GALA
Charlotte
I slept that night in his arms in the Queens’ Bedroom, thinking of his father, knowing he was in Matt’s thoughts too. “What did you tell my dad when you asked to talk to him alone?” I whispered.
“That I’m in love with you,” he said simply.
Now it’s past 6 p.m. the next afternoon when I’m told by one of the members of the residence staff that the president sent the gown that hangs in my dressing room.
Jack hurries excitedly into my bedroom as if he plans to report to Matthew what I thought of his gift.
It is breathtaking.
From an up-and-coming American designer who’s going to take the world by storm, it is a heavily detailed lace-and-sequin dress with just the right amount of sheerness to give a glimpse of skin on my back and shoulders.
I dress carefully and glance at myself in the mirror to make sure I look about as good as the first lady representing our country should. The gold dress falls to my ankles, sparkling like a jewel, and I let my red hair tumble down my shoulders. I grab a little shawl that matches the dress and step out into the hall.
Matt is standing at the end of the hall, his hands in the pockets of his pants, his jacket raised at his back because of his position as he gazes out the window at the gardens. When faced with the perfection of that tall, black-clad figure, his stance emphasizing the force of his thighs and the slimness of his hips, his pants pressing into his ass because of his hands being jammed into his pockets—
Breathe, Charlotte!
I force my lungs to work in a breath; and as if he senses me, he turns.
A look of surprise flicks across his features, followed by a slow trailing of his eyes down my dress. Jack pads toward him and Matt pets the top of his head as he comes to a perfect sit beside him, and yet his whole undivided attention seems to be on me. His eyes study my face as if memorizing it. As if he’d forgotten it.
I eye him covetously too. Standing there with his dog, he would already kill me. But in a tux? I’m completely gone over this guy. He wears the tux like he wears the presidency. With grace, confidence, and so much ease he seems to have been born destined for both that presidency and that damn onyx-black tuxedo.
He looks devilishly handsome.
His hair is combed back and oh, how I love every chiseled inch of his face. He’s the first to move, prying his hands from his pockets, eyes flaring, inhaling visibly—his inhale stretching the fabric of that black tux.
Disbelief and a punch of longing to have all of this man, his love and his name and his babies, hits me as he approaches. I’m gazing at him walk to me down the hall of the White House residence, both of us ready to attend a social dinner. My first public event with him.
I need a moment, or a thousand moments, to adjust to this new role.
Matt continues advancing—with every step his eyes drinking me in, his lips curling in a seductive, appreciative smile.
“You ready?” He stretches out his hand.
I nod and look at that hand—the hand I’ve held so many times, and that held me. I slide my fingers down the length of his, and he grips them and leads me down the staircase with him.
I grab my dress and lift it to avoid tripping on the hem as we descend, watching as Jack bounds down and announces with a happy bark to the rest of the Secret Service that we’ve arrived downstairs.
Matt glances ahead at our waiting detail as we head toward the exit of the North Portico doors.
“It’s not my first time with the media. I should know better than to feel exposed.”
“Don’t be nervous. You’ll blow every single person in the room away.”
I stop in my tracks, looking at Matt.
Matt, recently showered, absolutely poised and drool-worthy in the tux.
He looks every bit the president. Cool and completely confident.
“You don’t look that blown away,” I say.
“I’m schooled in the art of controlling my emotions. Trust me. I’m blown away.” The heat in his eyes sizzles as he looks at me, and his voice thickens, making my knees wobbly under my dress.
His gaze smolders as he reaches out to tuck my arm into the crook of his and lead me down the White House steps and to the waiting car.
“Behave, Jack,” Matt warns with a raising of his brows as Jack sits at the door and watches us leave.
We climb into the presidential state car and head on our way with a line of black cars flanking us front and back.
It feels surreal to be riding in a motorcade with him. The size of the team required to protect him is in the hundreds. Twenty-six cars travel with us, including medical assistance, motorcycles, and press. I know snipers are planted on the route, mailboxes removed to avoid explosives. It’s a perfectly orchestrated master symphony of hundreds of players, all circling around the president and his safety.
I’m so aware of the people glancing toward our cars as we pass that it takes me a moment to become aware of Matt watching me.
He looks stunning in that tux and he smells so good, his cologne making me dizzy.
His presence, his nearness, his gaze. I clench my thighs together under my gorgeous, glittering Cinderella dress, wanting him. Wanting him so much, not just physically, but emotionally. I crave our nights alone, talking . . .
In the White House, there are so many people—butlers, maids, doormen, ushers, plus the West Wing staff—I wonder if I’ll ever be able to have the courage to do more than steal in secret into his room. Or let him steal into mine.
I meet his gaze. “It feels completely surreal.”
His lips curl, and he looks at me a moment more. “Let’s come out as a couple tonight.”
The low but firm words trigger a tremor down my spine.
I remember hundreds of nights during the campaign, sleepless, wanting him.
I remember that he won. That I went to Europe. That I’m living in the White House with him, more in love than ever. And that we’re taking it slow.
Slow.
And utterly, exquisitely slowly, Matt slips his hand under the fall of my hair and places a kiss on my forehead, then my mouth. It’s a soft kiss, fleeting, but it leaves a burning sensation behind when he eases back.
He looks at my kissed lips with a male pride and not one bit of apology. “I’m tired of keeping you in the shadows. I want everyone to know that you’re mine. But I know what I’m asking is for you to become even more public, and possibly under scrutiny. I will wait for as long as we need to, but I’m ready to move this forward, Charlotte.”
I swallow.
“I want that more than anything,” I breathe.
He slips his hand over the curve of my shoulder, touching my bare skin as we ride to the event.
“I just had this hope that . . . I’d prove myself as a first lady first, before we announced our relationship to the world. I’m not so sure what I want to do anymore.” I meet his gaze.
There’s something predatory about the way he’s looking at me.
“But I’ve always wanted to just be with you. Without the concerns and the hiding,” I admit.
“So. Be with me.”
The smoldering flame in his eyes warms me to my core, and I hear myself say, “It seems to me that if we took it slow, there’s a better chance for the citizens to adjust to the idea of you having a girlfriend in the White House.”
“The speculations are running amok already. Half the country will be worried you distract me—the other half will be thrilled. It doesn’t matter. I want you. I want you indefinitely—and eventually, baby”—he takes my chin—“you’re going to need to own up to the fact that the man you’re in love with is the president, and you helped put me here.”
I laugh, and he smiles too.
His hot gaze caresses me and heats me down to the marrow of my bones. “When we can’t be together, I miss the way you smell. The way you look. The way you feel.” His lips curl, and he cups my face in his warm hands and leans to whisper in my ear, “I’m blown away by you. And so will every person who looks at you tonight. Not that I’m too happy about that.”
I’m blushing head to toe, so thoroughly I don’t even know what to do with myself. “You’re so forward, Mr. President.”
He laughs, then releases a deep groan and ducks close to my ear. “Think about what I said. Let’s talk about your concerns this weekend.”
I swallow again. “That sounds good.”
He nods, releasing me only when we are seconds away from arriving at the fundraiser.
The state car comes to a stop, and I feel queasy from the stress of my first public appearance. Matt gets out of the car, and I hear the people waiting outside. Some gasp, others sort of whisper, and then the press just starts to roar.
“PRESIDENT HAMILTON! MR. PRESIDENT!”
Matt looks into the car and extends his hand to help me out.
Overwhelming doesn’t cover it. I’m not sure if it’s because it’s our first night out, or if things will always be like this, but I paste a smile on my face even though the strongest urge I have right now is to avoid the cameras. I take his hand for support, slipping my fingers into his as I set my feet on the sidewalk and stand, blinded by the flashes. I slip my arm into the crook of Matt’s and feel him tuck it even tighter as he guides me inside.
* * *
A line of people eager to greet him instantly forms inside the ballroom.
I stand by his side, meeting friends of his, celebrities.
Hearing them gush over Matt is amusing, and I’m mind-blown by how easily he steps into his president role—how easily he owns it.
The way he smiles at the people, sometimes slaps a man’s back as they shake hands, shows how accessible he is, how open, human, and honest. Even in a tux, you can’t miss the ripple of muscle under his jacket and shirt as he moves, shakes hands, is greeted by everyone in the room. It makes the very tips of my breasts sort of ache against the fabric of my dress. And wearing a dress that he sent for me to wear makes me feel so sexy, as if he’s claiming me somehow. After the conversation that we had in the car, knowing that he wants to move forward and make this official causes a fire between my legs whenever our eyes meet.
Stifling a hot little shiver, I make my legs move around and mingle, making myself accessible too, trying to tell myself this is how my mother would do it. This is how Matthew’s mother would do it.
I greet ambassadors, congressmen, senators.
From across the room, Matt watches me, and I can see the admiration in his eyes as I work the room.
At some point during the first hour, I feel him advance, passing me, his shoulder brushing mine, and he tells me, “Look at you work it,” his voice rough with desire.
“I know this game’s rules,” I say flippantly.
He raises his brows. “Do you? Baby, I invented this game.” And just as he leaves to greet an incoming crowd, he whispers in my ear, “I’d kiss you right now, but like I’ve said before, I don’t do things half-ass, especially my woman.”
And we part again, swallowed by the crowd.
“But my, was I surprised when President Hamilton announced you. You are so, so very young,” one of the elderly women, a judge, tells me, eyeing me narrowly.
I swallow nervously, feeling judged. “I am young,” I say. “But you can’t always measure maturity in years. I’m fully devoted to both the president and my role.”
I ease away, and only after that do I realize what I said.
I’m fully devoted to the president . . .
I wonder if he knows that though I’m doing my best to be grateful and polite, to put myself out there, this is hard for me.
Finding it a little hard to breathe, my dress constricting, I search for him among the crowd. He’s still being chased by a dozen people approaching him to say hello.
A yearning for something more normal steals into my mind, and suddenly I fully understand Matthew’s own wish for normalcy, growing up the way he did.
I know that whenever I see him for the following four or eight years, this will be the case. Every time we go out in public, this will be the case—he will be the sun all the planets in our universe gravitate around.
And the women?
The women are everywhere.
I watch them throw themselves at him and I get a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. It’s never-ending. And of course they want him. He is Matthew Hamilton. Not only the hottest bachelor you’ve ever seen, but the country’s most powerful man.
I’m his acting first lady. I’d thought that it was a good idea to let him do his job, and me mine, before anything about our personal relationship came out. Maybe I’m just trying to get used to the cameras, trying to be sure the people will accept me. I would hate to be the intern the president screwed—any number of scenarios could come up, and a part of me has hoped that if I gain their respect as a first lady, they will accept me, no questions asked.
I may be deluding myself.
The press thrives on tiny morsels and tidbits. They can feast on me in a second, and like Matt has said before, people will think what they want to think.
I’ve wanted them to think he’s available.
Now I’m so resentful of the situation.
Feeling my cheeks flush with frustration and a desire to simply breathe, I turn around in search for a safe zone.
Right this second, I can’t fake the part with so many eyes on me, while all the female eyes are on him. I feel a little bit sick to my stomach wondering if I can really do this—be with someone like him, love someone like him, step up this high to do something of this magnitude.
I head outside, watching Stacey move across the room to where I’m going.
“I just want some air,” I explain.
She speaks into her mic and opens the door for me, and I’m grateful that she gives me space as I head down the long terrace, as far as possible, into the bite of the chilling wind.
I’m rattled and need some space. I’m trying to compose myself outside, and my heart nearly flies out of my throat when I hear his deep voice behind me. I hadn’t heard him approach. He’s stealthy like that; he comes to you unaware and before you know it, he is EVERYWHERE. Freaking everywhere. In your dreams, in your every thought, right in front of you, so big and beautiful and brawny and elegant and untouchable.
His voice is low, concerned. “You do realize I’ve never seen you pissed before.”
I swallow.
“I know, I . . . I know I asked you to go slow. This is all me, feeling jealous, and wondering if I can do this.” I inhale and search for words. “It’s just hard to share you when we do find time to be together . . .” I turn around to face him.
There’s a silence. Matt looks at me. “You don’t have to. We don’t have to complicate this, Charlotte.”
I swallow.
“You’ve been working the room like a pro, and I’ve never seen anything so beautiful in my life.”
I inhale and head forward, then I reach out and brush my fingers across the back of his. “You’re worth it. I’d do it a thousand times for you,” I say, and I mean it.
I squeeze his fingers, stepping toward the room as he opens the door.
“I do want to come out. Soon. I’m ready. I want you. I want to be with you. I want this. I want everyone to know that I do,” I rush out as I let him go.
People watch us walk inside, and my breath catches when Matt—Matthew Hamilton—slips his fingers back into mine.
I almost jerk as a bolt of lightning runs through my body at the gentle but firm grip.
Oh my fucking god.
I jerk my eyes to his, asking silently, What are you doing?
And his eyes are twinkling as he looks down at me, as if expecting my shock. And he says, “Dance with me.”
“What?” I’m so stunned, everything drowns and fades except the man before me, his eyes dark and coaxing.
A god, really.
My throat feels like I’ve got a ball of fire in there somewhere as I try to make it work. I notice the daughter of the attorney general, models and actresses, all glancing this way, and I can’t help but tease him as I feel that lingering jealousy prick me again. “Are you sure you want to dance with me? You have hundreds of admirers hoping for you to ask.”
His eyes sparkle with amusement. “I happen to admire only one.” His voice dips as he tugs on my hand. Amusement lost to heat—raw heat simmering with fiery passion. “Come here, Charlotte.”
I start to shake nervously, but he pulls me to him and onto the dance floor.
I’m panicked, and also overcome with little bubbles of excitement swimming in my veins. We start dancing. Everything that is him envelops me as cameras flash and people watch him move me around the dance floor.
He holds me very close, and protectively. My body comes alive at the touch. Arousal swims in my veins. It’s not the appropriate sentiment to feel here, dancing with the president, but I can’t help it. I want him close. I want to feel him inside me. I want him to remind me that of all the women fawning over him, I’m the one he loves—but at the same time, I want to pull away, too afraid of what we’re doing. Of coming out into the light for everyone to know. To see. That Matt and I . . .
“This isn’t a good idea,” I breathe, aware of people watching with awe and excitement.
“I don’t care.”
“Matt—Mr. President,” I protest, hoping that professionalism will change the proprietary look in his eyes. I’m glancing around for an escape route even though I can barely move my legs.
Our bodies brush as we dance, his legs hard and grazing the sides of mine, his biceps bulging around me as the song swarms around us.
He simply smiles.
“You once said you might not mind being by the president’s side,” he says. My libido goes crazy under that smile. His words husky, seducing me. The proximity of his mouth to my earlobe making my heart go haywire.
“That was before,” I whisper worriedly.
He captures my gaze with his powerful one. “Before you fell in love with me, or after?”
We hold each other’s gazes as the song finishes.
“Before you did this—everyone is looking,” I say, panicked.
“Good.”
He’s smiling as he dips me backward for the song’s finale and crushes his mouth to mine, with a little bit of tongue.
* * *
“I cannot believe you did that,” I tell him on our way back.
“Can you not?” he asks, laughing softly.
“If I were to go online right now, I bet there are a thousand and one rumors, stories, and the like circulating.”
“I am not one bit interested in what they are. Neither should you be.” He tugs me forward. “We’re adults. You’re my first lady. We can be together, Charlotte. We are, and we need to face up to the music, regardless of the tune. We will get through this.”
There’s a silence. Matt holds my face and pulls it up, smiling. “All they know for a fact is that I kissed you. The message implied is clear—you’re mine. I’m dating you, and you’re dating me. Which reminds me, I want to take you out. I’ve been jealous just thinking of you alone with anyone else. I get jealous of every man out there who can be with you, hold your hand and kiss your face. Now it’s me . . .” He presses his lips to mine.
“You don’t have anything to be jealous of,” I scoff.
He grabs me by the hips and lifts me to his lap, his eyes blazing with heat and possessiveness.
“Neither do you. I saw you tonight. You were flushed, jealous of the women greeting me.”
I bite down on my lip. “You’re . . . their absolute fantasy. Of course I’m jealous. You’re their fantasy and mine.”
He looks at me biting my lip, and I release it. “You seem to be ignorant of the fact that I’m taken. I’ve been taken for quite some time.”
Leaning to smooth his tongue over the lip I bit, Matt slides his hand under the skirt of my dress, touching the inside of my thighs with his fingertips. My breath snags in my throat when he caresses the damp spot in my panties.
His eyes flash when he realizes I’m wet.
“Lift your dress. I want to feel more of you.”
I start to lift my dress and part my legs as he presses his lips to mine, opening them so he can rub his tongue over mine as he eases one finger inside me.
“God, you’re addictive. Who do you want here, beautiful?” he groans, finding me soaked inside.
I moan into his mouth and link my arms around his neck, thrusting my hips out for his touch.
“You.”
“Who does this belong to?” He dips his tongue into my mouth and moves his finger in and out, in and out, driving me crazy. Crazy with jealousy, with desire, with want.
“You.”
“That’s right.” He smothers my moans with his mouth.