No other candidate in the history of the U.S. has won the presidency at this age, but the crowds are coming to see him. His wealth and name would have gained a few followers, but it’s his charisma, that earthiness, that relatability that he has that makes you feel as if he gets you, your problems, as if he knows what you need, even if you don’t.
And it’s not only that, but compared to his competitors, the Republican front-runner and the Democratic president (fossils, the both of them), he looks so young and strong, surrounded by a team with fresh, new ideas. The odds are against him, but the points are in his favor. America wants a change. America wants to grow. America wants to be young and powerful again.
“How do you think it went?” Matt asks me as we head to the hotel.
I shake my head and try to look disappointed, but when that smile of his appears, I can’t keep up the fa?ade any longer. “Standing ovation,” I say, lifting my brows. “People connected. That was insane!”
Matt grins and stares out the car window, stroking his chin thoughtfully, his smile still there as he softly admits, “That was insane.”
I hurry to bathe and make it on time for a staff dinner. I’m heading downstairs to meet Carlisle and other members of the team at one of the hotel restaurants. When the elevator doors open, only Matt is inside.
My heart skips, and we share a smile as I step in.
He smells so good, like cologne and soap, and the warmth of his body next to mine sort of intoxicates me.
“What are you wearing under there?”
“You’ll never know,” I say, tongue in cheek.
“Hmm. More like I’ll know by midnight.” He lifts one brow, warning me, and sort of kissing my lips with his gaze.
The mere thought of being in a room alone with Matt tonight does nothing to calm my body right now.
We step off the elevator, walking side by side with a good distance between us. He pulls out my chair when we arrive at our table, but Matt is typically courteous, so fortunately nobody seems to pay extra attention to that.
Except he grazes his thumb along the back of my neck as I take my seat—it’s a subtle touch.
Completely stolen.
And it takes all my effort to keep my whole body from openly trembling in response.
We sit through dinner as the team discusses and discusses and discusses, and I can’t quite calm the buzzing inside me. He’s watching me from across the table. I watch him take a sip of his water before he slips on his glasses to read the polling numbers Hessler brought.
I’m suddenly thirsty and take a quick sip as well, trying to read the folder in front of me. When we leave and shuffle up in groups to the elevators, Matt steps into the same one I do.
He’s standing to my left the whole ride upstairs. His nearness affects me so much that I almost can’t wait to get away.
My heart is whacking madly in my chest.
My shoulder burns where it grazes his hard one. I’m aware of how tall he is next to me, at least a head taller.
I’m aware of his every breath, slower than mine.
My floor comes up, and as I step out, I turn to say goodbye to the group. I look at Matt last.
He’s gazing at me piercingly beneath slanted eyebrows, looking a little thoughtful and a lot hungry, as if we didn’t just have dinner.
I go back to my room and wait for him to text me that the coast is clear. Ten minutes later, my secure campaign phone pings.
Ten minutes more, warm hands are sliding up my skirt to reveal my underwear. Pulling it down. Revealing every single wet fold beneath.
I’m in his room, and the next thing I know, Matt’s wet tongue is in me.
24
TOWEL
Charlotte
We’re in D.C. again.
Matt finished our last tour early and he requested a new expedited schedule, which I’ve worked on the whole night.
He said he’d meet me at his suite at The Jefferson, which he used tonight when two members of his detail informed us that his home was too swarmed with paparazzi.
Late in the morning, I knock on his suite door.
I primp my hair and then chide myself.
Stop primping, Charlotte!
I expect to find Carlisle here, but when Wilson opens the door and allows me in, I find only silence.
I wander past the living room with my printout in hand.
I freeze as Matt steps into my line of vision, his large body appearing in the open double bedroom doors.
He’s wearing nothing but a white hotel towel draped around his hips, his skin gold and smooth.
God help me.
The towel is hanging so dangerously low I can see the V at his hips. He’s got long legs with muscled thighs and calves, hair-dusted and tan. He’s also barefoot.
His hair is wet from a shower and slicked back, revealing his strong forehead and perfect features to their best advantage. Though he looks amazing in clothes, “amazing” cannot even begin to capture the complete athletic perfection of his shape and form and muscles. Every single muscle is defined and flexed hard.
And those incredible arms . . . the bulging biceps as he lifts the small towel he has in his fist and runs it over his hair to dry it.
He tosses the towel aside and runs his fingers through his hair as he turns his attention to me. “Did you get it done already?”
Oh.
Yeah.