Mr. President (White House #1)(64)

I suppose I should take it off, but I like the way it feels too much to do that.

It excites me, true. But it also relaxes me. I’m taking in the Village, Midtown, and then, Fifth Avenue all along the east side of Central Park.

“We’re getting good media coverage,” Carlisle announces.

“Good,” Matt says.

I smile, so proud of him today.

Rain or shine, the Hamilton team campaigns.

That night, I wait for him to message me through the secure campaign phone that the coast is clear, and when he tells me he’s coming over, I unbolt my door and pull him into my bedroom.



I’m still deliciously sore from the f*ck he gave me last night—f*cks, actually, and there were three: one slow and gentle, one fast and primal, and a very wet and passionate one in the shower—when I get to the New York field office the next morning. Carlisle and Hessler summon us all together, as they frequently do. We’re briefed in an eight-by-eight room, crowded with all of us. Matt stands in the corner, leaning against the wall, arms crossed as he lets his managers do the talking.

My eyes meet his across the crowd. It’s only a glance. That’s all we give each other. But it’s enough to make my tummy go crazy.

“Let’s run down what’s been going on,” Carlisle begins.

I slide my eyes back to Carlisle and focus on the rundown.

Shit is getting real and we’re going to need to bring the big guns to every event, and be aware that our competition will be aware of our every move.

President Jacobs, sixty-five, conservative, a peacemaker, a bit too weak-spined.

Gordon Thompson, fifty-nine, radical, a bit too war-loving.

Carlisle shoots us all a dire look and then looks at me a little too brazenly. “Just to be clear, we are working with the best independent candidate the USA has ever seen. No third-party candidate has ever won. This will be unprecedented. Matt Hamilton was born for this; we all know it. Not always the favorite one prevails in politics. It’s the one who wrangled more support in his campaign. So it’s up to us to make his supporters multiply like freaking Jesus did the bread. Okay?”

Everyone nods.

My throat closes and guilt starts creeping up my throat. I nod vigorously.

Carlisle nods, appeased.

“Let’s get our candidate back to the White House where he belongs.” He gives a final nod, and we all scatter. I head to the door of Matt’s office with his itinerary in hand.

“Good morning, Charlotte,” he says as he enters and waves me inside.

“Good morning, Matt.”

The moment I shut the door, Matt lifts me up to the desk, and I gasp in surprise but hang on to his shoulders for support. The possibility of getting caught makes me scan his office—then I realize we’re not at headquarters, that this office has no windows. Walls mean privacy for us, and I go loose and pliant in his arms, wet and instantly ready.

He reaches under my dress to pull down my panties. His eyes meet mine and hold them in his roiling, stormy gaze as he takes my mouth with his and starts rubbing my folds with his fingers. I gasp, and he smothers my gasp beneath his lips, my arms clenching around his neck, and his hot mouth and expert fingers giving me what I need.

“Matt.”

He holds me on the desk and my knees are weak as he opens my thighs wider to make room for him. Need burns fiery bright as he starts to enter me.

He pauses. “God, I don’t have a condom.”

I grab his jaw. “I’m protected, on the pill. I’m clean.”

“I’m clean too. I’ve never . . .” He trails off as he looks at me, cups my breast in his hand, caressing, kisses me, then pulls his mouth free to roam down my neck, to suck on a nipple through the fabric of my dress. I’m thoughtless, arching up.

Matt helps me stand, then flips me around and lifts my skirt over my ass, kicking my legs apart.

I swallow back a moan when I feel him drive inside. He leans over me, nipping the back of my neck. “God, you’re heaven,” he says, hands on my hips as he drives into me from behind. I do moan this time; he reaches out and covers my mouth. I lick his palm, and he thrusts inside me again.

I mewl into his palm again. He pounds me as hard as he needs. As hard as I crave. He drowns my cry of release with his palm and buries his own growl in the top of my head.

We don’t speak of it when we’re done. I just laugh nervously, and he smiles and pats my back, righting himself until he looks as perfect as ever.

“Charlotte,” he says before I leave.

“Yes?”

“If I win, I want you in the White House. Working there.” He drops behind his chair. “I’m on my best game when you’re around—let’s just put it that way.”

“Are you blackmailing me? Emotionally?”

“I’m asking you.”

“You’re asking me with that demanding look that means you’re demanding.”

“Then I’m demanding-slash-asking you.”

I frown.

He stares at me, shifting to prop his elbows on the desk. “If I’m elected, I’m going to do everything I promised those people out there I’d do. I need the best team possible; a president can only accomplish what his support system allows. I want you in the White House.”

“I’ve never had ambitions to work in the White House,” I say. “It’s not a place that I want to have a career. It’s more like the kind of place I found exciting to visit and loved worshipping from afar.”