Commander in Chief (White House #2)(31)

I can feel it—the electricity between us, the connection too strong to deny, always there, crackling, whipping around us, tugging us closer and closer yet never close enough.

We make fierce love. He tells me how beautiful I am, how special, how much he wants me. We’re sweaty and sated, my body buzzing in the aftermath, when there’s a knock on the door.

Matt leaps out of bed and slips into his slacks.

“Mr. President.” It’s Dale Coin’s voice.

Matt swings the door open and I pull the sheets up, mortified and scared to see the grim look on Dale’s face.

“There’s been a situation. Six of our crew members have been taken hostage in Syria.”

From lowered lids, Matt shoots a commanding look at me. “I’ll be back.”

“Matthew . . .” I begin, just not knowing what to say.

His eyes meet mine harshly as he slips on his shirt.

A knife of pain and concern for our people gets trapped in my throat. Matt charges down the hall, and I get dressed quickly and head to my own bedroom, where I pace, pace, pace—and pray.

I see it on the news.

The harsh reality of every catastrophe that happens to the United States of America too close now. So close. So real.

These are our people. My country attacked. My guy.

This being first lady isn’t just the interviews, the pretty dresses. It’s everything else.

I’m not sure I’m prepared. That the little bubble of a perfect life my parents created for their only daughter prepared me for this—to live this so closely.

It’s hard to keep my hope alive when I see the burning American flag on television that the rebel forces in Syria have lit.

The exploded armament trucks that had carried our troops.

I break down and cry, and I eventually fall asleep, only to wake up to my bedroom door being opened.

Matthew’s silhouette fills the doorway.

Whatever he’s ordered done—is done. I can see it in his eyes.

And a part of me doesn’t want to know if it will take more casualties, what the exact situation is.

I’m scared. I’m hurting for our country. I’m hurting for my president.

He starts walking forward, and I stand on wobbly legs, the urge to embrace him and have him embrace me too strong—but the pain feels just as strong.

He tugs on the flimsy ribbon holding my nightgown closed. “Are you okay?” I whisper.

His hand pauses; he looks at me.

“Do you want to talk?” I ask.

“No,” he rasps.

I slide my fingers up his jaw, the stubble abrading my fingertips as I rise up on tiptoe and kiss him. No tongue, just a kiss. “I don’t know what I can do. The whole country is crying. I feel a pain like I’ve never experienced, as if the whole world’s pain is mine now.”

“It is. It’s ours.” His eyes hold mine. My lungs feel like rocks; no amount of air is able to fill them.

“Let me just . . .” I glance down at myself, sure that my eyes are swollen and I look a sight. I want to look pretty; I want him to lose himself in me. I want him to take whatever he needs.

I head to the bathroom. I inhale and put water on my face, brush my hair. Try to look pretty for him. I pry the nightgown off—stripping. Stripping for him.

I step out, and he’s gone.

I fasten on a robe and head out of my room. He’s sitting in the Oval, his head in his hands, staring blindly down at some papers.

I walk in and he lifts his head, and I open my robe. “If you think I can’t handle what you have to give me right now, you’re wrong,” I say, my voice thick with emotion.

His jaw starts ticking as I shrug my arms from my robe sleeves.

He comes to a stand and I throw the robe at my feet. He catches me when I approach, boosts me up to his desk, spreads my legs open, and licks me.

Right there.

I come.

I come.

A moan of ecstasy slips past my lips as I jerk beneath his mouth, coming with his mouth pressing tighter and deeper on me, Matt drinking up my orgasm like a starved man.

I sag with a soft cry.

Matt eases himself up and looks down at me, his pupils so dilated I can hardly make out the color of his eyes.

He scoops me up and covers me with my robe.

And steps outside.

“Sir,” Secret Service says as he steps forward.

“I’ve got her,” he tells both the agent and the doorman who walks him to his room every day when he also steps up to help. He motions to me to follow.

The staff that we pass on our way there? They smile under their gazes, and too late I worry that this will erupt into a media frenzy.

“My bedroom is that way.” I point when we reach the residence.

“We’re not going to your bedroom.”

The doorman opens the door to Matt’s bedroom, and Matt thanks him. “Go to bed, Bill—we’re done here.”

The door shuts behind us as he drops me down on the bed. I cling and kiss him, burning for him.

He strips quickly and I look at him. All that strength. His muscled arms with silky, dark hairs running along the backs of his forearms. The soft mat of hair on his chest and the line tapering beneath his pants. My gaze following the arrow of hair from his belly button down to the cock beneath.

He crawls on the bed over me, his body hovering over mine, and we’re eye to eye.