Commander in Chief

  I’m blushing head to toe, so thoroughly I don’t even know what to do with myself. “You’re so forward, Mr. President.”

  He laughs, then releases a deep groan and ducks close to my ear. “Think about what I said. Let’s talk about your concerns this weekend.”

  I swallow again. “That sounds good.”

  He nods, releasing me only when we are seconds away from arriving at the fundraiser.

  The state car comes to a stop, and I feel queasy from the stress of my first public appearance. Matt gets out of the car, and I hear the people waiting outside. Some gasp, others sort of whisper, and then the press just starts to roar.

  “PRESIDENT HAMILTON! MR. PRESIDENT!”

  Matt looks into the car and extends his hand to help me out.

  Overwhelming doesn’t cover it. I’m not sure if it’s because it’s our first night out, or if things will always be like this, but I paste a smile on my face even though the strongest urge I have right now is to avoid the cameras. I take his hand for support, slipping my fingers into his as I set my feet on the sidewalk and stand, blinded by the flashes. I slip my arm into the crook of Matt’s and feel him tuck it even tighter as he guides me inside.

  A line of people eager to greet him instantly forms inside the ballroom.

  I stand by his side, meeting friends of his, celebrities.

  Hearing them gush over Matt is amusing, and I’m mind-blown by how easily he steps into his president role—how easily he owns it.

  The way he smiles at the people, sometimes slaps a man’s back as they shake hands, shows how accessible he is, how open, human, and honest. Even in a tux, you can’t miss the ripple of muscle under his jacket and shirt as he moves, shakes hands, is greeted by everyone in the room. It makes the very tips of my breasts sort of ache against the fabric of my dress. And wearing a dress that he sent for me to wear makes me feel so sexy, as if he’s claiming me somehow. After the conversation that we had in the car, knowing that he wants to move forward and make this official causes a fire between my legs whenever our eyes meet.

  Stifling a hot little shiver, I make my legs move around and mingle, making myself accessible too, trying to tell myself this is how my mother would do it. This is how Matthew’s mother would do it.

  I greet ambassadors, congressmen, senators.

  From across the room, Matt watches me, and I can see the admiration in his eyes as I work the room.

  At some point during the first hour, I feel him advance, passing me, his shoulder brushing mine, and he tells me, “Look at you work it,” his voice rough with desire.

  “I know this game’s rules,” I say flippantly.

  He raises his brows. “Do you? Baby, I invented this game.” And just as he leaves to greet an incoming crowd, he whispers in my ear, “I’d kiss you right now, but like I’ve said before, I don’t do things half-ass, especially my woman.”

  And we part again, swallowed by the crowd.

  “But my, was I surprised when President Hamilton announced you. You are so, so very young,” one of the elderly women, a judge, tells me, eyeing me narrowly.

  I swallow nervously, feeling judged. “I am young,” I say. “But you can’t always measure maturity in years. I’m fully devoted to both the president and my role.”

  I ease away, and only after that do I realize what I said.

  I’m fully devoted to the president . . .

  I wonder if he knows that though I’m doing my best to be grateful and polite, to put myself out there, this is hard for me.

  Finding it a little hard to breathe, my dress constricting, I search for him among the crowd. He’s still being chased by a dozen people approaching him to say hello.

  A yearning for something more normal steals into my mind, and suddenly I fully understand Matthew’s own wish for normalcy, growing up the way he did.

  I know that whenever I see him for the following four or eight years, this will be the case. Every time we go out in public, this will be the case—he will be the sun all the planets in our universe gravitate around.

  And the women?

  The women are everywhere.

  I watch them throw themselves at him and I get a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. It’s never-ending. And of course they want him. He is Matthew Hamilton. Not only the hottest bachelor you’ve ever seen, but the country’s most powerful man.

  I’m his acting first lady. I’d thought that it was a good idea to let him do his job, and me mine, before anything about our personal relationship came out. Maybe I’m just trying to get used to the cameras, trying to be sure the people will accept me. I would hate to be the intern the president screwed—any number of scenarios could come up, and a part of me has hoped that if I gain their respect as a first lady, they will accept me, no questions asked.

  I may be deluding myself.

  The press thrives on tiny morsels and tidbits. They can feast on me in a second, and like Matt has said before, people will think what they want to think.

  I’ve wanted them to think he’s available.

  Now I’m so resentful of the situation.

  Feeling my cheeks flush with frustration and a desire to simply breathe, I turn around in search for a safe zone.

  Right this second, I can’t fake the part with so many eyes on me, while all the female eyes are on him. I feel a little bit sick to my stomach wondering if I can really do this—be with someone like him, love someone like him, step up this high to do something of this magnitude.

  I head outside, watching Stacey move across the room to where I’m going.

  “I just want some air,” I explain.

  She speaks into her mic and opens the door for me, and I’m grateful that she gives me space as I head down the long terrace, as far as possible, into the bite of the chilling wind.

  I’m rattled and need some space. I’m trying to compose myself outside, and my heart nearly flies out of my throat when I hear his deep voice behind me. I hadn’t heard him approach. He’s stealthy like that; he comes to you unaware and before you know it, he is EVERYWHERE. Freaking everywhere. In your dreams, in your every thought, right in front of you, so big and beautiful and brawny and elegant and untouchable.

  His voice is low, concerned. “You do realize I’ve never seen you pissed before.”

  I swallow.

  “I know, I . . . I know I asked you to go slow. This is all me, feeling jealous, and wondering if I can do this.” I inhale and search for words. “It’s just hard to share you when we do find time to be together . . .” I turn around to face him.

  There’s a silence. Matt looks at me. “You don’t have to. We don’t have to complicate this, Charlotte.”

  I swallow.

  “You’ve been working the room like a pro, and I’ve never seen anything so beautiful in my life.”

  I inhale and head forward, then I reach out and brush my fingers across the back of his. “You’re worth it. I’d do it a thousand times for you,” I say, and I mean it.

  I squeeze his fingers, stepping toward the room as he opens the door.

  “I do want to come out. Soon. I’m ready. I want you. I want to be with you. I want this. I want everyone to know that I do,” I rush out as I let him go.

  People watch us walk inside, and my breath catches when Matt—Matthew Hamilton—slips his fingers back into mine.

  I almost jerk as a bolt of lightning runs through my body at the gentle but firm grip.

  Oh my fucking god.

  I jerk my eyes to his, asking silently, What are you doing?

  And his eyes are twinkling as he looks down at me, as if expecting my shock. And he says, “Dance with me.”

  “What?” I’m so stunned, everything drowns and fades except the man before me, his eyes dark and coaxing.

  A god, really.

  My throat feels like I’ve got a ball of fire in there somewhere as I try to make it work. I notice the daughter of the attorney general, models and actresses, all glancing this way, and I can’
t help but tease him as I feel that lingering jealousy prick me again. “Are you sure you want to dance with me? You have hundreds of admirers hoping for you to ask.”

  His eyes sparkle with amusement. “I happen to admire only one.” His voice dips as he tugs on my hand. Amusement lost to heat—raw heat simmering with fiery passion. “Come here, Charlotte.”

  I start to shake nervously, but he pulls me to him and onto the dance floor.

  I’m panicked, and also overcome with little bubbles of excitement swimming in my veins. We start dancing. Everything that is him envelops me as cameras flash and people watch him move me around the dance floor.

  He holds me very close, and protectively. My body comes alive at the touch. Arousal swims in my veins. It’s not the appropriate sentiment to feel here, dancing with the president, but I can’t help it. I want him close. I want to feel him inside me. I want him to remind me that of all the women fawning over him, I’m the one he loves—but at the same time, I want to pull away, too afraid of what we’re doing. Of coming out into the light for everyone to know. To see. That Matt and I . . .

  “This isn’t a good idea,” I breathe, aware of people watching with awe and excitement.

  “I don’t care.”

  “Matt—Mr. President,” I protest, hoping that professionalism will change the proprietary look in his eyes. I’m glancing around for an escape route even though I can barely move my legs.

  Our bodies brush as we dance, his legs hard and grazing the sides of mine, his biceps bulging around me as the song swarms around us.

  He simply smiles.

  “You once said you might not mind being by the president’s side,” he says. My libido goes crazy under that smile. His words husky, seducing me. The proximity of his mouth to my earlobe making my heart go haywire.

  “That was before,” I whisper worriedly.

  He captures my gaze with his powerful one. “Before you fell in love with me, or after?”

  We hold each other’s gazes as the song finishes.

  “Before you did this—everyone is looking,” I say, panicked.

  “Good.”

  He’s smiling as he dips me backward for the song’s finale and crushes his mouth to mine, with a little bit of tongue.

  “I cannot believe you did that,” I tell him on our way back.

  “Can you not?” he asks, laughing softly.

  “If I were to go online right now, I bet there are a thousand and one rumors, stories, and the like circulating.”

  “I am not one bit interested in what they are. Neither should you be.” He tugs me forward. “We’re adults. You’re my first lady. We can be together, Charlotte. We are, and we need to face up to the music, regardless of the tune. We will get through this.”

  There’s a silence. Matt holds my face and pulls it up, smiling. “All they know for a fact is that I kissed you. The message implied is clear—you’re mine. I’m dating you, and you’re dating me. Which reminds me, I want to take you out. I’ve been jealous just thinking of you alone with anyone else. I get jealous of every man out there who can be with you, hold your hand and kiss your face. Now it’s me . . .” He presses his lips to mine.

  “You don’t have anything to be jealous of,” I scoff.

  He grabs me by the hips and lifts me to his lap, his eyes blazing with heat and possessiveness.

  “Neither do you. I saw you tonight. You were flushed, jealous of the women greeting me.”

  I bite down on my lip. “You’re . . . their absolute fantasy. Of course I’m jealous. You’re their fantasy and mine.”

  He looks at me biting my lip, and I release it. “You seem to be ignorant of the fact that I’m taken. I’ve been taken for quite some time.”

  Leaning to smooth his tongue over the lip I bit, Matt slides his hand under the skirt of my dress, touching the inside of my thighs with his fingertips. My breath snags in my throat when he caresses the damp spot in my panties.

  His eyes flash when he realizes I’m wet.

  “Lift your dress. I want to feel more of you.”

  I start to lift my dress and part my legs as he presses his lips to mine, opening them so he can rub his tongue over mine as he eases one finger inside me.

  “God, you’re addictive. Who do you want here, beautiful?” he groans, finding me soaked inside.

  I moan into his mouth and link my arms around his neck, thrusting my hips out for his touch.

  “You.”

  “Who does this belong to?” He dips his tongue into my mouth and moves his finger in and out, in and out, driving me crazy. Crazy with jealousy, with desire, with want.

  “You.”

  “That’s right.” He smothers my moans with his mouth.

  17

  A WARNING, PLEASE

  Matt

  Lola slaps a newspaper on my desk the next morning. The headline reads, KISS OF THE AGES: PRESIDENT HAMILTON AND THE FIRST LADY STUN GUESTS WITH A PUBLIC KISS FOR THE HISTORY BOOKS!

  “We need to talk about Charlotte.”

  “No, we don’t.”

  “We’ve created a million new jobs with your new clean energy program and it’s been overshadowed by your little stunt.” She stutters when she realizes what she’s said. “Mr. President. Respectfully.” She nods. “You could’ve warned me,” she hisses.

  “No, Lola, I couldn’t.” I lean back and link my fingers behind my head. “The fact that our million jobs didn’t make the front-page news doesn’t diminish the fact that we are creating new employment. That number will look like kiddie play in a couple more months. Relax.” I lick my thumb and flip through one of the pages on my desk.

  She exhales.

  “I will give you a heads-up,” I add, pausing a moment. “I’m going to marry her.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “What I said. Thank you, Lola.” I dismiss her.

  Our country is broken. Jacobs was a weak president. So many minorities have been ignored. The problem in the Middle East is raging full force.

  I have other shit to do than worry about the media.

  She’s wide-eyed and blanching. “How will I handle the press?”

  “They don’t need to be handled. I’ll take care of it when the time comes. Make some calls. Be sure we get some features on what we’re doing. Besides me kissing the first lady.” I smirk.

  She smirks back, then seems to catch herself and shakes her head. “Mr. President.”

  And she excuses herself, while I gaze at the headline. There’s a photo of Charlotte in my arms, her hands on my shoulders—she was pushing me back but, oh, that mouth was definitely opening beneath mine.

  Lola wanted a warning?

  I didn’t even get one myself.

  I want to worship this girl. I wanted to glide my hands all over her body. Hundreds of women were trying to catch my attention, and the only one it lingered on last night was her.

  I really hadn’t planned to make a scene. Lose my shit. I’m used to being tightly controlled. Blame it on all those expectations. The expectations for me to carry on as a Hamilton, the whole world resting on my shoulders. With her, it feels like she wants me to be nothing more than I am, nothing less. Everybody else is asking questions, what my stance is . . . not Charlotte. I know she secretly loves it when I lose control, and I lost it well and good last night.

  I went with it. I wanted her mouth—I wanted them all to see her, in my arms. Mine, mine, mine.

  This girl has seen me, every side of me, and still she looks at me like a sun.

  She’s concerned; she wanted me to take it easy. Now I feel like I can do anything but.

  My father cast my mother into the shadows, and keeping Charlotte close yet far away . . . I cannot do that. I want her up in the limelight, with me. First lady, not feeling like a secret: a true wife. She deserves better than what she thinks she does.

  I want more for her.

  I want more for myself. Yeah, I want her more than ever. Her passion, her kindness, her realness, her ability t
o laugh . . . Her.

  I’m in over my head for this girl. Once I thought I couldn’t do both, govern a broken country and have her. But I know now that I will die trying to do both. This is who I am. I’m the president and a man. She’s the girl I love and the woman I want to spend my life with.

  Really, it can be as simple as that.

  I toss aside the newspaper Lola dumped on my desk, then glance at my watch to check for my next meeting just when Portia announces, “Mr. President, Mr. Cox from the Federal Bureau of Investigation here to see you.”

  I stand and button my jacket as Cox strides inside, extending his hand in greeting over my desk. “Cox,” I say, reciprocating. We both take a seat.

  “We followed through, checked the scarf for fingerprints and traced the prints to a store in the D.C. area. The owner confirmed that the president’s wife was a customer of their store and that President Law frequently ordered them to choose his gifts for her.”

  “He had this to give to my mother. Jesus.” I scrape a hand over my jaw as frustration gnaws me raw.

  “We’re following every thread no matter how minor,” Cox assures me.

  I level him a look. “Do that.”

  18

  WAKE UP THE PRESIDENT

  Charlotte

  After THE kiss of the decade, we’re watching TV the following evening as Matt steps out of the shower, a towel draped over his hips. He looks like God embodied in a damn dark-haired, espresso-eyed, edible human candy bar. I cannot believe he kissed me. With tongue. In front of hundreds of people and, it seems, the whole wide world.

  “. . . stunned when President Hamilton kissed the first lady on the dance floor. White House press has been asking the question on everyone’s mind during this morning’s press conference. Is President Hamilton dating Miss Charlotte Wells? The official stance of the White House is yes.”