Commander in Chief (White House #2)(33)

I’m loose in bed, languid in his arms, Matt chuckling when I groan as if in pain.

“You okay?” He cups my face and inspects my features, then all of me, sort of in a concerned but admiring way.

“Better than okay. I just bagged the president.” I smile, a sad, forlorn, haunted smile, then Matt looks down at me as he pinches my nipple, playfully.

“I just fucked the daylights out of the first lady and I don’t intend to let up anytime soon.”

Matt brings a Kleenex and wipes me between my legs, and watching him do this makes my heart sort of crumble.

“I’m sorry. I got carried away. I’ll be more careful.” He cups my face and kisses my forehead, looking into my eyes. “Are we going to be okay?”

I look into his eyes, realizing what he’s asking me. If there’s a risk of me getting pregnant.

“I think we’re okay,” I breathe, then nod more firmly. “Yes.”

He smiles at that, kisses me on the lips. “You felt incredible,” he assures.

When he returns and sits at the side of the bed, he’s silent, and although he’s leaning forward on his elbows, his broad shoulders tense.

“If you need to go, I don’t want to keep you,” I whisper.

He drags a hand over his face and glances at me. “Nothing I can do right now. I made the call. I’m meeting in the Situation Room”—he glances at the clock on the nightstand, then shakes his head—“later.”

I knee my way on the bed toward him. “Will they be okay?”

He clenches his jaw as I wrap my arms around his shoulders. “I’m betting a rescue team of eight on that.” He nods firmly, his eyes glazed, warlike.

“Can I do anything?” I ask.

He kisses me, thoughtful. “Pray.”

“I’m sorry this happened.”

“There’s a price for peace. Always.” He looks at me. “But it’s worth it.” He runs a hand down the back of my head. “Go to sleep, baby.”

I lie back down, and he stretches out beside me, a pillow propped behind his back as he pulls me to his side.

My eyes drift shut. No matter what goes on outside this room, in these arms, I feel safer than I ever do anywhere else, and the relaxation seeps into my pores as I drift off and keep my arms around him—as if I, just a small, normal girl, could somehow comfort the most powerful man in the world.

I wake up at 5 a.m. Matt isn’t there. I sit up. “Matt?”

I look around the empty bedroom, ease out of bed, and quickly get dressed. I find him in the small family kitchen. “Are you all right?”

He takes my hand and draws me to sit next to him, then he presses his thumb into my palm, quiet. My heart speeds up with a mix of panic and dread. It feels as if my ribs have just collapsed in my chest, crushing my lungs.

“I had an early meeting in the Situation Room.”

I know why. It’s not easy to make the hard calls. But then our eyes connect again, and a smile tugs his lips. “It’s done. The men are free. A couple wounded, but no casualties. The rescue team did an outstanding job.”

“Oh, thank god.”

“Yeah, thank god.”

“And you. And them.”

He rakes a hand through his hair, then pulls me to him, pressing his lips to mine. Pressing them hard.

“Mr. President,” a Secret Service agent says. “Marine One’s ready, sir.”

“Let’s go,” he tells the agent as he reaches for the suit jacket he has draped behind his chair. “They’re flying them in. I’ll be there to receive them.”

“I have to do a talk at a middle school in New Orleans.”

He nods. “I’ll see you this weekend.”

He’s flying to Fort Lee.

I watch out the window as several marine helicopters depart at the same time. Only one carries Matt.





19





HOME





Matt



I spend two days with our men and their families. I engaged in a meeting with some of my generals, and requested several new and detailed plans for the handling of the Middle East crisis.

It’s late evening when I climb into the state car along with Wilson, who joins me in the back as we head to Marine One to return to D.C.

“She’s home?” I ask Wilson.

It’s pretty convenient that my agents have constant contact with her.

I’m eager to see her. I shed more than my clothes when I’m with her. I shed every preconceived notion of who I should be. My last name, the presidency, everything is gone—only I remain. A man, flesh and blood, not perfect, but trying his damn best to be, and a man who wants her. Bad.

“Yes, sir.” Even Wilson sounds amused.

Shit, I’m too old for this.

My heart is pounding like a wild thing and I’m drumming my fingers on our way there.

Just remembering the way she gave herself to me, open to whatever I needed, so sweet and vulnerable, makes me thirstier, hungrier.

I reach the White House and Jack is barking at the top of his lungs. “Go find her,” I say.

And I follow him as he dashes up the steps and stops at her room, wagging his tail.

“Good boy.” I pat the back of his head, then I twist the knob, telling him under my breath, “Stay,” and walk inside.