I’m determined to make it happen at any cost.
Slowly, today, day by day, touch by touch, breaking down her walls—she’ll be mine again, her body first, her soul, and then her heart. I’m not letting her go.
“Open up to me, baby. Do you remember how you used to? Hmm? Tell me I’m still here,” I beg, cupping her breast, squeezing gently as I rub inside her. “And here. Tell me, beautiful. Tell me C is for Charlotte, my Charlotte, coming in my arms again.”
She goes off, breathing fast beneath me, clinging to my shoulders as if I’m all that holds her upright. “Oh god!” She presses her cheek to my neck, then pushes me back.
Then laughs. “Matt . . . you’re pretty good at this sort of thing. Seducing and pleasuring me.”
I lick my finger. “Hmm. At your service, Miss Wells.”
“Mr. President, you’re a cad.”
“I’m your cad.”
She swallows, her eyes wide. I pull her skirt down and lower her to her feet. “We need to get ready.”
“I can’t go without panties!”
“Live a little,” I say. “You’re a filthy first lady, a very wicked, naughty, hot first lady,” I say, raising her back to the console and ordering, “Part your legs.”
She does. I’m testing her; there’s no fucking way I’ll let her go anywhere without panties. I’m fucked up enough by the thought alone.
I ease the panties back up her legs, then lift her up and set her on her feet, kissing her leisurely as I tug them all the way up her sweet little pussy and round little ass.
Charlotte
We end up showering—separately. I don’t think either of us could take the heat of a joint shower, but I was still so aroused rubbing the loofah over my skin, thinking of Matt waiting outside the room.
I dressed while he showered, putting on a long blue silk taffeta gown with layers upon layers on its skirt, and I try not to drool too much when Matt walks out drying himself, fully naked, giving me a glimpse of everything I adore and want and miss as he gets dressed.
The state dinner is a lavish affair. French influentials gravitate toward Matt. That effortless grace; he’s in a room and it feels as if there’s no one else, and never was, and never will be.
There is just a natural charm about him—and the women, especially, don’t seem to miss it. I have my own admirers and try not to get jealous, especially because Matthew keeps glancing in my direction, and I can’t stop myself from stealing covert glances at him as well.
After all the guests depart, we remain chatting over after-dinner drinks with the French president and first lady.
“You two.” He motions toward Matt and me, then presses his fingers to his eyes. “The eyes don’t lie, eh? You are guests here; my wife and I hope you’re comfortable in one room rather than the two—in fact, I believe all the other rooms in the élysée Palace were taken, weren’t they, chéri.”
Matt’s laugh is low and very masculine.
And very, very sexy.
“What happens in Paris stays in Paris,” the French president adds with a wink.
“I wouldn’t mind the opportunity to spend some private time with my first lady,” Matt admits. He shifts forward and eyes me challengingly.
“Opportunities like these are rare, eh?” The French president chuckles and lifts his glass. “To President Hamilton, and his enchanting first lady.”
Matt raises his glass and looks at me, and I clench my thighs together and take a sip. Only after that do I arch an eyebrow.
The French president’s wife smiles at me and sips from her wineglass.
Finally, after the longest day ever, we head to our room.
We close the door, and the surroundings are so alien, I feel a little homesick—but home stands before me, over six feet tall and virile, and I’m sunk into those knowing dark eyes and that half smile of his as he watches me take off my shoes.
I don’t even know what to do with my hands as Matt plucks his cufflinks open and sets them aside, his eyes never leaving mine.
Something about this aloneness—about having him all to myself, in this city—feels like another stolen moment. Like I’m taking something that doesn’t belong to me but I very much want to.
“Come here.”
I shiver at his gruff whisper. I know that he senses my homesickness, my longing. My homesickness for him. Home. And when he opens his arms, I go. I press myself to his side and bury my face in his neck and let him engulf me. God, I’ve wanted this so much.
“Come here,” he says again, as if he needs me closer still.
He drags me onto the bed and slips his arm under the opening at the back of my dress, gathering me to him, his hands spread on my bare back, my whole body pressed against Matt’s hard one in the most protective embrace I’ve ever felt in my life—it’s a wall of muscle and flesh and warmth and I bury myself even more into it, as close as physically possible.