Mr. President (White House #1)(49)

I grab his jaw and pull him to my mouth, whispering, “Yes, you should.”

He shifts above me, all stealth and muscles. “I can’t get enough of you, beautiful. I just can’t get enough.”

He’s so hard he immediately rolls on a new condom.

I wrap my arms around his shoulders as he drives slowly in, as if I’m precious. Or as if he knows I’m a little sore.

He moves inside me. I groan and relish it, clawing my nails down his back.

I move beneath him. I know that it’s crazy, dangerous, terrible for both of us. And I know that it’s also exciting, inevitable, and nothing I could even contemplate denying myself.

I cannot deny myself him. If I want to stop crushing on him, even after eleven years, he will be the only antidote.

Linking my hands behind his thick neck, I raise my head and set my lips on him. I’m hungry, moaning as Matt grabs my face to hold me still and tongues me.





23





SHIFTS





Charlotte



When I arrive at campaign headquarters early Monday morning, I’m not entirely certain if I should be feeling dread,

anxiety,

uncertainty,

fear,

arousal,

bliss,

or plain just happiness.

All I know is that I can still feel him between my legs.

Visions of Saturday flutter in my mind throughout the day and serve as beautiful, fleeting reminders of a night I will never forget.

There is a visible shift, invisible to anyone other than Matt and me. Every time we lock gazes there’s a silent understanding that we now share something special.

Every time I hear the sound of his voice direct his staff or make campaign-related decisions, I remember it whispering dirty things in my ear, moaning my name, groaning in release. Multiple times.

Things have changed. I’ve been with him in the most intimate ways anyone can be with another, and it feels absolutely blissful. When I look at him, I get giddy and my heart starts to beat faster and faster. If anyone spoke to me at that moment, I wouldn’t hear whoever it was over the sound of my heartbeat, going crazy over this man.

There is a change in him too.

It’s as if his masculinity has been multiplied by a thousand. His smile holds more mischief. His walk is now more a confident strut, and god, his voice . . . He could be talking about state taxes and by the tone in his voice, you would think he’s describing sex positions.

The looks are killing me. Sometimes they come with a sexy, private smile. Sometimes with no smile at all, his expression almost like a thoughtful frown. Sometimes they come with a look of surprise, as if he’s surprised to catch himself staring at me.

I try not to be caught staring too, but there’s always that one second when I’m staring at his profile, and the next when he somehow feels it and turns and I quickly look away. It’s just one second, but it’s enough. It makes me try harder not to look and harder to be fully professional. Because I know, when he looks back, that he’s thinking of that night too.



That Thursday, we’re on one of the biggest college campuses in Colorado and Matt is speaking to a besotted crowd of tens of thousands. He was pretty excited about this visit.

“Our future rests in our college students and our kids. Hell, I can’t stress enough how important it is to inspire them to get actively involved, make a contribution.” He told me this during the flight, and it made me doubly determined to make sure everything went smoothly all across the board.

Even the weather seems to have been in on the plan (and the weather is almost a scheduler’s worst nightmare). The sky is clear, and the crowd is larger than we expected.

Matt’s powerful speech leaves no doubt of his ability for leadership.

As Matt stands behind the podium, there’s a voice from the crowd. “Go, Hamilton!”

Another shout from the crowd. “Where have you been, Hamilton?”

“Sorry to have kept you waiting,” he says, his lips shaping into one of his most killer grins.

My stomach shudders with excitement.

The crowd keeps interrupting, shouting, “Matt! You’re our candidate, Matt!”

Sometimes Matt laughs, or salutes them, as if they’re old friends. But when he turns sober, so do the people. His hands on the podium, he stands erect and confident as he speaks of us being the best, of how in order to be great you need to work harder than the rest.

How the same old doors won’t open to new opportunities.

How easily being at the top has tempted us to drop the ball and relax on our own glory . . . a glory that we need to light up, as a nation, together. “No one man will bring you what you seek. No one will drop your fulfilled dreams right on your doorstep. So what is it that you want? And more importantly, what are you doing to get it?”

“Hamilton, Hamilton, Hamilton!” the people shout.

A ripple of happiness runs through my body as the chorus ripples across the stands.

God! They love him, they adore and worship him, and by the way he smiles and laughs at the praises they throw his way, he adores them right back.

No other candidate in the history of the U.S. has won the presidency at this age, but the crowds are coming to see him. His wealth and name would have gained a few followers, but it’s his charisma, that earthiness, that relatability that he has that makes you feel as if he gets you, your problems, as if he knows what you need, even if you don’t.