He reaches under my dress to pull down my panties. His eyes meet mine and hold them in his roiling, stormy gaze as he takes my mouth with his and starts rubbing my folds with his fingers. I gasp, and he smothers my gasp beneath his lips, my arms clenching around his neck, and his hot mouth and expert fingers giving me what I need.

“Matt.”

He holds me on the desk and my knees are weak as he opens my thighs wider to make room for him. Need burns fiery bright as he starts to enter me.

He pauses. “God, I don’t have a condom.”

I grab his jaw. “I’m protected, on the pill. I’m clean.”

“I’m clean too. I’ve never . . .” He trails off as he looks at me, cups my breast in his hand, caressing, kisses me, then pulls his mouth free to roam down my neck, to suck on a nipple through the fabric of my dress. I’m thoughtless, arching up.

Matt helps me stand, then flips me around and lifts my skirt over my ass, kicking my legs apart.

I swallow back a moan when I feel him drive inside. He leans over me, nipping the back of my neck. “God, you’re heaven,” he says, hands on my hips as he drives into me from behind. I do moan this time; he reaches out and covers my mouth. I lick his palm, and he thrusts inside me again.

I mewl into his palm again. He pounds me as hard as he needs. As hard as I crave. He drowns my cry of release with his palm and buries his own growl in the top of my head.

We don’t speak of it when we’re done. I just laugh nervously, and he smiles and pats my back, righting himself until he looks as perfect as ever.

“Charlotte,” he says before I leave.

“Yes?”

“If I win, I want you in the White House. Working there.” He drops behind his chair. “I’m on my best game when you’re around—let’s just put it that way.”

“Are you blackmailing me? Emotionally?”

“I’m asking you.”

“You’re asking me with that demanding look that means you’re demanding.”

“Then I’m demanding-slash-asking you.”

I frown.

He stares at me, shifting to prop his elbows on the desk. “If I’m elected, I’m going to do everything I promised those people out there I’d do. I need the best team possible; a president can only accomplish what his support system allows. I want you in the White House.”

“I’ve never had ambitions to work in the White House,” I say. “It’s not a place that I want to have a career. It’s more like the kind of place I found exciting to visit and loved worshipping from afar.”

And I don’t think I could bear how hard it would be to see you every day and remember . . .

His eyes look frustrated. I’m sort of afraid he’s going to push it—I don’t want him to. He’s too tempting to me. Being with him is too addictive. I want to be mature and realistic about this. About us.

So before Matt can insist, I steal out and get back to work, bringing my attention to our end goal: giving our country the chance to join the strong, charismatic leader we’ve been waiting for.

29

MORE

Charlotte

We’re in San Francisco now.

It’s noon as we all gather in our makeshift local campaign offices when Carlisle drops a newspaper on Matt’s desk. On the bottom of the front page are two pictures—of Matt smiling down at me and helping me out of the car to our hotel.

The caption beneath them both reads, Is Love in the Air for Matthew Hamilton?

He doesn’t read the article. Instead he’s got his cell phone out, putting it on speaker and speed-dialing as he skims the rest of the news. A male voice picks up, stating his name and the name of the newspaper that happened to have posted that picture. Matt greets him and immediately gets to the point.

“Who took those pictures?”

“Not me, Matt, honest to god.”

Matt runs his hand over the back of his neck and sighs, frowning at the phone.

“We’re running a campaign here, not a season of The Bachelor. Let’s keep our eye on what’s important, all right?”

“Sure thing, Matt. And hey, thanks for the book you sent last Christmas. My wife keeps it on the mantel as display.”

“I’m glad, Tom. And thanks for the coverage.”

He hangs up and looks up at me, then at Carlisle, then he resumes reading the news, calmly sipping his coffee while I struggle to look inconspicuous.

We have a meeting with two dozen of our campaign team members next.

For the entire two and a half hours, the team is scribbling notes with pens inscribed with Matt’s campaign logo, and then they’re all standing as he rises to leave and starts shaking hands, thanking them. I’m surprised that many of the male team members approach me to say goodbye as well.

Matt falls in beside me as we exit the conference room.

We leave the building and walk two blocks to our hotel. Usually there are other team members trailing behind, but today we seem to be headed toward the hotel on our own. My heartbeat picks up.

Matt is supposed to shower and have a quick lunch before he accompanies Carlisle to meet Senator Lewis, who has a large amount of delegates and support in this state. I’m hoping to take a shower as well and maybe a nap; the previous long night is weighing a little on me. It amazes me that it didn’t seem to weigh on Matt one bit. He looks better than ever, though the truth is that he is always active, buzzing with calm, steady energy.

Silence engulfs the elevator as we ride to our floor. Matt shoves his hands into his pants pockets and looks at me.

The fact that we were kissing heatedly recently in public, in New York City, is suddenly the only thing I can think of.

He asks me if I’d like to go up to the top terrace of the building for ten minutes.

I nod. It’s nearly sunset when we step outside. The large terrace has beautiful views of the city, especially the horizon, orange with the fading sun’s glow.

We stand there and take in the scenery for a moment.

We’re quiet for a while, the kind of quiet where you don’t really need to say anything, where just being in that place at that time is enough.

“We’re on the home stretch now.” He smirks, then glances meaningfully at the elevator behind us and shakes his head. “This little escape is enjoyable but not private enough to suit me. I mean to keep seeing you as much as I can. Alone, Charlotte.”