Mr. President
Page 50His smile after he licked it?
His smile was sexiest of all.
I’m thinking of all this, when his thumb moves from the back of his dog’s ear to brush over mine.
I lift my eyes, and he smiles at me, a smile I feel everywhere, and I smile back, petting Jack more vigorously, electrified every time Matt purposely passes his hand over mine as he does the same.
“You’re a good dog, aren’t you? Very sporty with your flea necklace,” I tell Jack, and I look up at Matt.
The smile on his face is amused. Tender. I start flushing, and his smile starts to fade, and his gaze becomes a little dark and a whole lot intimate.
Of course he knows his effect on me. He knows his effect on every woman, and though I know he dislikes his physical beauty to detract from the issues he wants to discuss, it doesn’t seem to bother him one bit that it has this effect on me.
Worst of all, it’s not just his beauty. It’s his mind, his passion, his dedication, and the way he makes me feel alive, ambitious, hopeful, vital.
I duck and focus back on Jack.
Soon, the team starts shuffling out. I keep playing with Jack, loath to leave until I hear the last of the team head out the door and Matt speaks to Wilson, who’s just outside, standing guard.
“Wilson, will you come in for a moment?”
I stand to leave as Matt leads Wilson inside.
“Stay, Charlotte.”
I turn to him, and Matt cups my face as he looks into my eyes. “It’s been two weeks. I need to see you. I need to touch you.”
He smiles, nodding.
Wilson shuts the door behind him, and Matt raises his head. “Wilson, think you can get us out of here? I’d like to take Charlotte somewhere private. Not a hotel.”
“I’m on it. Any idea where?”
“My dad’s place.”
Wilson lifts his brows, then nods and leaves.
“We can’t stay here—the staff can walk in at any time,” Matt tells me.
“Where are we going?”
“My father had a secret getaway and we never sold it.” He heads over to grab his room key and his phones, and fifteen minutes later, we’re each leaving through a different hotel exit.
It turns out President Law Hamilton’s getaway is in Laguna Beach. We board an aircraft that flies us from Vegas to Los Angeles, and the pilot is an old friend of Matt’s and sworn to secrecy. Matt and I fly alone in the cabin while Wilson rides with the pilot. The rest of Matt’s detail was told he needed no covering for the evening as he would be staying in. The pilot seems happy to see Matt with me. He smiles as he greets us and says farewell with a “you go, man!” expression.
Once we land, there’s a black BMW SUV waiting at the hangar, and Matt leads me to the passenger door, then climbs behind the wheel, telling Wilson, “Take the night off. Meet us there early morning.”
“You got it.”
Wilson shakes Matt’s extended hand, then he peers inside and smiles at me. “You take good care of him, all right?”
“I will,” I say, laughing.
We drive for thirty-five miles to the beach, taking in the scenery, Matt reaching out to take my hand and bringing it to his mouth so he can brush his lips across the back of my palm. “It’s almost worth having waited to get you alone again.”
“I almost feel odd that we’re completely alone.”
He chuckles, then squeezes my hands and continues driving with this soft, satisfied smile on his lips, frequently bringing my hand up to kiss the back of it or lick the tips of my fingertips.
He pulls into the garage of a beautiful modern home sitting right at the beach.
“I thought the Hamiltons had a home in Carmel, not Laguna.”
“We do. This one’s my dad’s secret place. He used to come here to get away from it all, hear himself think. Now it’s mine.” He winks as he opens the car door to hop out.
He leads me inside through the garage door and with a command, “Lights,” gets the lights to immediately turn on in the living room and kitchen.
As I follow him inside, I’m struck by how unpresidential the home is. How normal. Modern and simple, it’s also very homey, with filled bookshelves to one side, family pictures dotting the shelves, and instead of artworks, maps from around the world decorate the walls.
His father loved the world, like Matt does.
“I come here sometimes. Reminds me so much of him. I come here to be close, and to get away and think.”
Moved by his words, I follow him past what seems like the library and wander into the living room, breathlessly taking in the view.
“This is like another monument you come to think at.”
He laughs, then heads into the adjoining kitchen and opens some cabinets. “Nothing fresh here, but would you like some . . . canned beans? Spam?”
“Wine is good. I’m not hungry, though.”
“You tired?” He pours two glasses, sets them aside, and opens his arms. I walk inside those arms and press my cheek to his chest. I exhale, letting loose.
“How do you do it?” I ask him.
“Sometimes, I don’t know.” I’m charmed by the honesty in his voice, but he also sounds confident, as if he does know, as if he has no doubt about being able to do it every day. He settles us into one of the couches, his arm still around me.
“I sometimes think I’m going to just collapse.”
He shifts to get us comfortable—and closer—stroking a hand down my hair. “Feel free to collapse here. You’re safe, I’ve got you.”
“I can hear the ocean. And I can hear your heartbeat.” And I can hear you breathe. I find myself inhaling too, inhaling the warm, expensive smell of him. “You should hit the bed. You have a busy day tomorrow,” I warn.
“If you’d take it easier with my schedule, I might even know what it means to sleep on an actual bed.”
I laugh.
He shifts forward. “I don’t want to sleep. I don’t want to miss a second of this.”
“You will get more moments like this if you keep suavely organizing our escapes.”
“I’ve spent so much time planning our escapes, it’s embarrassing.” He smiles. “To be honest, you’re the only woman I’ve ever spent this much thought on.”