Commander in Chief

  She climbs into the back of the car with me and we head off in one of the presidential limos.

  “What just happened?” I ask her.

  “You’re America’s sweetheart. They love you, miss.”

  “Charlotte,” I correct. I stare wide-eyed out the window, never having imagined the people would embrace me like this.

  Matt

  “The first lady on the Today Show,” Dale says.

  I walk forward, lean on the couch, and watch her.

  “She’s the darling of the country,” Dale adds.

  I watch the TV as she blows them away, every single person she walks by. “Look at you,” I purr.

  7

  GLOVES

  Charlotte

  I received a book with the pictures and names of everyone working in the White House—it’s a security measure, I was told, in case I spot someone who seems unfamiliar—and I’ve been poring over the book to be sure I know them all.

  I’m eyeing it a second time the next morning when I hear Clarissa’s voice at my East Wing office door.

  “The president sent this.”

  She’s holding a silver box with a white ribbon.

  I feel my lips part involuntarily.

  I resist the urge to tear into the package. That’s just not how a first lady would act. So I stand up and accept the box, then set it on my desk and open it carefully, removing the ribbon, unfolding every corner of the wrapping, and lifting the lid.

  Inside are two beautiful elbow-length white satin gloves.

  In all seriousness?

  I’ve never been so turned on. It’s not the fact that he sent a gift that is sexy in itself, but the fact that he wants me to feel like I belong here. As his first lady.

  I’m done. I’m a goner. Is it possible to fall in love with a man all over again? I think I just did. Even when I’ve never, for a moment, stopped loving him.

  I spot him later that day as I head down the hall, trying to memorize where everything is and personally greet the staffers by name.

  The sight of the tall, dark-haired man walking with an entourage of four men around him makes my heart stop in my chest.

  He stops walking when he spots me, then plunges a hand into his slacks pocket, gives a half smile, and starts forward.

  He’s wearing his glasses.

  My mouth is dry and the part between my thighs, way too wet.

  “Charlotte. I’d like to invite you to dinner in the Old Family Dining Room tonight. If you wouldn’t mind looking at the menu.”

  Our eyes meet, and I’m hot all over. “If I can find the dining room,” I say.

  Under the rim of those gold-rimmed Ray-Ban glasses, the smile touches his eyes. “Someone will make sure you do so.”

  “I know. They always do.” I smile and glance around as the men wait in standby, and the staffers continue bustling past and carrying out their respective duties. “I’m actually supposed to go meet the chef this afternoon—I’m to review the menus for the week.”

  “That’s very considerate of you, Miss Wells.”

  I know he’s teasing me—and it feels good. I miss him. I want to flirt more. To talk and hear about everything he’s doing. But now is not the time. “I feel so bad having so many people wait on us,” I whisper.

  His gaze turns somber. “They’re trying to make our lives easier, get the little things perfect so we can focus on the big ones.”

  I nod, smiling. “I’ll see you tonight.”

  He nods and heads to the West Wing.

  The Old Family Dining Room, it turns out, is the smaller dining room in the White House, and I’m grateful to be seated at a normal-sized table that seats up to six—one from Matt’s personal, more modern furniture collection. He sits at the head, my place setting to his right, and we dine on the White House chef’s version of a personal favorite meal of mine.

  “I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I had them make Mom’s special quinoa, which my mother and Jessa had made for you and your dad. The first time we met.”

  “I remember. You were a cute little thing. Full of fire.”

  “Full of fire for you,” I mumble, rolling my eyes.

  His eyes widen in surprise over my comment, and then a laugh rumbles up his chest, but that delicious laugh doesn’t last long, and then he’s frowning darkly. “You were too young, baby.”

  “With big feelings awakening,” I groan, shaking my head over the pain he caused me and my “awakening” years.

  He shoots me a chiding smirk, his gaze dropping to my lips.

  “Matt …” I breathe, recognizing the look in his eyes.

  He leans forward, our eyes inches apart. His voice is so rough and raw it cuts me up on the inside. “I miss you. I miss touching you. I want to be able to kiss you anywhere, anytime I want.”

  My thighs press together under the table. “I want that too, but this is such a big change for me.”

  “Do I get a kiss for the gloves, at least?”

  My body keeps tightening with yearning, but I manage to control myself and say, “Yes, but not here. Tonight when we’re alone.”

  His eyes darken intensely. “Mmm. I look forward to that.” He scoops an especially large forkful of quinoa into his mouth.

  After dinner, we sit in the Yellow Oval Room on the second floor for drinks. He nods at Wilson in some sort of silent indication, and we get the privacy that we want as the agents scatter. I turn to Matt on the couch, his posture relaxed, but his gaze about as relaxed as an inferno in full blaze.

  “Don’t move,” I warn. “It’s just a little kiss. If you move then I won’t be able to control myself.”

  His raspy laugh surrounds me. “Baby, I can’t control myself when you look at me like that …” He strokes his hand down my cheek, his stare crackling with raw intensity.

  “Shh. Close your eyes.”

  I straddle him, and Matt slides his hands to cup my butt rebelliously but closes his eyes. And oh, how close I feel, how safe I feel, how hot I feel.

  I look at his face and I feel like exploding from the inside out and imploding from the outside in. I love him so much. I trace his lips with my fingertip. He bites me. “Don’t,” I giggle.

  He groans, his eyes still closed.

  “Stay still,” I say.

  He stills, lips quirked.

  I lean my head and press my lips to his. A thousand shots of lightning course through my veins when he parts his mouth. I lick into him, and his hands slide down the small of my back, grinding me to his hard cock as he plunges his wet tongue into my mouth. He holds my ass in both hands, and his touch sets the butterflies off in my stomach. Memories of us threaten to drown me—every moment, every kiss.

  I link my hands behind his neck, and though Matt isn’t moving, I feel his power, his hold on me and my heart.

  “Thank you for my gloves,” I say, breathless, as I ease back.

  He smiles, shifting forward as I get up on trembling feet, his mouth red, his hair mussed. “You’re welcome. Thank you for putting in all that effort for our dinner.”

  “I enjoyed it.” I exhale. “I’d better go. We both need to be ready for tomorrow.”

  He just smiles, watching me in silence as I leave.

  The French president is holding a state dinner in Matt’s honor, and all the arrangements to my schedule were automatically made to be sure I could accompany him.

  I’m excited, nervous, and still aroused from that silly little kiss.

  So excited and aroused that I just can’t sleep. I know that Matt doesn’t sleep, because the door to his bedroom never shuts all night.

  8

  AIR FORCE ONE

  Charlotte

  The last time I crossed the Atlantic, it was to try to put distance between us. Today I’m crossing it by his side. We board Marine One on the South Lawn of the White House. The motorcade creates too much traffic for people’s everyday commute.

  Soon we reach the airport and are escorted to the long, open steps leading up to
Air Force One, the American flag proudly on its tail.

  The president motions me to go ahead, and my heart is pounding as I walk onto the biggest private plane I’ve ever beheld. It’s beyond luxurious, tastefully decorated in beige tones and dark woods.

  I wander down the hall and peer into the rooms and separate seating areas.

  I can’t believe we’re on Air Force One. I’m sort of embarrassed by how blown away I feel and how calm everyone else seems as Matthew’s staff heads to the main seating area. I try to keep a grip as I walk down the plane aisle when I notice Matt two steps behind me. He’s wearing a navy-blue bomber jacket with the presidential seal and I want to rip it off him.

  “Big change from our days campaigning, huh?” I whisper, eyeing everything with admiration, gasping when the rooms continue. “Oh god, it’s like a hotel in the air, conference room, office . . .” I add. I open one door and gasp again. “Bedroom?” I ask him over my shoulder.

  “Yep.”

  I walk in to see, and then I hear the door shut behind us.

  I whirl around, and Matt is shrugging off his jacket.

  I open my mouth but no words come out. The only things working really are my sexy parts, the flood of liquid heat between my thighs, the hard beads of my nipples pressing against the soft cashmere of my sweater and the lace of my bra.

  Matt sees.

  He sees—my pointed nipples, poking in salute, my breasts feeling sensitive, my cheeks flushing as I start to pant.

  “I’ve got to get some work done. But nothing will get done until I do this.”

  The whispers trigger a tremor down my spine as he approaches.

  Matt tugs his button-down shirt from the waistband of his slacks, and takes my hands and slides them up his chest. Then he steals his own under my cashmere sweater, pulling me flush to him—our fingers touching each other’s bare skin. His eyes a whole world of fire.

  “Your enthusiasm for all this affects me deeply, baby,” he rasps, rubbing his thumb over my lower lip.

  I moan in anticipation as he leans down and sets a kiss on my forehead. “I know we said slow. So I’m going to kiss you. Very, very slow. Because when you ooh and ahh all over Air Force One, and all over Élysée Palace when we arrive, I want you to have my taste in your mouth, and I want every ooh and ahh to taste like me,” he rasps, and his lips slide, ever so slowly, torturously slowly, down my nose. My breath catches, and Matt inhales deeply, as if breathing me in, prolonging my torture and his own, before he whispers, “Now kiss me back, C, like you mean it. Like you miss me,” as he presses his lips directly to my mouth.

  I shudder at the contact, parting my mouth. Flicking my tongue out. Pressing closer to him. His groan is about as drugging as his kiss.

  And his kiss.

  It’s not just drugging. It’s soul-shattering, chest-imploding. Wet and hard. My hands are on his shoulders. His arm is sliding around my waist, pressing our upper halves flush. Our lips are fusing, moving, Matt’s so strong and hungry.

  He runs his tongue around mine, then suckles me into his mouth.

  We kiss for what feels like forever and at the same time, not long enough. We ease apart, but Matt remains too close, intently looking down at me. I run my tongue over my lips, and they feel swollen and sensitive because of his kiss.

  His gaze is hot, and god how I miss him.

  Matt is gazing at me with eyes that look very dark.

  He clenches his jaw. He uses his thumb to rub my lower lip and part it from the top.

  I meet him halfway; I reach up and grab his hair, parting my mouth and flicking my tongue out.

  I sink a little into his body, into his kiss.

  He holds my face in one hand until he tears his lips away, glancing at my mouth. “If I don’t stop now, everyone will know you’ve been kissed senseless.”

  He looks at my kissed lips with male pride and not one bit of apology.

  I swallow, out of breath.

  He slips his hand up my back, under my sweater, touching my bare skin.

  I moan and leave my hands on his shoulders for a bit.

  There’s something predatory as he looks down at me, releasing me only when the pilots announce that we will be taking off shortly.

  He grins. “Settle down somewhere for takeoff. Take a nap if you feel like it. I’m reviewing policy in the effort to enjoy you as much as possible in Paris.”

  I swallow as a bolt of excitement at the prospect rushes through me, and nod.

  I find a place to sit and strap down, watching D.C. beneath us as we take off and cross the ocean, and for a strange reason, I feel humbled and undeserving to be flying here, with the president, the whole United States depending on us to represent our country the way it deserves.

  I have no doubt Matt will—he does it effortlessly; he’s got red, white, and blue in his veins. I’m just a girl who used to work at Women of the World, a senator’s daughter who wanted to make a difference but never dreamed she could make one on this scale. And I’m faced with the doubts I suppose we’re all faced with, wondering if we’re enough, if we have the mettle to back up the shiny illusion of our best version of ourselves in our minds. But that’s the point, isn’t it? To try to chase it, even if it may always feel elusive.

  Except this dream is too big for me to fail at. I want to be a great first lady; I want to be a great woman deserving of a great man. The man I love.

  9

  ÉLYSÉE PALACE

  Charlotte

  “Président Hamilton!”

  We’re greeted by the French paparazzi piling outside Élysée Palace, and inside the gates and out on the steps, the President and First Lady of France await us with a grand welcome and give us a tour of the palace. I walk along the gardens with the first lady as the presidents head to do state business and talk about the mutual problems we’re facing—among them, ISIS. Once they’re finished, Matt meets me and an usher leads us to our bedroom before the state dinner they’re holding in his honor.

  “President Hamilton, if you please, our grandest guest room.” The usher motions for Matt to step inside, and adds, “And First Lady,” nodding as he motions for me to follow Matthew, and then departs.

  I feel the blood in my veins sizzle a little bit as the realization hits me.

  Matt

  Charlotte looks confused. She follows me inside and as soon as she walks in, I reach out with one arm and shut the door behind her.

  “One room?” she asks.

  “They don’t need to know the details of our arrangement.”

  She scowls, possibly noticing how happy I am about this setup. I’m exhausted, but the thought of having her all to myself shoots pure adrenaline into my veins.

  She changed on the plane. She’s wearing a prim ivory-colored skirt and jacket, and the gloves I sent. I peel the glove off her right hand, exposing her fingers, and lift them to my mouth. I take her middle finger between my lips and teeth. I taste her. Suck gently. Watching her eyes shutter and her breasts rise as her breath catches. “I want you. Tell me you want me. You want this.”

  Her eyes glaze over.

  “Tell me you miss this,” I press.

  “I . . .”

  I don’t let her find the words. Immediately I remove her other glove and lift her hand to my mouth. This time I drop a kiss in the center of her soft palm.

  “You don’t miss any of it?” My voice is hoarse from my need. “Not even this?” I lick her palm, then kiss the inside of her wrist. Nibbling and tasting her skin.

  Her eyelids become heavy. Her pupils dilate as she watches me drag my lips all along the sensitive skin on the inside of her arm. Against her skin, I whisper, “Maybe you just forgot. Maybe we need to figure out if you remember anything. Anything at all.”

  I pluck open the top button of her jacket.

  At this point she’s panting visibly. I like it.

  Hell, I like it too much.

  My own lungs feel constricted in my chest, and my cock is swelled to maximum capacity.
One flick of her eyes in that direction makes her notice. And blush.

  “I remember,” she says, swallowing thickly.

  I undo the next two buttons and spread her jacket open. “What do you remember, Charlotte?” My voice has thickened. My own eyes feel heavy but I can’t take them away from her, from this girl—this woman, this lady. My first lady. “Do you remember this?” I ease my hand between her thighs, under her skirt, and caress her over her panties.

  I find her wet for me—ready for me—and I feel my heartbeat accelerate. The need to feel her around me, to be inside her, make love to her, fuck this need inside of her simmers in my veins.

  She swallows audibly.

  I push up her skirt and look at her—swollen and wet, her panties tight over her sex, the fabric damp, and my eyes fucking hurt.

  I lean over, my forehead touching hers, my eyes fixed on hers as I pull down her panties until they fall at her ankles. She steps away from them—closer to me. I insert one finger into her opening, seeking her depths. And god, she’s so snug. So wet she’s soaking me down to the base of my finger.

  “Do you remember?” I press, doing nothing but touching her between her legs, watching her pant as I slide my finger in and almost out, deeper in and almost out. Her eyes drift shut as she fights this, fights me.

  I use my free hand to undo the top buttons of the silk blouse she’s wearing under her jacket, part it open, and I duck my head. I coast my breath over the swell of her breast, the move designed to break her defenses, make her mine again. “Do you remember this?” I kiss the top swell of her breast.

  She inhales and moves her hips to my finger. I move my mouth downward, to her nipple, and circle the tip with my tongue over the silk of her bra, marking the spot wetly. I suck her into my mouth then, fabric and all, and find her nub with my thumb. I circle it, watching the pleasure take her over—and I’m high on it. I’m high on her. High on the act of giving her pleasure alone.