AIR FORCE ONE
Charlotte
The last time I crossed the Atlantic, it was to try to put distance between us. Today I’m crossing it by his side. We board Marine One on the South Lawn of the White House. The motorcade creates too much traffic for people’s everyday commute.
Soon we reach the airport and are escorted to the long, open steps leading up to Air Force One, the American flag proudly on its tail.
The president motions me to go ahead, and my heart is pounding as I walk onto the biggest private plane I’ve ever beheld. It’s beyond luxurious, tastefully decorated in beige tones and dark woods.
I wander down the hall and peer into the rooms and separate seating areas.
I can’t believe we’re on Air Force One. I’m sort of embarrassed by how blown away I feel and how calm everyone else seems as Matthew’s staff heads to the main seating area. I try to keep a grip as I walk down the plane aisle when I notice Matt two steps behind me. He’s wearing a navy-blue bomber jacket with the presidential seal and I want to rip it off him.
“Big change from our days campaigning, huh?” I whisper, eyeing everything with admiration, gasping when the rooms continue. “Oh god, it’s like a hotel in the air, conference room, office . . .” I add. I open one door and gasp again. “Bedroom?” I ask him over my shoulder.
“Yep.”
I walk in to see, and then I hear the door shut behind us.
I whirl around, and Matt is shrugging off his jacket.
I open my mouth but no words come out. The only things working really are my sexy parts, the flood of liquid heat between my thighs, the hard beads of my nipples pressing against the soft cashmere of my sweater and the lace of my bra.
Matt sees.
He sees—my pointed nipples, poking in salute, my breasts feeling sensitive, my cheeks flushing as I start to pant.
“I’ve got to get some work done. But nothing will get done until I do this.”
The whispers trigger a tremor down my spine as he approaches.
Matt tugs his button-down shirt from the waistband of his slacks, and takes my hands and slides them up his chest. Then he steals his own under my cashmere sweater, pulling me flush to him—our fingers touching each other’s bare skin. His eyes a whole world of fire.
“Your enthusiasm for all this affects me deeply, baby,” he rasps, rubbing his thumb over my lower lip.
I moan in anticipation as he leans down and sets a kiss on my forehead. “I know we said slow. So I’m going to kiss you. Very, very slow. Because when you ooh and ahh all over Air Force One, and all over Élysée Palace when we arrive, I want you to have my taste in your mouth, and I want every ooh and ahh to taste like me,” he rasps, and his lips slide, ever so slowly, torturously slowly, down my nose. My breath catches, and Matt inhales deeply, as if breathing me in, prolonging my torture and his own, before he whispers, “Now kiss me back, C, like you mean it. Like you miss me,” as he presses his lips directly to my mouth.
I shudder at the contact, parting my mouth. Flicking my tongue out. Pressing closer to him. His groan is about as drugging as his kiss.
And his kiss.
It’s not just drugging. It’s soul-shattering, chest-imploding. Wet and hard. My hands are on his shoulders. His arm is sliding around my waist, pressing our upper halves flush. Our lips are fusing, moving, Matt’s so strong and hungry.
He runs his tongue around mine, then suckles me into his mouth.
We kiss for what feels like forever and at the same time, not long enough. We ease apart, but Matt remains too close, intently looking down at me. I run my tongue over my lips, and they feel swollen and sensitive because of his kiss.
His gaze is hot, and god how I miss him.
Matt is gazing at me with eyes that look very dark.
He clenches his jaw. He uses his thumb to rub my lower lip and part it from the top.
I meet him halfway; I reach up and grab his hair, parting my mouth and flicking my tongue out.
I sink a little into his body, into his kiss.
He holds my face in one hand until he tears his lips away, glancing at my mouth. “If I don’t stop now, everyone will know you’ve been kissed senseless.”
He looks at my kissed lips with male pride and not one bit of apology.
I swallow, out of breath.
He slips his hand up my back, under my sweater, touching my bare skin.
I moan and leave my hands on his shoulders for a bit.
There’s something predatory as he looks down at me, releasing me only when the pilots announce that we will be taking off shortly.
He grins. “Settle down somewhere for takeoff. Take a nap if you feel like it. I’m reviewing policy in the effort to enjoy you as much as possible in Paris.”
I swallow as a bolt of excitement at the prospect rushes through me, and nod.
I find a place to sit and strap down, watching D.C. beneath us as we take off and cross the ocean, and for a strange reason, I feel humbled and undeserving to be flying here, with the president, the whole United States depending on us to represent our country the way it deserves.
I have no doubt Matt will—he does it effortlessly; he’s got red, white, and blue in his veins. I’m just a girl who used to work at Women of the World, a senator’s daughter who wanted to make a difference but never dreamed she could make one on this scale. And I’m faced with the doubts I suppose we’re all faced with, wondering if we’re enough, if we have the mettle to back up the shiny illusion of our best version of ourselves in our minds. But that’s the point, isn’t it? To try to chase it, even if it may always feel elusive.
Except this dream is too big for me to fail at. I want to be a great first lady; I want to be a great woman deserving of a great man. The man I love.