Commander in Chief

“You have some big ears, don’t you?”

I nod with a kittenish smile and swipe my tongue out to lick the top of his chest. “I’ve got a very warm tongue, too.”

“Hmm. Give me more of that tongue. Lower.”

“So I heard . . . Matt, are you listening?” I say, as I lick the center of his chest.

“What?” He laughs, obviously distracted.

“I heard . . . the bill passed. Education.”

“God. Yes.” He squeezes his eyes shut, throwing his head over the back of the couch. “I’m so fucking relieved. For a moment there, I thought we’d miss by a vote.”

“Matt, I’m so proud of you,” I say.

He looks at me, smiling, stroking his hand down my hair. “Healthcare is next.”

It’s surreal that the next morning, I wake up in Camp David—a married woman. I am married. From now on, people will address me as Mrs. Hamilton.

Matthew didn’t seem to get excited by the idea of a paparazzi circus if we headed anywhere else, and so Camp David it was. I’m so glad this was his choice. It’s absolutely quiet. Peaceful.

It’s so early the sun is barely rising. I can tell from the parting in the curtains that it’s close to dawn. I glance at the ring on my hand, identical to the thicker, larger ring on his hand, and drink in the man sleeping next to me, cuddling closer to his warm, hard chest to catch some more z’s. There’s nowhere I’d rather be.

We wake up at 9 a.m. and have morning sex, then we do a breakfast cookout on the terrace. It’s relaxing. It’s the first time I’ve ever been alone with Matt Hamilton without sneaking or hiding. We are alone—truly alone (I suppose we’ve reached the point where the Secret Service and Matt’s shadow don’t count, especially when they’ve been doing their best to give us our privacy and stay on hand, but out of sight)—and this feeling of privacy is a nice change from the limelight of the White House.

We turn on the television as we wash plates, only to see pictures of us on every channel. We decide not to watch.

So we head out and explore the wilderness. Matt tells me about how he would golf with his father, and enjoy just wading through the trees that surround the cottage with Loki, one of his pets then.

It’s almost 1 p.m. by the time we get back to the lodge, and I’ve never felt happier or more at peace than I do now.

We walk into the living room, then the bedroom, and Matthew heads into the shower, turning on the water. He gazes at me expectantly, his eyebrows rising a millimeter.

“Oh!” I gasp. “You want me to . . . you expect me to . . .”

Ever so slowly, he nods as he starts unbuckling and unzipping, the corners of his mouth lifting a tiny fraction. “I do.”

It’s the hottest shower sex ever. He makes love to me against the shower wall, then he pulls out and finishes off, his semen raining on my abdomen, his eyes on me, and it is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. Hottest sex of my life. With the hottest man on the planet.

We laugh the rest of the afternoon, and make love in the kitchen, and talk policy and politics, and we even call the White House to check up on Jack, and ask them to bring him to us at Camp David by car.

He arrives hours later, bounding happily to the cottage when he sees Matt at the door, and we spend the next day walking the wilderness, with Jack barking, dashing, and wagging his tail.

After a glorious Saturday evening, going out about the camp—relishing the fact that Camp David is paparazzi proof, because of it being a military base—and then curling up in bed to make slow, foreplay-laden love, it’s Sunday afternoon, and we’re back on Marine One heading home, Jack peering out of the windows.

I look at the wedding and engagement rings glinting on my finger with a smile on my lips and then study Matt’s thoughtful profile as he gazes out the window. I can tell his mind is already drifting back to work.

I’m sad to let the calm of Camp David go. But as we approach the District, I look at the Washington and Jefferson monuments as we get ready to descend over the South Lawn of the White House and feel a sense of peace and amazement seeing the city from this vantage point. I absorb the lights streaking over columned walls, and I know that this is where Matthew needs to be. This is where he belongs. Where we belong. No matter how much we sometimes wished to freeze inside a simple, normal moment forever.

27

LIFE

Charlotte

“This girl in the photograph,” my husband says as he stares at his gift, tapping a finger to the glass, raising an eyebrow. “I want her. Always.”

“I’ll let her know,” I croak, breathless at the look in his eyes.

He sets it aside and strides to me, in a towel, ready for bed. “I’m assuming she intended to give me a hard-on, what with the come-hither look.”

I laugh. “Not a come-hither look! Alison told me to think about you and I just did . . .”

“That’s the expression on your face when you think of me?” he asks, leaning forward.

I nod breathlessly as he cups my face.

“Think of me now,” he commands, his voice husky, watching me.

I scan his face. “I can’t. I’m too busy looking at you.”

“Close your eyes then, and think of me.”

I close my eyes, giggling, feeling his eyes on me.

Then I picture him, standing there watching me, in that towel, hot as hell. I picture the expression on his face when I gave him the portrait Alison made for me, in elegant black and white, with a sleek gold frame. I picture the way his eyes drank me up, almost as if I were alive in the picture and he expected me to leap out of the frame and make a grab for him.