Commander in Chief (White House #2)(19)

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Charlotte



On our way back to D.C., we kiss at leisure in the bedroom of Air Force One. I’m on his lap, burning for him.

“I’m thirsty for you, too thirsty to get enough,” he growls.

We lose it. He sweeps down and grabs me against him, and I grab him by the shirt and kiss him back, raw and hot this time, out of control, his lips dominating and hungry, mine moving just as fast, an inferno of heat and longing blazing between us.

Matt coaxes my tongue into his mouth, groaning, massaging my butt with his hands.

“You’re mine. Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours.”

“I’m sick of hiding. I understand we need to take it step by step with the public, but Charlotte, I want you in my bed—I want inside you. Two steps into my room, we’ll be tearing off our clothes and nothing is going to come between us—nothing.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of. I need to be sure I can truly be the first lady that the country needs.”

“You are not just your job—you are a woman, and you’re the woman I need.”

He covers my breast with one hand and thrusts his tongue into my mouth, faster, harder, and I’m dying from the way he seems to need me. I grab fistfuls of his hair, lost, moaning and groaning, our hands running over each other, our mouths crazy.

“Soon,” I breathe. He groans. “I’m sick of cold showers.”

“I’m sorry. I’m physically in pain.”

“Focus on what you’re sitting on and you’ll realize you’re not alone.”

I smile, quivering in desire. “Soon.”





11





ADJUSTING





Charlotte



Matthew has flown out for a meeting with the prime minister of Canada, and I spend the next few days adjusting to life in the White House.

I look at the menus on Sunday, and I tell the chef that I really don’t think we need to have fancy menus or fancy desserts on a daily basis, that plain apple pie will do.

He created this version of an apple pie that’s several layers, has a bit of cheesecake mingled in with the cinnamon apples, and I’ve never tasted anything so divine in my life.

“I’ve never gone to a restaurant with food as good as the food you cook, Chef.”

“It’s our job to keep you well fed and happy—and it’s our job to make you and our country look good with all our visiting foreign dignitaries.”

We’re hosting a state dinner for President Asaf in two months and before he left, Matt said, “Spare no expense.”

One of the things I learned upon arrival at the White House was that the first family pays for their personal expenses, including their staff and food. “Matt—I know your family has money, but you’ll leave with no money if you—”

He started laughing, then assured me, “Spare no expense. This is the United States of America, and the White House. It’s an investment.”

“If we stick to a reasonable budget for the state dinner, the State Department will foot the bill,” Clarissa assured me when I expressed my concern to her, later.

I occasionally wander around the house with the curator, asking him to teach me about the artwork and the relics. There is so much history here. So much heart and depth. I love it, but I haven’t seen Matthew for days.

I’ve looked at my schedule and had chats with my press secretary, chief of staff, and social director, and I’m tempted to work my schedule around his when he returns, when Clarissa tells me, “The president’s chief of staff asked me to adjust your schedule so you could do several events with him.”

I blush. Is he as eager about seeing me as I am him? “Absolutely; it’s my pleasure.”

She and the social director sort of look at each other in mischief. I laugh. “I know what you’re thinking.”

“We didn’t say a word.”

“Look, we’re both really interested in doing our best here—”

“We’re not judging, Miss Wells, on the contrary. You look good together.”

I just smile, not knowing what to say. I miss him so much. It’s still incredible for me to be here, that we’re giving this a shot.

A day before Matt is due to return, I just can’t take it a second longer. I head to the West Wing.

“Portia, could you connect me with the president?”

“I . . . he’s on Air Force One. Let me see if I can get him.”

After a moment, I wait for him to take the call.

“Hey.” His voice is husky.

“I’m sorry to bother you—are you busy? Oh, I’m sure you are.” I laugh and exhale. “I miss you.”

“I miss you too.”

“Would you have dinner with me in the Old Family Dining Room tomorrow?”

“I’m there,” he says without hesitation.

I’m nervous about going through with this. I need that connection. I’m going crazy for it. I want his strength, I want his arms around me, I want him. I just want him and I want him to know how much he is wanted by me.



Matt