Commander in Chief (White House #2)(63)

We’re in his bedroom faster than I imagined possible.

Desire crackles in our kiss as he shuts the door behind us. My fingers wind into his hair as he lays me down on his bed, our kiss heated but tender. Our breathing is uneven, mine quick and shallow, his deep and harsh. He drops to his knees on the bed and lifts my skirt, grabbing the hem and raising it to my hips. I groan as he presses his mouth on my abdomen.

And then his tongue.

So delicious.

So hot. So quick. So expert as he kisses my navel, then kisses the scar of my C-section.

He works his lips up my tummy and toward my breasts, and he cups them under my blouse and gently caresses. He flicks his thumb around the peak, then eases my top upward and sucks it until I groan. “I can’t wait, Charlotte. I’m starving for you.”

I rip open his shirt in my urgency. He runs his hands up and down the sides of my body. We both bare each other as quickly as we can. By the time he’s got me stripped, I’ve shoved his pants down his legs and he’s kicking them off and stretching on top of me.

He’s so beautiful. His muscles smooth and hard, perfectly delineated. I remembered how gorgeous he was, but I suspect he’s been working out a bit more than he had been—sexual frustration, maybe. The thought makes me melt. He really looks a bit thicker and more muscular, and I let my fingers enjoy his hard work. I lean over and kiss his nipple, my fingers brushing over the dusting of hair on his chest.

I’m rewarded by a low, pained sound. “Lick it harder,” he says. Voice rough and raw.

“Matt,” I moan.

He releases a smile as he looks down at me, eating me up with his eyes, caressing me everywhere. He tells me I’m gorgeous as he moves his finger inside me. “Do you have any idea what you do to me, Charlotte?” He seizes the base of his cock and leads it to my seam. There.

Right

At

My

Opening.

My breath goes. I fist the sheets beneath me. And my eyes roll into the back of my head at the sheer pleasure of feeling my husband drive inside me again. Inch by inch. Slow. With so much care, I can feel his body vibrate.

We’re heart to heart, skin to skin, heat to heat.

He palms the side of my face, looking into my eyes. I mewl softly, tilting my hips to encourage him to move. But still he doesn’t, just looks at my whole face, our breathing ragged as he allows me to adjust to the feel of him again.

I bite my lip breathlessly. “Please,” I beg.

“I love you,” he gruffs out, brushing his thumb along my lower lip, leaning over to flick his tongue out and soothe the skin I just bit.

He starts moving—slowly, exquisitely slowly. His body powerful and in control, making love to mine. He makes love to me as if I’m a virgin, as if it’s my first time and he wants me to never forget it.

And in this moment, all my world is him as I undulate beneath him, relishing the closeness, his nearness, him. He is the most powerful man in the world. He is determined and strong and ambitious, he is noble and honest, and he is also true and unwavering—not once does his desire waver; on the contrary, even with a remaining one-month bump that I hope to be able to run off once I resume exercise, I have never felt so sexy to him, so precious, or so loved.

And on this day, the mystery of our love grows, and I realize that it keeps changing, evolving, deepening with every experience we share, every kiss not given and every kiss given, every whisper and every word unsaid. I have never in my life felt the kind of love I feel for him—and as his hands caress me tenderly, the tension in his body evident as he tries to be gentle but hinting at his simmering desire, the deep words of love he whispers in my ear, beautiful and perfect and his, I know he feels it too. And I know that this feeling is probably as mysterious to him as it is to me, and just as wondrous.





39





GROWING





Charlotte



Matt Jr. is growing so fast, he’s walking already—and absolutely has the run of the household, with everyone oohing and aahing over our charming boy.

I grow too, right along with him.

I grow fully into the role of first lady.

Of mother.

Of wife.

Of hostess.

Of mistress of the White House.

Of champion of children.

Of the president’s lover.

One year turns into two, the years consisting of diapers and cradles and children’s toys, of red carpets and trumpets blaring as we receive foreign dignitaries at the White House, of black-tie events that embody the might and majesty of the United States.

Foreign leaders receive a royal welcome with the state arrival ceremony, flourishes and flags, sentinels and orchestras. The press corps waits on standby for these events, eager for a video chat. The chef plans the perfect meals, down to the perfect artistic design to present each dish.

We have stage performances. Andrea Bocelli, and the ballet. We celebrate wins from our teams, and decorate every Christmas with a gigantic tree with knitted ornaments (Matty proof).

More than that, the White House is the center where a dozen new treaties have been made. Where several natural disasters have been handled. Where big decisions and changes have begun. The White House is more than just the pomp and the politics, and more than the playground for our son.

It doesn’t belong to the president, this house; it belongs to the people.