RAIN OR SHINE
Charlotte
I seem to be great at organizing the field team as well as all of Matt’s engagements perfectly, but I seem to be really bad at things most normal people are good at.
I can’t sleep.
I can hardly eat.
I’m high from him, from the looks, the stolen touches, the secret lust, watching him at rally after rally, speaking firmly and from the heart to crowds calling out his name.
It’s been eight days since we were at his dad’s place by the beach, and I’m still affected by the intimacy we shared.
I’m in love with him; there’s no doubt about it. It’s not just sex, not just a crush. It all became clear during our time together. Being with him in his secret space was special—as special as the night Matt came to dinner with his father. I feel guilty for caving to my desires, potentially putting his candidacy in jeopardy when I know this man would be so good for the country. But I yearn for more time with him.
Attempting to put some space between us, I told Carlisle I’d ride the bus with the campaign team to New York, but Matt simply sent Wilson to my hotel room to tell me what time he expected me at the airport.
I climbed into the plane along with Hessler, Carlisle, a famous political strategist named Lane Idris, Matt, and Jack. I was grateful Matt’s grandfather was busy running his real estate business from Virginia and wouldn’t be flying with us.
I listen to the men talk politics and observe Matt watching, thinking about their suggestions. When the talk turns to other subjects, Matt turns to me and eyes the book on my lap.
The book I’m reading is Democracy in America by Alexis de Tocqueville.
I love it because it’s not about how perfect democracy is, but rather how imperfect it is. Like everything in life, democracy needs to be balanced.
Strange to be thinking about balance when I’ve never felt so unbalanced in my life.
We spend the short flight discussing politics and democracy.
I learn Matt’s favorite book is The Righteous Mind, which examines why conservatives, liberals, and libertarians have different opinions about right and wrong, most based on their gut feelings. He calls it an eye opener on all our curses and virtues, and says a candidate must bring people together.
When we arrive in New York, I do a good job of acting cool and collected, until Matt tells me he’s heading out for a bite with Hessler and asks me to come along.
“Sure,” I say, as calmly as I can.
But when we stop off at the local campaign office first, I make a detour to the restroom and pull out my makeup kit, making sure I look amazing. Just because I’d never really gone out with him, and it feels like this is the closest thing to a date we could ever have.
Matt asks his driver to drop us off in Nolita so we can walk a bit before arriving at the restaurant in Chinatown. We’re trailed by four security guards as Hessler, Matt, and I make our way along Mott Street to the Peking Duck House, a restaurant he fondly recalls coming to with his parents on special occasions.
There’s something so vibrant about the New York streets. And Matt fits right in. He drew a lot of attention in the other cities we visited, but New York is used to celebrities. Amidst the hustle and bustle, everybody is doing their own thing—and Matt Hamilton isn’t Matt Hamilton today. He’s just a hot guy casually dressed in jeans and a V-neck T-shirt, walking next to a girl who’s having trouble keeping her cool. It’s nice to be able to walk next to him without attracting the attention of everyone passing by.
“This is incredible,” I say, smiling as I take in everything around us.
Hessler is smoking to my left; Matt’s got his hands in his pockets, a look of thoughtful enjoyment on his face as he studies my profile.
“Are you hungry?” he asks.
I groan and clutch my stomach. “Extremely so. You?”
“I’ve definitely got my eye on something tasty,” he says with a wicked sparkle in his eye. And he leans over to whisper, “As always, you look amazing.”
I feel my cheeks warm at the gruffness in his tone. I look down at my low-cut black lace camisole, short black flouncy skirt, and black high-heel sandals.
He smiles at me, amused by the blush rising up my cheeks as he raises his arm over my head and catches the door Hessler just opened. At the move, I catch the delicious scent of his Bond No. 9 cologne.
As Hessler walks toward our table, Matt softly brushes his fingers over my exposed back, just under the fall of my hair. The gesture is simple, a little proprietary, and so unexpected that an intense ribbon of heat shoots down my spine.
I can’t believe how turned on I am by the time I take a seat. I get wetter every time Matt moves his hand under the table along my thigh, his fingers caressing the inside of my legs under the hem of my skirt.
He occasionally removes his hand, but never for long.
I can see him scanning the restaurant, confirming his touch is private—only for us.
We have the most delicious lunch while I enjoy hearing Matt and Hessler talk about their interests outside of politics. Hessler is an avid golfer. Matt grew up playing baseball and still closely follows the Mets, his favorite team.
Hessler leaves early to smoke before heading to the rally in Washington Square Park. Matt picks up the check while Wilson and the three other security guards wait for us outside.
I watch raindrops start trickling along the windows as we wait for his credit card to be returned. By the time we’re outside, it’s pouring. Matt tells Wilson and the other guards to stay twenty feet behind us. My heartbeat picks up as I anticipate the alone time.
I smile at the guards as we walk past, and I pull an umbrella out of my handbag. Matt holds it above our heads as I curl against his side and we begin walking up the street.
The rain is coming down so hard that the umbrella provides little protection. I begin laughing and point toward a deserted covered fruit stand. “We should get under that awning.”
“Nice ploy.” He shoots me a smirk and a knowing look—as if I’m intentionally trying to steer him off to the side.
I open my mouth to set the record straight, but before I can, Matt firmly pulls me toward him and tenderly presses his lips to mine. His hand slides around my waist, down to my butt, gripping me tight against him.
He lowers the umbrella a bit, shielding us from prying eyes. He tightens his grip, his mouth hungrily devouring mine.
The moment is electric, mind-blowing—his mouth as wet as the raindrops on my hair, sweet and minty and hungry. His shirt wet, plastered against his sculpted chest.
His tongue moves over mine. I deeply inhale the scent of his cologne.
Delicious. Intoxicating.
Then, as if stirred from a beautiful dream, I suddenly come to my senses.
“Are you crazy?” I whisper and pull free, my voice barely audible through the pounding rain.
He grins, eyes dancing. “Yes.”
I laugh, and he’s smiling, but his smile doesn’t last long.
He pulls me back against him and rests his forehead on mine, his eyes searching my features. “Tell me how I can satisfy this country when I feel so lacking? Tell me.” He squeezes me, silently asking for an answer.
I know what he means.
He means that he has me, but not openly, and I have him, but not for long. What we have satisfies our physical cravings, but we’re left wanting more.
Matt gingerly tips up my chin as he lowers his face to mine. First he nuzzles my nose and strokes his thumb across my lips. He presses gently down on my bottom lip to open my mouth. My eyes slowly drift closed and my mind goes blank as he tenderly presses his lips to my cheek. I inhale deeply, and so does he.
“How do you not get bothered by it? The press following your every move? This is the first time we’ve been outside without being followed,” I say breathlessly.
“I grew up with dozens of lenses surrounding me—they were never far away. I grew blind to the extra eyes, and most days I don’t mind being watched.” He glances at my lips, then returns his gaze to mine, and quietly adds, “But sometimes they’re so close I feel like I have no space to breathe.” He smiles down at me and lifts the umbrella. “Let’s go—we have a rally to attend.”
“Washington Square Park. I still can’t believe we secured the permit—although it’s probably because your family owns a good portion of New York.”
He smirks. “Maybe it’s because I’m charming.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t bet on it,” I lie.
* * *
The rain barely stopped in time for the rally—but that didn’t deter the crowds. On the contrary. They filled the park, and even the surrounding streets were packed.
He kills it at the Washington Square Park rally.
After rousing the crowd to a “HAMILTON! HAMILTON! HAMILTON!” we head back to the hotel in several cars. I ride with him and Carlisle. The city is alive, bursting with light and night noises as we approach our hotel.
I’m silent and in awe. I’m in New York with the hottest man I’ve ever seen, riding in the back of a luxury car, heart thumping in excitement and a hot little tingle between my thighs because of his nearness, and because he’s got his hand resting just where he can brush his thumb over my thigh—and lounging in his seat as if that hand belongs there.
I suppose I should take it off, but I like the way it feels too much to do that.
It excites me, true. But it also relaxes me. I’m taking in the Village, Midtown, and then, Fifth Avenue all along the east side of Central Park.
“We’re getting good media coverage,” Carlisle announces.
“Good,” Matt says.
I smile, so proud of him today.
Rain or shine, the Hamilton team campaigns.
That night, I wait for him to message me through the secure campaign phone that the coast is clear, and when he tells me he’s coming over, I unbolt my door and pull him into my bedroom.
* * *
I’m still deliciously sore from the fuck he gave me last night—fucks, actually, and there were three: one slow and gentle, one fast and primal, and a very wet and passionate one in the shower—when I get to the New York field office the next morning. Carlisle and Hessler summon us all together, as they frequently do. We’re briefed in an eight-by-eight room, crowded with all of us. Matt stands in the corner, leaning against the wall, arms crossed as he lets his managers do the talking.
My eyes meet his across the crowd. It’s only a glance. That’s all we give each other. But it’s enough to make my tummy go crazy.
“Let’s run down what’s been going on,” Carlisle begins.
I slide my eyes back to Carlisle and focus on the rundown.
Shit is getting real and we’re going to need to bring the big guns to every event, and be aware that our competition will be aware of our every move.
President Jacobs, sixty-five, conservative, a peacemaker, a bit too weak-spined.
Gordon Thompson, fifty-nine, radical, a bit too war-loving.
Carlisle shoots us all a dire look and then looks at me a little too brazenly. “Just to be clear, we are working with the best independent candidate the USA has ever seen. No third-party candidate has ever won. This will be unprecedented. Matt Hamilton was born for this; we all know it. Not always the favorite one prevails in politics. It’s the one who wrangled more support in his campaign. So it’s up to us to make his supporters multiply like freaking Jesus did the bread. Okay?”
Everyone nods.
My throat closes and guilt starts creeping up my throat. I nod vigorously.
Carlisle nods, appeased.
“Let’s get our candidate back to the White House where he belongs.” He gives a final nod, and we all scatter. I head to the door of Matt’s office with his itinerary in hand.
“Good morning, Charlotte,” he says as he enters and waves me inside.
“Good morning, Matt.”
The moment I shut the door, Matt lifts me up to the desk, and I gasp in surprise but hang on to his shoulders for support. The possibility of getting caught makes me scan his office—then I realize we’re not at headquarters, that this office has no windows. Walls mean privacy for us, and I go loose and pliant in his arms, wet and instantly ready.
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.