I smile in return, knowing what it is. Then I flash on an image of a younger version of me, with her kneeling before him . . . our child. I clench my hands, a fierce want hitting me.

I shake it off, smiling at her, and continue talking to the President of Mexico, telling myself now isn’t the time. But thinking of the years ahead, I don’t know when that will be.

“I gave little Matt the photograph of his visit to the White House, the one with you in it that I asked you to sign,” Charlotte says, back at my side.

“I know.”

“For luck.”

“You’re gorgeous. I’m looking forward to whisking you out of here.”

26

CAMP DAVID

Charlotte

Marine One takes us to Camp David, where we attack each other the moment we walk into the Aspen Lodge. Matt crushes me between his body and the door, his tongue plunging relentlessly, his hand fisting my hair, pulling me back so his mouth can roam down my throat, ravenous and damp as he reaches between our bodies to pull up my skirt and lift me.

I let him hold me up by the ass, then brace me against the door as he lowers himself between my legs. I feel his mouth wander down my abdomen and between my thighs, the stubble of the day on his jaw rasping the sensitive skin there as he pulls my panties aside and gives me a long, wet lick.

I groan and grab his thick, silky hair, groaning yet again when he repeats the motion with his tongue—a long, delicious lick, covering my opening and caressing my folds.

He inserts his thumb and looks up at me, his hair mussed, his eyes glistening, his lips wet.

“Please don’t let me come without you,” I beg.

He licks me again, a low growl leaving his chest. “What do you want?”

“I want you naked,” I breathe, and before I know it, he’s setting me on my feet and standing back, looking at me as his fingers begin working on his shirt.

I reach behind me and undo the buttons at my back, panting as he shrugs off his shirt and unbuckles and unzips.

Him naked.

There’s something about him naked.

Primal and powerful.

In his element as man.

It turns me on.

He is mine.

Just mine, mask off, tie off, suit off, all the power of the executive branch off. Just his muscles. His lips. His words.

I’m married to the president. I don’t care that he’s president.

But who he is.

I’m married to my childhood crush, the man I love.

It makes me quiver. He does.

He’s the only one I’d ever want to spend forever with.

And the girl in me still marvels that from his pick of women, he picked me. Loved me. Saw me.

Sees me now, as he stands before me, all lean muscle and man, watching me shed my blue form-fitting travel outfit.

He’s breathing hard, his gaze raking me.

I take a step and he grabs me, gathering my hair above my head in one fist. He leans his lips to my ear. “I fucking love the hell out of you,” he whispers, touching my breast with one hand, caressing the taut peak.

“I love you so much. I want you inside me as soon as possible.”

He kisses me. I sort of lose all my thoughts, reaching between us to touch him—hard and pulsing. I groan when he scoops me up, carries me into a large bedroom with a king bed, and throws me on the mattress. He falls on top of me and ducks his head to my breasts, and Matthew’s mouth becomes the center of my galaxy. I can’t get enough. I groan as he licks and sucks hungrily, taking his time to enjoy me, taste me, tantalize me, his mouth often coming back to mine, gentle but fierce.

“What does my wife want?”

“God, you know what,” I say.

He rewards me with a kiss. I never thought a man would kiss me with this passion, would want me with this passion, would love me with this passion—I never thought, when I once told him innocently that I wouldn’t mind being by the president’s side, that I’d actually end up by his side. That he’d be the man I would not only be with for his first term, and maybe second, but for the rest of his life and mine.

And I think this is why we’re kissing like this—because we’re not the president and the first lady when we’re together. Because him proposing, him marrying me, has nothing to do with the circumstances that he’s currently the commander in chief and I’m his first lady. It’s despite that.

He asked me because he wants forever with me—and the thought of forever with him makes me the happiest woman alive.

It doesn’t matter that our forever will grace the history books. It’s our history, his and mine.

Matt sets his forehead on mine and looks intently into my eyes.

“Are you on the pill, baby?” he asks thickly and when I motion ‘yes’ with my head (having started when Matt asked the White House doctor to prescribe me), he kisses me deep, opening me up so he can enter me.

I groan. He lets go a rumble that tells me right off the bat that he loves the feel of me—the feel of us without anything in between. And god, I feel full—full and ready to splinter into a million delicious particles from the pleasure of feeling Matt—long, thick, hard Matt—driving inside me like he belongs here.

He does.

He folds my right leg over his shoulder, opening me up even more. I can feel the ripple of muscle from his shoulder and arm under my calf, and he thrusts, and suddenly he’s even deeper—deeper than ever.

A whimper of pleasure leaves me, and his mouth is there to eat it up. “How deep do you want me?” he asks, pulling my other leg over his shoulder too.

I’m nearly at the peak already.

“Oh god, Matthew,” I pant.