“I mean, at least you made the effort. I don’t think they went for it, though—you were far more charming when you were single.”
He’s looking at me with that strange tender look again, and I’m lying—he is hotter than ever. Nearing forty, so mature, so gorgeous, with no gray hairs yet, no matter how sexy I think he would look with a little gray on that gorgeous head or at the temples. He plucks off his glasses, tucks them into his pocket, and he sends me a warning look that I recognize—one that I suspect he will act on when we enter the suite and he pins me against the wall and kisses the shit out of me.
I’m getting flustered, getting weak-kneed, and I walk into the suite playing a little bit hard to get.
“Is there a reason why you put half the room between us, Charlotte?”
“No. Why? I just wanted to stretch my legs a little bit,” I say nonchalantly.
He lifts a brow, slowly coming to stand behind me. “You think I asked you up here to ravage you, wife?” he asks, slipping his hand down and cupping my ass.
“No,” I groan.
He ducks his head to nuzzle me and I seem to take one last breath.
His smile starts wavering as his eyes begin to darken, and then the smile completely leaves, replaced by a look of pure frustration and raw need. He is too close, so close, his expensive cologne in my nostrils and his eyes looking warmly down at me.
“Charlotte,” he says. “We don’t have time for this, baby.”
“I know. That’s why I was here and you were there. But now you’re here too, so what are we going to do?”
He reaches out and runs his thumb over my lip. Once. Twice. “I find that the older I get, the more I hate waiting,” he confesses, frowning.
I laugh, and walk to the sofa.
“My feet are killing me,” I say as I toss my shoes aside and relax for just a second before I need to hurry into the shower.
Campaigning is as exhausting as I remember, and I love it just as fiercely as I recall. Years ago, youth made us believe in the impossible, but it’s only those who believe in the impossible who can actually make it possible. And we have. For four years. We’ve tried, and succeeded, so many times.
Matt gives me a genuinely admiring stare. “I appreciate you being here.”
I smile wearily and get a bottle of cold water from the fridge, then come back to the living area to take a sip. “I’ve always found it inspiring. When I watch you move all those people.” I frown a little. “Makes me wonder half the time what’s real and what’s bullshit.”
“Charlotte,” he chides. “We don’t have a bull in the pen at the offices. None of it is bullshit.”
“All politicians bullshit.”
He lifts his brows. “I’m not a politician.”
“You are now.”
I laugh, and then watch him approach.
The air crackles with adrenaline. His satisfaction pulses off him in waves, and my own body responds in kind.
He takes a seat next to me as I lie curled on the side of the couch, leaning forward on his elbows and reaching out to pull my legs toward him. He’s close now. Our energies fuse, combine, and seem to multiply the thrill of a successful evening by a thousand.
“I was right.”
“Right about what?” I ask.
“Bringing you in that very first day.”
“Why did you? Old times’ sake? I dazzled you with my bad manners the night we met? Or my huge appetite for quinoa? Or with my letter?”
He just smiles and doesn’t answer.
He’s smiling as he takes my feet in his hand, tracing his thumb along the arches. For a moment I’m transfixed watching his thumb. The most delicious shiver runs down my spine, to my stomach and the tips of my breasts.
“I’m ticklish.”
And breathless and excited and in love.
“I see that.”
He lifts his head, slowly cupping one foot by the heel and lifting it up, and up, and up. He opens his mouth, watching me as he nips the tip of my toe. He engulfs it, runs his tongue over the back, sucks gently as he starts running his other hand up my arm, to my face. He inserts his thumb into my mouth, slowly rubbing my thumb with his other hand.
“Matt,” I groan. I stop his hand, look down at our fingers. His hands obsess me. Why they obsess me, I don’t know, but they’re so big, look so powerful. He holds SO MUCH in those hands.
He grabs my shoes and looks at me as he slips and straps them back on, his fingers touching the same toes that are still tingling. Neither of us says a word once my shoes are on, and he keeps his hands on the top arch of my foot for several long, extra heartbeats.
“I love you,” he says simply, grabbing my face and pressing a kiss to my lips.
Exhaling, he stands up to get ready, and I glance at the clock and leap to my feet and follow him.
We are traveling extensively. Sometimes Matty travels with us, the times he doesn’t choose to remain in D.C. with my parents or Matt’s mother.