Mr. President (White House #1)(61)

He leads me inside through the garage door and with a command, “Lights,” gets the lights to immediately turn on in the living room and kitchen.

As I follow him inside, I’m struck by how unpresidential the home is. How normal. Modern and simple, it’s also very homey, with filled bookshelves to one side, family pictures dotting the shelves, and instead of artworks, maps from around the world decorate the walls.

His father loved the world, like Matt does.

“I come here sometimes. Reminds me so much of him. I come here to be close, and to get away and think.”

Moved by his words, I follow him past what seems like the library and wander into the living room, breathlessly taking in the view.

“This is like another monument you come to think at.”

He laughs, then heads into the adjoining kitchen and opens some cabinets. “Nothing fresh here, but would you like some . . . canned beans? Spam?”

“God, what is this?” I laugh, then I watch him pull out a bottle of wine.

“Wine is good. I’m not hungry, though.”

“You tired?” He pours two glasses, sets them aside, and opens his arms. I walk inside those arms and press my cheek to his chest. I exhale, letting loose.

“How do you do it?” I ask him.

“Sometimes, I don’t know.” I’m charmed by the honesty in his voice, but he also sounds confident, as if he does know, as if he has no doubt about being able to do it every day. He settles us into one of the couches, his arm still around me.

“I sometimes think I’m going to just collapse.”

He shifts to get us comfortable—and closer—stroking a hand down my hair. “Feel free to collapse here. You’re safe, I’ve got you.”

“I can hear the ocean. And I can hear your heartbeat.” And I can hear you breathe. I find myself inhaling too, inhaling the warm, expensive smell of him. “You should hit the bed. You have a busy day tomorrow,” I warn.

“If you’d take it easier with my schedule, I might even know what it means to sleep on an actual bed.”

I laugh.

He shifts forward. “I don’t want to sleep. I don’t want to miss a second of this.”

“You will get more moments like this if you keep suavely organizing our escapes.”

“I’ve spent so much time planning our escapes, it’s embarrassing.” He smiles. “To be honest, you’re the only woman I’ve ever spent this much thought on.”

“Wow, Mr. Suave Presidential Candidate. You successfully managed to make me sound like a chore.”

“The chore is not you. It’s not having you like I want. It’s not having you all.”

He leans back, stroking his hand absently down my arm. “So many people accidentally fall into what would become their most renowned accomplishments. Steve Jobs, his friendship with Wozniak. Even Escobar didn’t wake up one morning deciding he’d be the most famous drug lord; he was a smuggler—the drug was basically brought to him.”

“And you?”

“I wouldn’t run if my dad were alive. I wanted something along the lines of normal. Not that the media ever made it possible; they’ve wanted me to run ever since . . . ever.”

He reaches out to sip on his wine, then sets it aside and turns back to me. I sit back and am aware of the excited nerves going through me as he lifts his hand to touch me.

“But we cannot live in a country where our presidents get murdered and we never find out who’s responsible. We’re greater than that, smarter than that. We’ve forgotten what it means to be an American—the Constitution doesn’t say ‘I, all for me.’ It says ‘we the people.’ Everyone is out for themselves now, and that’s not what we’re about.” He says it with the certainty of someone who never settles for less than the best.

He reaches out for me and my tummy tumbles. “So it’s not just about me.” He kisses my cheek in a way that’s almost brotherly. “Remind me that if I ever can’t keep my hands off you in front of the team,” he whispers before he kisses the back of my ear, his eyes sparkling. “By the way, you smell divine.”

I smile and meet his gaze.

Exhaling and lifting my face closer, I slip my hand over his chest and press my lips to his.

Matt groans softly, his body tightening under my fingertips, his hold firming around me as he sucks my tongue, his hunger palpable, unleashed. The shadow of stubble along his jaw tickles my skin.

“I want your wanton little noises tonight,” he murmurs quietly into my mouth, meeting my gaze as he slips his hand under my top. “I want you soaking me to the wrist.” He plunges his tongue inside and cups my breast, flicking my nipple. “I want you coming undone for me, so f*cking undone you’ll think you’re breaking.”

“Yes,” I breathe, moving my arms, holding him close as I shift beneath him and pull him over me on the couch.

“You’re not too tired to come, are you?” He strokes his fingers over my *.

I mewl.

“Don’t worry, baby, I’ll give you what you need. I’ve got you. Just relax, let me give it to you,” he says softly, dragging his lips along my face, my neck.

I moan softly and slide my hands up his hard arms.

“You’re gorgeous. God, you’re gorgeous. I just want to be in you. I want to be looking at you, like this. Writhing and noisy. You’re so sweet, baby, nobody knows there’s a sex bomb lying underneath those little business suits. Only me.”