One second his smile is there, the next it’s replaced with a look of fierce emotion. His eyes roil with it—with something I’d never seen in Matt’s eyes before. Impotence.
I start to leave, ducking my head into the jacket to hide myself from another group of passersby. I hear him start after me before they stop him.
“Holy shit, Matt Hamilton!” the guy says. “I mean, sir . . . it’s a pleasure, a real pleasure.”
I hear Matt greet them, but I can feel his eyes on me as I slip my arms into the sleeves of his jacket and use it as a shield against the cold and leave.
I take the train to my apartment. The first thing I do when I arrive is splash cold water onto my face. I’m drying it when I hear a knock.
Dropping the towel, I open the door, and Matt stands on the other side. His hands are at his side, his eyes a little wild.
I gasp. “Matt!” I glance around the hall, relieved to find it empty. “What are you doing here? My neighbor could see you—”
One second Matt is on the other side of the door, the next he’s shutting it behind him and the back of my head is in his hands, and his lips come crashing down on mine.
38
ELECTION DAY
Charlotte
The next morning I wake up alone in bed. Across the floor, only a few feet from the bed and next to my clothes, is Matt’s jacket.
His jacket—Election Day!
I leap to my feet and turn on the TV as I hurry to change. Thirty minutes later, I’m in line at my polling place. I watch the line of voters and wonder who each is voting for. Had voting ever been this exciting? There’s a charged anticipation in the air, or maybe it’s just me, my fingers itching when I finally slide behind the privacy curtain and stare at the voting sheet.
For one second, my chest hurts. I know what I’m losing. I know what I’m choosing. But the urge to see him win overcomes my own selfishness, and I mark an X next to his name.
I stare at the ballot for a moment.
I missed voting for the last president when I was stuck home with the flu. It’s the first time in my life I actually vote, and the eleven-year-old who promised to help him if he ever ran for president can hardly believe that today, I’m standing here and voting for him.
I feel an odd sense of loss as I exit and yet distract myself as I try to make sure no one is following me when I take the train, then walk a few blocks to The Jefferson Hotel.
Detouring to the lobby restroom for a moment, I pull out my makeup kit. I carry only lipstick, blush, and mascara, but I dab a little of each on my face.
I didn’t need to add blush. A red tint stains my cheeks, and my eyes look a little rounder, very dark, and very shiny. Oh god. It’s almost as if I’m afraid to go upstairs, walk into the room, and have everyone see right through me.
Exhaling for courage, I step out, take the elevators, and head to Matt’s suite.
The last time we were in D.C., we hosted a fundraiser at the ballroom of this hotel. A lifetime ago and at the same time, only yesterday.
I knock on the door and when Alison opens it, my eyes fix on a tall, large figure standing by the window across the room with his hands in his pockets. He’s the one farthest from the door, and there are dozens of people between us. But it doesn’t matter; space doesn’t matter.
He sees me; I see him.
His gaze looks very male as our eyes lock. It’s as dark as it was last night, and it makes my stomach constrict painfully. Warmth spreads all over me as I step inside. Will he be able to tell that he flusters me?
Of course he will.
I greet everybody as I walk into the suite, leaving him until last.
“Matt.” I smile at him, excited the day has finally come.
“Charlotte.”
He returns my smile, but the way he says my name sounds gruff.
He doesn’t look frazzled like the rest of us. He looks like he just left the spa and wellness center on one of the lower floors.
God, I envy his ability to keep his cool.
But one year is enough time to get to know somebody and I know that hungry shadow in his dark eyes too well, and I know that his mind is working full speed.
Maybe speculating on the exit polls as we hear the newscasters in the background, as the seconds tick by, and the minutes turn to hours into what feels like the longest day of the year.
As I sit on one of the couches next to Alison and Mark and alternate between watching Carlisle smoke and glancing at the TV, I am acutely aware of Matt and where he sits and breathes, and every inch that he physically occupies in this room.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see him lift his eyes and smile a satisfied smile, and it makes me squirm and remember more than that.
He’s back to reading something, Jack’s head on his lap, Matt’s hand on top of Jack’s furry black head. I remember that hand last night . . .
We locked the world out when he closed the door.
I remember him backing me into my bedroom, his hands easing off his jacket, slipping under my shirt. Possessive and firm, that’s how his touch felt. His kiss. I needed him so much that when he stripped me, I wanted to rush, clawing at him as I stripped him too. But Matt wasn’t in a hurry.
He kissed me and tenderly shh’d me as he lay me down on the bed, and he took me in in the moonlight that came in through my window as he caressed me.
I melted into a pure white-hot need as he kissed my mouth, my cheeks, nibbled a line down my throat. His mouth moved around and over the peaks of my breasts, all over my stomach, to the insides of my thighs, and then it spent a long time between them.
His tongue drove inside me with slow, deep flicks that seemed to be what he needed to quench his thirst.
His hands held my thighs open as I convulsively tried to close them shut, the feelings too intense.
Hot and firm, he used his lips and suctioned with just the right amount of pressure to unravel me.
I unraveled.
I felt like I was cut from one string into a thousand. I came against his mouth with his hair between my fingers, but even then, he seemed hungry. His eyes, as he came up, glowed dark brown as he stroked his fingers down my face and captured my mouth in a crushing kiss that curled my toes.
I remember that hunger. How it built and built and didn’t diminish. Not after an hour, naked under the sheets with him, nor even after another hour.
And I remember the sound I made after he made me orgasm with his fingers and then, finally, slipped his hands into the nook at the small of my back and clenched my bottom as he drove inside me. I groaned his name. And I remember the way he smiled against my mouth, a smile of relief, and then moved, groaning my name, telling me I’m classic, so classic.