Matt tugs his button-down shirt from the waistband of his slacks, and takes my hands and slides them up his chest. Then he steals his own under my cashmere sweater, pulling me flush to him—our fingers touching each other’s bare skin. His eyes a whole world of fire.
“Your enthusiasm for all this affects me deeply, baby,” he rasps, rubbing his thumb over my lower lip.
I moan in anticipation as he leans down and sets a kiss on my forehead. “I know we said slow. So I’m going to kiss you. Very, very slow. Because when you ooh and ahh all over Air Force One, and all over élysée Palace when we arrive, I want you to have my taste in your mouth, and I want every ooh and ahh to taste like me,” he rasps, and his lips slide, ever so slowly, torturously slowly, down my nose. My breath catches, and Matt inhales deeply, as if breathing me in, prolonging my torture and his own, before he whispers, “Now kiss me back, C, like you mean it. Like you miss me,” as he presses his lips directly to my mouth.
I shudder at the contact, parting my mouth. Flicking my tongue out. Pressing closer to him. His groan is about as drugging as his kiss.
And his kiss.
It’s not just drugging. It’s soul-shattering, chest-imploding. Wet and hard. My hands are on his shoulders. His arm is sliding around my waist, pressing our upper halves flush. Our lips are fusing, moving, Matt’s so strong and hungry.
He runs his tongue around mine, then suckles me into his mouth.
We kiss for what feels like forever and at the same time, not long enough. We ease apart, but Matt remains too close, intently looking down at me. I run my tongue over my lips, and they feel swollen and sensitive because of his kiss.
His gaze is hot, and god how I miss him.
Matt is gazing at me with eyes that look very dark.
He clenches his jaw. He uses his thumb to rub my lower lip and part it from the top.
I meet him halfway; I reach up and grab his hair, parting my mouth and flicking my tongue out.
I sink a little into his body, into his kiss.
He holds my face in one hand until he tears his lips away, glancing at my mouth. “If I don’t stop now, everyone will know you’ve been kissed senseless.”
He looks at my kissed lips with male pride and not one bit of apology.
I swallow, out of breath.
He slips his hand up my back, under my sweater, touching my bare skin.
I moan and leave my hands on his shoulders for a bit.
There’s something predatory as he looks down at me, releasing me only when the pilots announce that we will be taking off shortly.
He grins. “Settle down somewhere for takeoff. Take a nap if you feel like it. I’m reviewing policy in the effort to enjoy you as much as possible in Paris.”
I swallow as a bolt of excitement at the prospect rushes through me, and nod.
I find a place to sit and strap down, watching D.C. beneath us as we take off and cross the ocean, and for a strange reason, I feel humbled and undeserving to be flying here, with the president, the whole United States depending on us to represent our country the way it deserves.
I have no doubt Matt will—he does it effortlessly; he’s got red, white, and blue in his veins. I’m just a girl who used to work at Women of the World, a senator’s daughter who wanted to make a difference but never dreamed she could make one on this scale. And I’m faced with the doubts I suppose we’re all faced with, wondering if we’re enough, if we have the mettle to back up the shiny illusion of our best version of ourselves in our minds. But that’s the point, isn’t it? To try to chase it, even if it may always feel elusive.
Except this dream is too big for me to fail at. I want to be a great first lady; I want to be a great woman deserving of a great man. The man I love.
9
éLYSéE PALACE
Charlotte
“Président Hamilton!”
We’re greeted by the French paparazzi piling outside élysée Palace, and inside the gates and out on the steps, the President and First Lady of France await us with a grand welcome and give us a tour of the palace. I walk along the gardens with the first lady as the presidents head to do state business and talk about the mutual problems we’re facing—among them, ISIS. Once they’re finished, Matt meets me and an usher leads us to our bedroom before the state dinner they’re holding in his honor.
“President Hamilton, if you please, our grandest guest room.” The usher motions for Matt to step inside, and adds, “And First Lady,” nodding as he motions for me to follow Matthew, and then departs.
I feel the blood in my veins sizzle a little bit as the realization hits me.
Matt
Charlotte looks confused. She follows me inside and as soon as she walks in, I reach out with one arm and shut the door behind her.
“One room?” she asks.
“They don’t need to know the details of our arrangement.”