Commander in Chief (White House #2)(41)

He laughs a little, shakes his head, then narrows his eyes as I take him in again, and he’s hard and he looks like he’s doing everything possible not to lose it—so he can make it last.

He grips my hair in a fist and begins to thrust rhythmically. God, I’m the one losing it so bad. I sink him in deeper, watching him, stroking my hand along his ab muscles, unsure of whether he’s the one setting the rhythm as he drives into my mouth or if it’s my head, moving frantically up and down.

He lets a low sound loose and grabs the back of my head a bit firmer, and I’m so hot I feel myself shiver as Matt feeds himself into my mouth, not once taking his eyes off me, not even when he finally lets himself go, his eyes flashing with passion as he comes with a soft growl, driving in as deep as he can so that I’ll get to drink every last drop in him.

He zips up when we’re done, grinning. “Your turn.” He grabs me by the hips and lifts me to his shoulders, carrying me to my bedroom.

I squeak, laughing, my arms going around his neck. “This is supposed to be about you.”

“Oh, don’t worry, it’s about me.” He smirks as he drops me on the bed and slowly starts pulling down the zipper on the side of my dress.



When we’re done, we lie in my bed for hours, naked and spent. It’s nighttime already, and I’ve been wanting to hear all about Africa, but I sense he’s tired, his voice groggy, his expression thoughtful. He seems to be keener to talk about me and what I’ve been up to.

“What else but planning your wedding?” I frown. “It’s not easy to plan a thousand-guest wedding in a month.”

He smiles, running his hand over the back of my head, looking at me with that quiet possessiveness I’ve come to know so well.

“The team wants to know if we’ll agree to have the wedding televised.” I study his chiseled features. “What do you think?”

“I’m all right either way.” His eyebrows furrow thoughtfully. “We can’t hold a secret wedding—now that we’ve come out. I have no problem coming full out if that’s what you want to do.”

“I don’t know. I know you like your privacy, but these four years, they don’t come with that. Everyone is so excited.” I shrug. “There’s no reason why only the bad things need to make the news—we can put a good thing on the news too.”

“Then let’s go for it,” he says easily.

“And the vows? Will we write our own?”

“No,” he says. “The traditional vows say everything I want to say, and whatever more there is, I’d like them to be ours.” He cups my face and rolls over on top of me, looking into my eyes. “If I want to say more, I’ll tell it to you. In private. I might let the public enjoy you a little bit, but you’re mine. Just mine.”

He kisses me, and before we leave, we make love one more time.



I thought we were heading to the White House, and I’m surprised when the state car stops at a five-star steak restaurant, very well known in D.C.

Wilson tells Matt, “Everything is ready, sir.”

And suddenly Matt is pulling me out of the car and into the restaurant.

A restaurant that seems to have been fully vacated for us to have dinner in private.

“What is this?” I ask, eyes wide as I look at Matthew.

“I can’t marry you without an official first date. Now can I?” He pulls out a chair at a table by the window with a small candle flickering at its center, and I sit down and watch in awe as he takes the seat across from mine.

“I haven’t even eaten and this is already the best date I’ve ever had in my life.”

He rewards me with a delicious laugh.

And I remember the wink of a young man teasing a little girl, so many years ago.

“You do like every man’s attention on you, don’t you,” he teases me.

“Not every man’s, just the ones who capture mine,” I joke.

“I’d better be the only one now,” he says.

I smile, glancing at the engagement ring on my finger.

I slide my hand over the table, seizing his. “I love you,” I say, breathless and swooning inside.

He places a kiss on the back of my hand. “I love you too, baby.”

I move the index finger and thumb of my free hand an inch apart over the table. “This much?”

“Not that much.”

“Matthew!” I chide, pulling my hand free with a playful scowl.

Soon, several waiters approach us with a bottle of their best wine.

“Mr. President, First Lady. An honor to serve you tonight.”

While the waiter uncorks the wine, Matt looks at the menu. “Bring us all of the house specialties. Bring us each a different plate so we can taste them all.”

“Absolutely, Mr. President.”

We drink a light red wine, and once the plates are on the table, he looks at me, his espresso eyes piercing intuitively into mine. “How’s your lemon sole?” he asks as we dig in.

“Oh, so good.” And it really is.

He reaches out with his fork and steals a little piece from my plate, slipping it into his mouth. “Hmm, that is good.”

I pick up a piece of cut steak from his plate and speak through the corner of my mouth as I savor. “That’s good too.”