THE LAST PRIMARY
Charlotte
The next weekend, Matt visits his grandfather in Virginia.
I’m sort of glad for the distance. We’re sinking too deep. Though a part of me wants to get in deeper, deep enough to drown, I know that’s not the best for him, for me, for anyone.
Matt is a stallion in bed. We spent all night touching, coming, and talking at my place. Neither of us slept, and neither of us seemed to want to sleep. I didn’t want him to go.
I am addicted to the times we spend together.
I keep wanting more.
But at this stage in the campaign, we’re not playing with fire. Our secret, scandalous affair is a nuclear bomb, and any slipup in keeping it hidden will be the match that sets it off.
My parents have me over for dinner one evening and grill me on the campaign. I know, ever since growing up in their household, that in politics, discretion is a must. The last of the primaries are tomorrow, and Dad says he heard Matt had been courted by both parties but had declined.
“You’re doing a good job combating decades and decades of power shifts between the two parties, but is it going to be enough, Charlotte? What’s Matt plan if they attack, find some scandal in his past?”
“Dad, I’m not his shadow and I’m not a mind reader, either—I’m busy helping organize his schedule and that’s that.”
“Will we be invited to the fundraiser for literacy he’ll be holding near campaign close?” Mom asks.
“You’re on the list. Everyone’s on the list, even the whole of Hollywood and Nashville; Matt loves music and he loves, loves scientists and tech geeks. The campaign has had endorsements so far from nearly six dozen public figures. Even Mayweather posted on his social media with an image of piles and piles of money and a note that read ‘Floyd Money Mayweather doesn’t do two-hundred-dollar checks, I do cash, and it adds up to a couple more zeroes.’”
I realize how fantastical it all sounds once I hear myself talk about it. How does Matt sleep at all?
How does anyone carry the expectations of a whole country on his shoulders, and carry it well?
“We’re not sure we can attend the gala, though,” Dad warns me quietly. “You do realize my appearance at such an event would be an endorsement too?”
I meet his gaze and nod quietly, wanting to ask him to please, please endorse Matt, but I respect him too much to ask what he’s waiting for. I simply know he’s afraid that no matter the people, the parties will make sure the one who ends on top won’t be Matt Hamilton.
* * *
Later that same night, I check in with my friends at the same bar where I celebrated my birthday months ago. “Hamilton for the win,” Kayla says over dinner. “He has my vote. And I know he has yours!”
I laugh, saying, “Of course.”
She frowns. “Wait. What? Does he have more than your vote?”
I laugh it off, but, oh god, it’s not at all funny.
How could I let this happen? I’d been afraid it would, and I admit to myself that was primarily the reason I was hesitant to join his campaign.
But . . . you can’t control who you crush on.
Except a part of me believes that you can, that it was wrong of me to fall the way I’ve been falling, that I know it can go nowhere. But still I want him. And I think of him. And despite wondering if I’ve let things go too far, if maybe I should quit before they get worse, I’ve stayed.
Craving to make a difference. Craving . . . to be with him.
I look at Kayla, and she has a good guy; she’s the one being taken home tonight, who has a job she loves and parents who didn’t care if she was a teacher or a guitar player (she’s actually both).
I have a job that’s temporary, a man I can never truly have, and if my mother realizes that I’m dangerously attracted to Matt, she’ll worry. They wanted me in the arms of a promising politician, true, but not the candidate for the presidency, who every woman in the country believes belongs to her.
I swore I’d never be a politician’s girl—they either cheat on you with another woman or with their jobs, or the truly sleazy ones cheat the voters who put them on their thrones.
But no matter how distasteful I find it all, I live in D.C. I live and breathe politics. Politics has fed me my whole life, put me through a career. Politics is now my job.
Politics is in every pore and cell of the man consuming my dreams.
The fact that he’s driven and the most uncorrupted person in the political world as of now only adds to his appeal, to my admiration, to my respect. My desire to remain at his side until the end is too great, no matter how much it hurts the girl inside me who just wanted a guy to love and for him to love her back.
That night I climb into my bed in my little apartment, realizing how lonely I really am when all around me is quiet. Campaigning is exhausting. It’s also invigorating and enlightening.
We’ve met with hundreds of thousands of people. You get to see all the varieties, all the ethnicities that now make up Americans. You get to see courage, suffering, hope, politeness, rudeness, anger, despair—all of that is America.
Sadness is when you don’t listen to those in pain until they’re crying. You don’t listen to those suffering because sometimes they’re the ones most silent.
* * *
The next day, we’re all gathered at the bunker preparing to watch the primary results. And I miss him.
I miss his energy and the passion I feel when I’m around him. I miss traveling with him, him asking me for favors, like getting him coffee, and I miss the focused looks he wears when he puts on his glasses and reads the schedules I bring or the files he asks me to print out.
Tonight, nearly a hundred members of our team are here, watching the flat-screen TV in one of the media rooms as we watch the last primary. The two men in the lead for the parties are the Democrat President Jacobs, and the Republican Gordon Thompson.
President Jacobs. The only good thing he’s done for our country he has yet to do, which is step out of office and let someone more competitive with better ideas step in.
Gordon Thompson. He wants to increase the military budget while cutting spending on social programs. He seems really pro-war.
And clearly interested in the ratings Thompson seems to garner, the media has been nonstop replaying what he’s been blogging, Facebooking, and spouting on TV—when Matt arrives.
He meets my gaze. Our eyes seem to lock for an eternity.
Matt stops staring only when everyone begins to greet him. He greets them back amicably and then sits to my right.
The lights are lowered—and then they’re out.
The TV flashes and everyone is silent, watching and listening to the speculations about who the Democratic and Republican nominees will be.
And I’m trying to keep up, except that I’m hyperaware of Matt sitting exactly two inches away. I am aware of the warmth of his body. And amazed at the crackling trail of fire in my veins because he’s so close. His clean, manly scent makes my lungs ache. An overpowering urge to get closer won’t leave me. I lean back a little instead. I breathe, and then realize he just turned to look at me.
He’s staring at my face as if he’s branding it to memory, and it seems to frustrate him because he runs a restless hand over the back of his neck.
He stands and goes to get himself coffee, then he stands a few paces to my right, staring at the TV, frowning very hard.
He looks so good.
We’ve been in a blur of campaigning in reception halls, high school and college gyms, sprinting towards Election Day. Things will get even more intense after today—I’m sure we’ll spend another few months away from D.C.
And suddenly I don’t know if I can do this. If I can live with this relentless little ache while I travel with him, watch him kiss those babies and genuinely, truly hold them because he wants to, not because it’s good press.
As the news continues, he flashes on screen. Full head of tousled sable hair with highlights. The entitlement reflected in his informal dress only makes him stand out more. “Matthew Hamilton’s good judgment, drive, and discipline are going to be strong weapons against the Republican and Democratic nominees,” the newscaster is saying before they head back to tallying the results.
So here we are, watching the early returns as the presumptive nominees of the opposing parties are named.
No surprises there—Jacobs and Thompson. Though Hessler is still surprised, it seems.
“What the ever-loving crap. One is about as old-fashioned as a goddamn priest. And don’t get me started on the other. There aren’t enough bullpens in the country to hold all the bullshit he spouts,” Hessler groans of the opponents.
We all seem to glance at Matt for his opinion.
Matt runs his hands over his neck, frowning thoughtfully. “Our government will keep whoever wins in check. That’s the beauty of our system.”
Hessler huffs. “As long as they don’t cozy up to the idea of issuing a ton of executive orders.”
Matt smirks at that, then stares thoughtfully at the TV, obviously weighing his opponents’ virtues and flaws.
I stand up and head to the kitchenette outside the viewing room and have to pass by Matt. He doesn’t move to let me go by. His gaze darkens as I approach, and he reaches out impulsively to my neck.
Gently he seizes the eagle pin at my collar. He strokes the eagle with the pad of his thumb. Once, that’s all, his eyes shining with pride as he does.
I hold my breath. He searches my expression with curiosity. And his smile fades. He’s still holding the pin. I’m afraid that he can see I’m almost panting—damn my body! There’s a little hurricane of butterflies in my stomach and I’m afraid this guy—so damn perceptive all the time—can see it too.
I’m nervously inching back, and the move makes him drop his hand. He finally moves to let me pass, and Mark suddenly follows me for a refreshment.
“Something going on with you two?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say, annoyed at how nosy he is. “Nothing.”
“Good. Phew! I was worried for a moment.”
I press my lips together and extract a water bottle from the small fridge.
“It’s all everyone talks about here—all those phone calls from girls claiming they’re Charlotte and they want to talk to Matt.”
“Maybe their names are Charlotte.” I close the fridge and crack the bottle open.
“All three dozen of them? No way.” He shakes his head and wiggles his eyebrows. “There’s only one Charlotte as far as I’m concerned . . . and unfortunately, there’s also only one Charlotte as far as Matt is concerned. He can’t stop looking at you.”
“Mark . . . nothing’s going on.”
He grins then, and he leans an elbow on the doorknob.
“Good. Do you want to go out with me this weekend?”
“Excuse me?”
“A date.” He grins.
I hesitate, then realize Matt is still a few steps behind him. He’d been in a conversation with Carlisle, but is now looking in my direction.
If I’m determined to get him out of my system and nix any rumors about us, too, a date is a way to go. Other fishes in the sea, no need to go for the Great White Shark. But all I can say is, “Not until we win.”
Then I quietly step out and go back to the viewing room, sipping my water.
The crowd soon disperses, and I find myself battling the urge to linger behind and ask Matt about his weekend. I head to the elevators with the crowd, doing my best to force myself to go home.
Matt frowns when I pass him dismissively. He moves abruptly to stop me, taking me by the elbow. “Hey.”
I look up and glance around, concerned that anyone could have seen. But they’ve all shuffled into the elevators.
We stare at one another, and there are a thousand messages in his stare that I can’t decipher but somehow feel, in my belly, like a tangle of crackling wire.
Lips tipping upward in an adorable way I try not to notice, Matt waves me forward. I cautiously walk with him. He has so much power he’s not just a person, but a presence.
He’s wearing a smile, a wicked little twinkle in his eyes as if he knows . . . everything.
He frowns down at me and jerks the knob of his office door open. “After you, Miss Wells.”
He smiles like a gentleman, but his stare is that of a naughty caveman as I go inside and he shuts the door behind him.
I inhale for courage, but there’s one thing about his office here in headquarters. The upper half is glass, and anyone who returns to the building could see us.
My heart is thudding madly as I hear him approach from behind. He slides one hand around my waist and pulls me back against the wall of his chest. “Hmm. Your hair smells good.”
I exhale.
“Always different,” he adds as an afterthought.
“We’re always hotel-hopping; I’m at the mercy of what’s offered in my room.”
“This is real, though. This is yours,” he murmurs.
He seizes my shoulders. His tanned, long-fingered hands giving me a delicious little squeeze.
I try to suppress my reactions as I turn around in his hold and lift my eyes to his face. He’s staring down at me quietly, as if trying to figure me out.
“So, Mark,” he says, his eyes scanning me.
“What Mark?”
He lifts his brows pointedly.
“Oh, you mean Mark.”
“Mark Conelly.” His eyes flick to the door, then to me. “What does he want with you?”
“Nothing. He’s just a friend.”
“You sure?”
There’s an odd little hum in my body when I see the roiling swirls of darkness in his eyes.
Is Matthew Hamilton, the man who has everything, the world at his feet, jealous?
The angle of his jaw looks about as sharp as ever. “I’m sure. Nothing’s going on yet.”
“Yet?”
“He wants a date, but I want to concentrate on the campaign first. I didn’t decline him outright because he was . . . speculating about us.”
“I see.”
I want to know what he’s thinking, but he shutters his gaze and simply looks at me.
“He’s too old for you,” he finally states.
“He’s one year younger than you,” I counter.
“He’s divorced. Completely ineligible for you.”
I shrug. “I have other options. My friend Alan has been trying to make things serious for years.”
His eyes widen. “There’s no winning this one with you?” He laughs and rakes his fingers through his hair, frowning in a mixture of amusement and puzzlement.
Although Matt looks calm, I fear there’s some sort of tempest lurking in his gaze. Something being held tightly under control.
I remain silent while I struggle with a thousand things I want to do or say. I missed him. I missed his face and the way he smells and the way the office buzzes when he’s here. I missed waking up with tangles in my stomach simply because I know I’ll see him. I also don’t like these feelings, but it’s hard to push them away when they’re simply . . . there. Stronger than ever when he’s near.
“Why are you even considering going out with him?”
“Because.” I glance away, and then whisper, “It could help dissipate any rumors between us. And because . . . you’re under my skin, Matt.”
There’s a silence.
I stay in place even when all my instincts tell me to walk away and not look back.
“Don’t go out with him.” He waits a moment, then adds, “With any of them.”
He draws me to his chest, shaking his head chidingly down at me.
I hesitate, then I lean forward and set my cheek there. He turns his head into my scalp and inhales. Then he nuzzles my nose and strokes his thumb across my lips. He presses gently down on my bottom lip to open my mouth and rubs his thumb over my tongue.
My eyes drift shut. I suck his thumb and then take his hand and turn it and kiss his palm. His hold tightens, and he drags his face lower, his jaw slightly stubbled as he presses his lips to mine.
We groan as our tongues flick over each other, again and again.
My hand fists his shirt. He slides his hand to cup my buttock and drags me a little closer as he parts me with his mouth and kisses me again.
I groan his name.
“Matt.”
He snaps his lips back and looks at me, breathing hard. Reality comes to me slowly. We’re at headquarters, with glass surrounding us. I’m kissing the Prince of America.
President Jacobs. Thompson. They would leap all over this.
Matt seems to know what I’m thinking.
“The guy you campaign for, I don’t know how not to be him. That’s who everyone expects me to be.” He touches his fingers to my cheek. “But with you it’s different.”
I exhale as his words sink in. What he means is that in the dark of night, he doesn’t want to be president, or Matthew Hamilton.
He wants to be just a man able to lose control without having a story the next day in the media.
I want to hold him to me, and I want to tell him that I love the way he loses control, and that I love the fact that he wears all of the expectations the world has placed on him because he just happened to be named Hamilton really well.
Instead I simply ask him for a ride home, wondering if a man as isolated as Matt has ever really let down his guard with anyone before.
“Lose the tails. I want to drop Charlotte off,” Matt tells Wilson after we get in the car, and Wilson makes a few movements—slipping into several underground parking lots to lose the tails before he pulls over in front of my apartment.
Matt follows me inside my building.
His face is set, and he looks thoughtful.
“If you’re still thinking about the Mark thing, now you know how I feel watching a thousand and one gorgeous women throw themselves at you.”
He laughs, then drags his hand over his face. “I’m jealous. I’m man enough to admit it. I’m jealous of any guy who can take you out, walk down the street with you in his arms.”
My eyes widen at the confession.
Matt Hamilton jealous of any normal guy?
I feel like I can’t compare anything to the delicious electrical current the words send through me.
I’m melting down my thighs, to my toes, as I walk to my apartment.
One of my female neighbors appears.
“Charlotte, I—”
Matt turns.
My neighbor stutters. “Oh, wow.”
“Nice to meet you.” Matt smiles easily, and my neighbor’s eyes can’t flare any wider.
Matt sends me a questioning look, and I briskly announce, “Matt, my neighbor Tracy.”
“A pleasure, Matt!” my neighbor calls.
Matt greets her and then I lead him into my apartment. “The paperwork is right here, Mr. Hamilton,” I say as I usher him inside, making sure Tracy hears and praying that will keep her appeased. Once we’re inside I tell him pointedly, “My point. About the girls either throwing themselves at you or dropping to the floor for you.”
It’s so dark in my apartment, I flick on a lamp and it still feels like the shadows are engulfing us. I enter the kitchen and pull out a loaf of bread just to try to keep my hands busy—not going to his shirt, his jaw, his hair. “I’m going to make myself something to eat. Sometimes I get dizzy when I haven’t had any food for a while . . . Want some?”
He drops down on a stool and drags out the other one with his toe so he can prop his foot on the footrest and lean forward. “Look at you,” he says.
“What?”
“Quite the little homemaker,” he croons appreciatively.
I prepare a sandwich, laughing. I can’t think with Matt in my kitchen.
“I know some recipes,” I boast. “Jessa would teach me when I was young. The day you and your dad came over, I was shocked the president’s food would be tasted before he could eat.” I glance at him. “It was the highlight of my life. I felt like I’d been selected for something special, which is why I bought the pin. I was even inspired to join Women of the World because of that. I kept you very present in my mind.” I laugh.
He just looks at me, and I realize he seems a bit thoughtful.
“Please. Don’t be so charming. Don’t try to impress me. I would probably vote for you anyway.” I laugh, and he doesn’t laugh. He stands as I bite into my sandwich, and as I chew, I lift the sandwich in offering. He watches me finish chewing, and when I set down my half-eaten sandwich and wipe a napkin across my lips, he silently tucks my hair behind my ear, leaning forward as if he wants to be close.
I say, nervous now, “Really, I’m smitten with every part of you already.”
I freeze when I realize what I said, and my eyes widen, and his eyes darken and narrow as he lifts his hand and drags his thumb across my lips—a mix of rough and tender, lustful and loving.
“If you’re so smitten, why are you giving Mark even a second’s thought?” he husks out.
I’m panting. “You haven’t dropped that? That’s totally an only-son syndrome. Not sharing his toys?” I tsk.
He looks as if he wants me up against the wall, and I want to run my tongue and fingers all over him.
“I can give a second to Mark,” I add. “More than that after the election. You can’t have it all, Matt.”
“But I want it all, and you want me to want it, you want me to want you—is that what this is about? With Mark and now this other guy?”
“No.”
“Don’t go out with Mark. Don’t go out with Whatshisname. He’s not right for you.” He shakes his head and strokes my lips with his knuckles now. “Don’t give these lips to just anyone. They’re too pretty. And too rare. And they’re mine.”
I groan and put my hands to my face, hating that I’m still that eleven-year-old with a crush, except now the crush is crushing me in his embrace. “Matt . . .” I lift my gaze. “My neighbor saw you. You have to go.”
“Are you worried she’ll be daydreaming about me?” Cockiness flits in his words and across his lips.
“No,” I deny, but maybe I am!
“It’s the rumors, then,” he says, his gaze darkening.
I nod. “But I’ll say I seduced you. That I had evil designs on the White House.”
A smile plays on his beautiful lips as a new texture laces his voice, making it sound rougher. “Charlotte, there’s nothing remotely evil about you.”
“There is. Because I shouldn’t even be here, wanting what I want from you, knowing what’s at risk. I’m evil personified. In fact, I’ve never sunk so low.”
He takes a lock of my wild red hair, curling it around his index finger. His frown is puzzled, but his eyes seem nothing but fascinated. “Why do you insist on claiming you’re stone-hearted and evil—is that a secret fantasy of yours?” He tugs the hair a little forward, which draws my entire head a bit forward as he adds, “Because I happen to like you as you are.”
My voice turns smoky. “I simply like to point out I am multifaceted . . .” He tugs the strand closer and my brain starts scattering. “There are many parts of me you don’t know. Like”—he releases the strand and uses his finger to trace my earlobe—“the fact that I have the courage to . . . I have the courage to seduce you.”
“Really?” There he goes, laughing at me with his eyes again and causing wild little flips in my stomach.
I step back and tug on my top, my heart beating faster and faster as Matt continues looking at me, his smile starting to fade.
“You don’t believe me?” I prod.
He just looks at me, his stare wolfish and intense.
I grit my teeth together in determination and slowly undo all the buttons, then part my top and shove the material over one shoulder.
The trace of laughter in his eyes becomes shadowed with heat as his gaze falls on my bare shoulder.
Suddenly there’s nothing but silence in the room.
Nothing but silence and his eyes tracing my shoulder, up my neck, to my lips, then looking straight into my eyes.
I’ve lost all power to breathe.
He always towers over me when he’s close and right now he looks all male, dark, and there’s a little bit too much testosterone in the air.
Matt has never looked sexier than he does now, standing there battling a battle I don’t want him to win.
I lick my lips and gather my courage as I shrug off the next shoulder and draw up my arms to cover my front. I watch his face, afraid of his rejection, afraid of my own recklessness.
I should probably stop right now.
No. Matt should probably stop me right now.
I should get out of his personal space, or more likely he should get out of mine, and yet I let the shirt drop, and Matt remains before me, his eyes fixed on my face—dark like twilight.
More silence.
Matt is so focused, so passionate; I’ve never seen such passion in a man’s eyes before when he talks about the United States of America. I love it, but I also love the way he looks at me with the same passion now. Me. Just me.
He can have any woman he wants—and yet he chooses nobody. He’s chosen his country for now, and I know I should respect that. What are you doing, Charlotte?!
The seconds pulse, and I stand before him in my skirt and bra.
I can’t think of anything when he lifts his hand to touch me and slowly drags his knuckles, up from my belly button, between my breasts, up my neck, then back down.
A caress, soft as a feather, the bump of his knuckles barely grazing my skin—his gaze grazing mine with that gentleness, and a tormented frustration I’d never seen there before. It’s etched in every line of his handsome, perfect face—in the line of his jaw, the set of his lips, as if they’re pressed together to keep from pressing against mine.
I have no words for the things—the want—that I’m feeling.
I’ve never wanted anything the way I want—need—for Matt to kiss me right now.
I can barely speak. “Do you believe me now?” I swallow. “Aren’t you going to stop me from . . . from taking off the rest?”
He runs his knuckles up my torso again, this time up my throat, where he spreads his fingers open under my jawline, his open hand encompassing my face as the heel of his hand cradles my chin.
“Quiet now. I’m going to look at you for a long, long time.” His hot eyes turn my bones to cinders.
I swallow, dazed with desire under his gaze.
He brushes a kiss across my cheek, his breath warm. “I’m going to make these cheeks flush bright red with the ways I’m going to let my fingers play with you,” he says, then he leaves his nose there and inhales against my skin.
He caresses up my sides, his nose grazing my ear now.
“You’re so passionate . . . You’ve got more love for your country than anyone I’ve ever seen. And it drives me crazy when all that fire comes alive for me. I won’t mind watching that fire burn right now.”
My voice is thick with lust and longing. “Our country is wonderful,” I say, only responding to the first comment. And you’re wonderful in bed, I think to myself, but I’m not feeding his ego anymore. The world does that in excess already.
“You know what would be wonderful?” he says, twitching his lips thoughtfully to the side.
He cups my ass in his hands.
“What would be exquisite?” he continues.
He squeezes the mounds and in one jerk, pins me flat against his chest.
“You.”
He dips his head.
And Matt is kissing me. Hard. Almost as if punishing me for the Mark thing, for tempting him, for I don’t even know what.
His tongue thrusts, that first thrust wet and hard and oh so good. His grip tightens on my neck, possessive. He deepens the kiss, if that’s even possible. “I thought of this mouth all weekend. And these gorgeous breasts . . .”
He curls one hand around my breast, the other on the back of my neck.
His hand is warm and gentle on my nape and as he fondles my breast. The touch is so wanted, all I can do is absorb the feel of that large hand teasing my nipple, breaking me apart. While the other is cupping the back of my neck as if it alone holds my spine together, keeps my body from falling, my cells locked together.
He looks down at me and pinches my nipple and pulls me closer a little roughly, and I hold my breath—a breath that is scented with him.
His lips curl a little, and heat charges down my body.
I inhale sharply when he lifts his hand and runs it up my curves, looking into my eyes as he traces the contours. Flesh and blood.
But he looks at me as if he thinks I’m made of something else.
His fingers edge into my waistband and then into my panties as he starts gently kissing me again.
I open my mouth and breathe, “Matt.”
He inhales me, then starts kissing my lips again. Hot. Firm. Urgent.
I groan and wrap my arm around his neck.
“Matt—I didn’t think. You need to go,” I groan, pushing my tongue into his mouth, grabbing fistfuls of his silky hair. “I know that this is . . . we can’t . . . are you going to stop or am I going to have to stop you? Please don’t make me stop you. I don’t know if I can . . .” I groan.
I not only worry that my neighbor will hear us, that a scandal will erupt, but I also don’t know how much more of him I can take before I hit the point of no return.
Or maybe I’ve already reached that point.
There won’t ever—ever—be a man who excites me like this one.
He’s all I breathe, all I see, all I want as he lifts me up to the kitchen counter, and I gasp in surprise but hang onto his shoulders for support.
He reaches under my skirt to pull down my panties. His eyes meet mine and hold them in his penetrating gaze as he takes my mouth with his and starts rubbing my folds between his fingers.
I don’t know how to feel, how to react—my world is fragmenting, piece by piece; there is no reality, nothing but my arms around his neck, clenching, and his hot mouth, and his expert fingers, giving me what I need.
“Matt.”
He holds me on the kitchen counter and my knees are weak as he opens up my thighs to make more room for his fingers.
Need burns fiery bright as he slides two inside me. Cupping my breast in his hand, caressing. Pulling his mouth free of mine to roam down my neck, to suck on a nipple. I break apart in his arms, beneath his touch and his kiss.
Only after I come, with him saying shh, I got you against my lips, do I seem to return to earth.
I stand on shaky legs, and he grabs my hips and rests his forehead on mine. His eyes are lit up with heat and devilish mischief, melting me a little more—if that’s even possible.
My voice comes out breathy. “Wow.” I lift my hand and set it on his jaw, stroking him with a tenderness I’m not sure I’ve ever shown him. “It never feels like enough. I keep craving more of you.”
He turns his head, placing a soft kiss on the inside of my palm. Voice thicker and more textured than ever, he says, “We’re not done yet.”
He gingerly kisses the inside of my wrist as he draws my hand to curl it around the back of his beck.
As he brings me flush, he ducks his head and kisses me goodnight. The kiss slow and languorous, an underlying hunger in every thrust of his tongue. I’m trembling, weak from my orgasm, as he’s whispering, “I’ll see you tomorrow, beautiful,” and he pecks my lips, slowly, almost as if in gratitude, and he’s gone, telling me before he exits, “Lock up.”
The next morning, I’m flushed as I dress for work, anticipating the moment when I see him.
When the hectic pace of our campaign catches up with me and Matt spends all morning running, I almost think I made it up, it didn’t happen, all the things he said, all the ways we keep sinking deeper, but my mouth feels that last lick of his lips on mine.
And when Matt finally gets into headquarters and looks at me, the look in his beautiful dark eyes keeps reminding me that it definitely happened, and that he means for it to happen again.