“I want you,” I breathe.

He doesn’t make me wait for long.

He groans and squeezes my breasts, licking the tips, sucking them. I arch up to his hot mouth and clutch him by the back of the head, fistfuls of his hair between my fingers as I press him to my mouth and Matt fills me again, as deep as he can go, deep enough that I feel my soul leave me as I shatter for him.

The living room has a fireplace, and in the middle of the night, Matt gets it going.

Soon there’s a warm fire crackling.

He smiles and strokes his hand down my back, exhaling contentedly as we lie on the couch after another round of delicious sexual intercourse.

“So many nights I wished I could . . . feel you hold my hand”—I lift his hand and set my own against it—“and look at you without fear of everyone seeing what was written in my eyes.”

He holds me by the back of the head, his cock stiffening beneath my lap at my words, kissing me with his long, wet, roving tongue.

“Now . . . you’re my husband.”

He looks at me. “I love you.”

He takes my hand and licks my ring finger, from root to tip. Mmm. This man is going to be the death of me. I remember him doing that the day he told me little Matt was visiting the White House, and suddenly . . . light bulb moment!

“This is how you measured my ring? With your mouth? Mr. President, I’m shocked!”

He smirks. “You will be pleased to know there are other things I can do with my mouth.” He expertly eases me out of his white button-down shirt (which I slipped into to lounge around in) and nibbles on my bare shoulder.

“Oh, I bet. You’re very adept during press conferences.”

“My mouth is even more adept at finding warm, sweet locations to suck and taste.” He slips one hand under the blanket and caresses the skin of my stomach, then tugs the blanket downward and ducks his head to kiss one of my nipples.

I giggle.

He lifts his head. “You’re cute.” He smiles, his eyes so gorgeous I have trouble breathing.

“I wonder what the country would think of your fetish with the letter C,” I tease.

“That I’m commander in chief. And am allowed to enjoy any fetish,” he says thickly, “that involves my wife.”

I grin. “Your father, if he could see you now. His only son, the president, and doing a damn fine job.”

“He’d be just as happy knowing I’m settling down.”

“With me?”

“No, with Jack.” Matt just grins and runs his thumb along my jaw. “With you,” he says, his voice raspy now.

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

“He’d approve of me? Good pedigree? Daughter of a senator?”

“My father had great respect for your family—but you charmed him. And there’s no word for what you did to me.”

“I’ll have you know, I’m just getting started charming you, Mr. President.”

“Are you now?” He smiles, then frowns as he looks at me. “Did you tell whatshisname you’re taken?”

“He doesn’t need to be told. He knows all bets are off. He didn’t stand a chance against you ever since I started campaigning for you. Nobody does—did. Even before.” I raise a brow. “Did you tell all your groupie fangirls? Even the staffers have a crush on you the size no other president has ever enjoyed.”

“I’m taken. I’ve got a ring right here to prove it.” He taps his wedding ring with his thumb.

“So I heard through the grapevine . . .” I begin.

“You have some big ears, don’t you?”

I nod with a kittenish smile and swipe my tongue out to lick the top of his chest. “I’ve got a very warm tongue, too.”

“Hmm. Give me more of that tongue. Lower.”

“So I heard . . . Matt, are you listening?” I say, as I lick the center of his chest.

“What?” He laughs, obviously distracted.

“I heard . . . the bill passed. Education.”

“God. Yes.” He squeezes his eyes shut, throwing his head over the back of the couch. “I’m so fucking relieved. For a moment there, I thought we’d miss by a vote.”

“Matt, I’m so proud of you,” I say.

He looks at me, smiling, stroking his hand down my hair. “Healthcare is next.”

It’s surreal that the next morning, I wake up in Camp David—a married woman. I am married. From now on, people will address me as Mrs. Hamilton.

Matthew didn’t seem to get excited by the idea of a paparazzi circus if we headed anywhere else, and so Camp David it was. I’m so glad this was his choice. It’s absolutely quiet. Peaceful.

It’s so early the sun is barely rising. I can tell from the parting in the curtains that it’s close to dawn. I glance at the ring on my hand, identical to the thicker, larger ring on his hand, and drink in the man sleeping next to me, cuddling closer to his warm, hard chest to catch some more z’s. There’s nowhere I’d rather be.

We wake up at 9 a.m. and have morning sex, then we do a breakfast cookout on the terrace. It’s relaxing. It’s the first time I’ve ever been alone with Matt Hamilton without sneaking or hiding. We are alone—truly alone (I suppose we’ve reached the point where the Secret Service and Matt’s shadow don’t count, especially when they’ve been doing their best to give us our privacy and stay on hand, but out of sight)—and this feeling of privacy is a nice change from the limelight of the White House.

We turn on the television as we wash plates, only to see pictures of us on every channel. We decide not to watch.

So we head out and explore the wilderness. Matt tells me about how he would golf with his father, and enjoy just wading through the trees that surround the cottage with Loki, one of his pets then.

It’s almost 1 p.m. by the time we get back to the lodge, and I’ve never felt happier or more at peace than I do now.

We walk into the living room, then the bedroom, and Matthew heads into the shower, turning on the water. He gazes at me expectantly, his eyebrows rising a millimeter.

“Oh!” I gasp. “You want me to . . . you expect me to . . .”

Ever so slowly, he nods as he starts unbuckling and unzipping, the corners of his mouth lifting a tiny fraction. “I do.”

It’s the hottest shower sex ever. He makes love to me against the shower wall, then he pulls out and finishes off, his semen raining on my abdomen, his eyes on me, and it is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. Hottest sex of my life. With the hottest man on the planet.

We laugh the rest of the afternoon, and make love in the kitchen, and talk policy and politics, and we even call the White House to check up on Jack, and ask them to bring him to us at Camp David by car.

He arrives hours later, bounding happily to the cottage when he sees Matt at the door, and we spend the next day walking the wilderness, with Jack barking, dashing, and wagging his tail.

After a glorious Saturday evening, going out about the camp—relishing the fact that Camp David is paparazzi proof, because of it being a military base—and then curling up in bed to make slow, foreplay-laden love, it’s Sunday afternoon, and we’re back on Marine One heading home, Jack peering out of the windows.

I look at the wedding and engagement rings glinting on my finger with a smile on my lips and then study Matt’s thoughtful profile as he gazes out the window. I can tell his mind is already drifting back to work.

I’m sad to let the calm of Camp David go. But as we approach the District, I look at the Washington and Jefferson monuments as we get ready to descend over the South Lawn of the White House and feel a sense of peace and amazement seeing the city from this vantage point. I absorb the lights streaking over columned walls, and I know that this is where Matthew needs to be. This is where he belongs. Where we belong. No matter how much we sometimes wished to freeze inside a simple, normal moment forever.

27

LIFE

Charlotte

“This girl in the photograph,” my husband says as he stares at his gift, tapping a finger to the glass, raising an eyebrow. “I want her. Always.”

“I’ll let her know,” I croak, breathless at the look in his eyes.