ÉLYSÉE PALACE
Charlotte
“Président Hamilton!”
We’re greeted by the French paparazzi piling outside Élysée Palace, and inside the gates and out on the steps, the President and First Lady of France await us with a grand welcome and give us a tour of the palace. I walk along the gardens with the first lady as the presidents head to do state business and talk about the mutual problems we’re facing—among them, ISIS. Once they’re finished, Matt meets me and an usher leads us to our bedroom before the state dinner they’re holding in his honor.
“President Hamilton, if you please, our grandest guest room.” The usher motions for Matt to step inside, and adds, “And First Lady,” nodding as he motions for me to follow Matthew, and then departs.
I feel the blood in my veins sizzle a little bit as the realization hits me.
Matt
Charlotte looks confused. She follows me inside and as soon as she walks in, I reach out with one arm and shut the door behind her.
“One room?” she asks.
“They don’t need to know the details of our arrangement.”
She scowls, possibly noticing how happy I am about this setup. I’m exhausted, but the thought of having her all to myself shoots pure adrenaline into my veins.
She changed on the plane. She’s wearing a prim ivory-colored skirt and jacket, and the gloves I sent. I peel the glove off her right hand, exposing her fingers, and lift them to my mouth. I take her middle finger between my lips and teeth. I taste her. Suck gently. Watching her eyes shutter and her breasts rise as her breath catches. “I want you. Tell me you want me. You want this.”
Her eyes glaze over.
“Tell me you miss this,” I press.
“I . . .”
I don’t let her find the words. Immediately I remove her other glove and lift her hand to my mouth. This time I drop a kiss in the center of her soft palm.
“You don’t miss any of it?” My voice is hoarse from my need. “Not even this?” I lick her palm, then kiss the inside of her wrist. Nibbling and tasting her skin.
Her eyelids become heavy. Her pupils dilate as she watches me drag my lips all along the sensitive skin on the inside of her arm. Against her skin, I whisper, “Maybe you just forgot. Maybe we need to figure out if you remember anything. Anything at all.”
I pluck open the top button of her jacket.
At this point she’s panting visibly. I like it.
Hell, I like it too much.
My own lungs feel constricted in my chest, and my cock is swelled to maximum capacity. One flick of her eyes in that direction makes her notice. And blush.
“I remember,” she says, swallowing thickly.
I undo the next two buttons and spread her jacket open. “What do you remember, Charlotte?” My voice has thickened. My own eyes feel heavy but I can’t take them away from her, from this girl—this woman, this lady. My first lady. “Do you remember this?” I ease my hand between her thighs, under her skirt, and caress her over her panties.
I find her wet for me—ready for me—and I feel my heartbeat accelerate. The need to feel her around me, to be inside her, make love to her, fuck this need inside of her simmers in my veins.
She swallows audibly.
I push up her skirt and look at her—swollen and wet, her panties tight over her sex, the fabric damp, and my eyes fucking hurt.
I lean over, my forehead touching hers, my eyes fixed on hers as I pull down her panties until they fall at her ankles. She steps away from them—closer to me. I insert one finger into her opening, seeking her depths. And god, she’s so snug. So wet she’s soaking me down to the base of my finger.
“Do you remember?” I press, doing nothing but touching her between her legs, watching her pant as I slide my finger in and almost out, deeper in and almost out. Her eyes drift shut as she fights this, fights me.
I use my free hand to undo the top buttons of the silk blouse she’s wearing under her jacket, part it open, and I duck my head. I coast my breath over the swell of her breast, the move designed to break her defenses, make her mine again. “Do you remember this?” I kiss the top swell of her breast.
She inhales and moves her hips to my finger. I move my mouth downward, to her nipple, and circle the tip with my tongue over the silk of her bra, marking the spot wetly. I suck her into my mouth then, fabric and all, and find her nub with my thumb. I circle it, watching the pleasure take her over—and I’m high on it. I’m high on her. High on the act of giving her pleasure alone.
“Tell me you remember this, baby,” I croon, unbuttoning the rest of her blouse. I lower the fabric of her bra so that I can take that hard tip of her nipple into my mouth and suck her, suck her like I need to. I groan when she shudders and her body softens against me.
I lift her and set her down on the side console, making room between her legs as I continue with my caresses, brushing my lips over hers.
“Matt, don’t . . .”
“That’s not the word I want to hear. That’s not the word you want to say to me—don’t tell me you don’t remember this, want this. Want me.”
She parts her lips and I slip my tongue inside, grabbing the back of her head and fitting my mouth to hers as I kiss her.
I’ve never been so gentle and so rough with a woman at the same time. I’ve never wanted to make love and fuck at the same time. She makes me want to do both—do her every way to Sunday, draw out every moan in her, every gasp, every breath, all of them mine, all of her mine.
She moves her body and tries to get closer, squirming, her lower lip trapped under her teeth as she bites down hard to keep from telling me.
I place a kiss on her top lip, softly, causing her to release her lower lip, allowing me to fit my lips on hers perfectly now. And she opens up and I’m drowning in the taste of her, the smell of her—so sweet and pure, she is. I’m here because of her. I’m trying to do my best because of her. Hell, I’m trying to do more—she’s opened my eyes, made me realize this isn’t enough. I want more. I want this. Her. And I want to do right by her.
I’m determined to make it happen at any cost.
Slowly, today, day by day, touch by touch, breaking down her walls—she’ll be mine again, her body first, her soul, and then her heart. I’m not letting her go.
“Open up to me, baby. Do you remember how you used to? Hmm? Tell me I’m still here,” I beg, cupping her breast, squeezing gently as I rub inside her. “And here. Tell me, beautiful. Tell me C is for Charlotte, my Charlotte, coming in my arms again.”
She goes off, breathing fast beneath me, clinging to my shoulders as if I’m all that holds her upright. “Oh god!” She presses her cheek to my neck, then pushes me back.
Then laughs. “Matt . . . you’re pretty good at this sort of thing. Seducing and pleasuring me.”
I lick my finger. “Hmm. At your service, Miss Wells.”
“Mr. President, you’re a cad.”
“I’m your cad.”
She swallows, her eyes wide. I pull her skirt down and lower her to her feet. “We need to get ready.”
“I can’t go without panties!”
“Live a little,” I say. “You’re a filthy first lady, a very wicked, naughty, hot first lady,” I say, raising her back to the console and ordering, “Part your legs.”
She does. I’m testing her; there’s no fucking way I’ll let her go anywhere without panties. I’m fucked up enough by the thought alone.
I ease the panties back up her legs, then lift her up and set her on her feet, kissing her leisurely as I tug them all the way up her sweet little pussy and round little ass.
Charlotte
We end up showering—separately. I don’t think either of us could take the heat of a joint shower, but I was still so aroused rubbing the loofah over my skin, thinking of Matt waiting outside the room.
I dressed while he showered, putting on a long blue silk taffeta gown with layers upon layers on its skirt, and I try not to drool too much when Matt walks out drying himself, fully naked, giving me a glimpse of everything I adore and want and miss as he gets dressed.
The state dinner is a lavish affair. French influentials gravitate toward Matt. That effortless grace; he’s in a room and it feels as if there’s no one else, and never was, and never will be.
There is just a natural charm about him—and the women, especially, don’t seem to miss it. I have my own admirers and try not to get jealous, especially because Matthew keeps glancing in my direction, and I can’t stop myself from stealing covert glances at him as well.
After all the guests depart, we remain chatting over after-dinner drinks with the French president and first lady.
“You two.” He motions toward Matt and me, then presses his fingers to his eyes. “The eyes don’t lie, eh? You are guests here; my wife and I hope you’re comfortable in one room rather than the two—in fact, I believe all the other rooms in the Élysée Palace were taken, weren’t they, chéri.”
Matt’s laugh is low and very masculine.
And very, very sexy.
“What happens in Paris stays in Paris,” the French president adds with a wink.
“I wouldn’t mind the opportunity to spend some private time with my first lady,” Matt admits. He shifts forward and eyes me challengingly.
“Opportunities like these are rare, eh?” The French president chuckles and lifts his glass. “To President Hamilton, and his enchanting first lady.”
Matt raises his glass and looks at me, and I clench my thighs together and take a sip. Only after that do I arch an eyebrow.
The French president’s wife smiles at me and sips from her wineglass.
Finally, after the longest day ever, we head to our room.
We close the door, and the surroundings are so alien, I feel a little homesick—but home stands before me, over six feet tall and virile, and I’m sunk into those knowing dark eyes and that half smile of his as he watches me take off my shoes.
I don’t even know what to do with my hands as Matt plucks his cufflinks open and sets them aside, his eyes never leaving mine.
Something about this aloneness—about having him all to myself, in this city—feels like another stolen moment. Like I’m taking something that doesn’t belong to me but I very much want to.
“Come here.”
I shiver at his gruff whisper. I know that he senses my homesickness, my longing. My homesickness for him. Home. And when he opens his arms, I go. I press myself to his side and bury my face in his neck and let him engulf me. God, I’ve wanted this so much.
“Come here,” he says again, as if he needs me closer still.
He drags me onto the bed and slips his arm under the opening at the back of my dress, gathering me to him, his hands spread on my bare back, my whole body pressed against Matt’s hard one in the most protective embrace I’ve ever felt in my life—it’s a wall of muscle and flesh and warmth and I bury myself even more into it, as close as physically possible.
Matt tightens his hold too.
I’m shivering and overwhelmed. His smell all around me. His hands on my back. The weight of his eyes on me. Matt’s hand brushing my hair back as he tries to peer into my face even though I’m trying to hide it because this urge to cry has to be jet lag. I can’t just break down for no reason. But I bury my face into his neck and fist the fabric of his open shirt, trying to get a grip on myself, letting the soothing motions of his hands massaging down the length of my back comfort me.
“I still love you.”
“I know.” His voice is low and thick and textured with emotion.
“I still want you like nothing in my life.”
“I know. Come here.” He drags me over him, holding me by the back of the head as he slips his tongue inside my mouth and kisses and kisses
and kisses
and kisses me.
He frames my face in his hands and his gaze bores into mine. “I love you. Very much, Charlotte. So much I couldn’t let you go. So much I won’t let you go. I’ve been in hell without you. You’re in my every waking thought and in my fucking dreams. I’ll fight to deserve you, to keep you by my side. I’m never making that mistake again, of thinking that I can’t keep you. I will. I will always keep you. Do you understand me?” He presses a kiss to my ear and murmurs fiercely, pulling me back and looking deeply into my eyes as he frames my face in his hands, “Do you hear me, baby?”
I peer up at him. “I didn’t hear the first part.”
A slow-growing smile suddenly deepens into laughter, then he falls sober. He shifts me to my back, his muscles rippling as he goes up on his arms. Looks at me directly, intently, his voice utterly low as he strokes his thumb down my jaw, eyes on mine. “I love you, beautiful.”
“How much? Like this?” I move my index finger and thumb as far apart as I can.
Matthew shakes his head.
“No?” I ask, disappointed.
“Immeasurably, baby. I love you immeasurably.”
He holds my face in his hands and gently kisses me, kisses me with immeasurable tenderness, immeasurable heat. Immeasurable love.