made. Where several natural disasters have been handled. Where big decisions and changes have begun. The White House is more than just the pomp and the politics, and more than the playground for our son.

  It doesn’t belong to the president, this house; it belongs to the people.

  This is where their futures begin.

  “Hey.” A slow curve twists the corner of Matt’s lips when he spots Jack and me. He loosens the top two buttons of his shirt and rolls his shirtsleeves to his elbows. His groan of satisfaction at having a moment’s relaxation after a full day of work makes my nipples bead.

  He drops beside me. “How was your day?”

  “Good.” I inch a little closer even as he ducks his head—meeting me halfway for a short, light kiss.

  “What are you two up to?” he asks, frowning at Jack and me playfully even as Jack scoots over to join the coddling, pressing his muzzle into Matt’s free hand.

  “We’re enjoying the quiet. While your son sleeps.”

  “How is my legacy?”

  “Growing. My hips are permanently skewed o
utward from carrying him.”

  He laughs.

  “Come here, boy.” He strokes Jack behind the ear. “He’s wearing you down, isn’t he?” he asks Jack.

  Jack licks Matt’s palm and makes a happy groaning sound, and Matt leaves his hand there, stroking him as he leans his head to look at me.

  “You look tired.”

  “I am tired. But now that you’re here, I’m getting a second wind. Tell me about your day.”

  He groans. “I’d rather not wear you down even more. Tell me about yours.”

  “Matty tried to mount one of the ducks in the pond, and he would’ve completely fallen in if Jack hadn’t stuck in his muzzle.”

  “Really?” He arches an eyebrow at Jack, who’s just looking up adoringly at Matt with a gaze that begs his master to keep rubbing his ear. “Good boy,” he says, reaching with his free hand to stroke his thumb down my face. “You think we should get rid of the ducks, then?”

  “Oh no. It’s like baby TV. Matty could watch them for hours.”

  Matt laughs, his laugh making me laugh too.

  Whereas we used to love to talk about politics—it was something that joined us—now we’re so immersed in it that we love talking about other things. Matt loves talking about normal things—I see him crave it, the normalcy he’s never had. But he was meant for greater things; normalcy is a luxury we don’t have. Sometimes, though, we make it for ourselves. And in those moments he’s just Matt, my husband, the father of my son, and the guy I love.

  I lie on his chest and his voice is in my ear while we both pet Jack. “They have a lead.”

  I nearly jump out of my skin. Not because of the words, because we’ve had leads before, but because of the true hope in Matt’s voice. “What? When? Who?” I demand.