White House: Commander In Chief Part 20

"So I heard through the grapevine . . ." I begin.

"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 pa.s.sed. Education."

"G.o.d. Yes." He squeezes his eyes shut, throwing his head over the back of the couch. "I'm so f.u.c.king 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 s.e.x, 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 s.e.x ever. He makes love to me against the shower wall, then he pulls out and finishes off, his s.e.m.e.n raining on my abdomen, his eyes on me, and it is the hottest thing I've ever seen. Hottest s.e.x 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 Sat.u.r.day 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 gla.s.s, 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 a.s.suming 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 h.e.l.l. 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.

I start to breathe heavily, and then I feel the ghost of his touch, his knuckles running down my cheek. My lungs strain for more air as his hand drops a little more, to caress the skin revealed by my own towel.

"You're exquisite," he says, breathing against my lips as he seizes the back of my head, and his kiss is so deep, my toes curl and all the atoms in my body seem to shudder.

"Do you want me again?" I breathe. We just had shower s.e.x again. We're like honeymooners; it doesn't matter that we're back in the White House. I'm thirsty for him, and him for me.

"Yes," he says, tugging my towel loose. I swoon a little when he releases his own towel and draws me into his arms, skin to skin, mouths meshing, his hands stroking down my damp skin.

The next day, after I hurried to get dressed and then watched Matt put on his suit and cufflinks to head to the Oval with Freddy, his escort, who was waiting at our door, I find, in my desk in the East Wing, a Post-it with his handwriting.

Mrs. Hamilton I love you.

P.S. Nice skirt.

I smile. I find it funny, because I told him that I would love to answer some of the mail that the White House receives daily. It was just days ago, in Camp David, and I find myself remembering as if I were back in his arms, right there.

"Matt, you know all of the letters that arrive at the White House daily?"

"Hmm." He's falling asleep, my head on his folded arm, resting right on his biceps.

"You get a few on your desk every day. To answer," I specify.

"Uhmm." He nods, ducking and tucking his nose to my nose, scenting me.

"Would it be possible for me to answer a few too?"

He smiles against my throat, and I hurry on. "I don't have to, only if you agree."

"You like your letters, don't you," he says, stroking a fingertip along my abdomen.

"Well, I suppose I do," I say, smiling in the dark.

"I'll write you my answer then."

I scowl. "What? You're going to write me a letter?" I ask, dumbfounded. How complicated does he want this to be?

Then I realize he's writing with his fingertip, on my skin. Tingles race along my body as I glance down and watch, rapt, as his finger forms the letter, Y.

My core clenches, G.o.d he's so s.e.xy, I can't stay still. I suppress the urge to squirm as his long finger draws, slowly, the letter, E.

And then, exquisitely slowly, around my belly b.u.t.ton, the letter, S.

He's still smiling but looking down at me now, his eyes glimmering. "Content, wife?" he husks out.

I purse my lips and then press them to his, where I murmur, "Yes," before he bites my lower lip, then draws it slowly into his mouth, and that's about all the business talk of the night.

Now I see his note, right atop a pile of letters. He knows I love my letters-and I find that Matt's note is only the first out of dozens of letters that will now be left on my desk.

I store it in my drawer, still getting a shock whenever my eyes land on my hand and I see the glinting engagement and wedding rings on my finger.

Matt "You're telling me it's a dead end?"

It's me and c.o.x again at the Oval.

"Looks like it, Mr. President."

c.o.x motions to the images of the letters, each photographed in a ziplock bag, on my desk. "We've run the letters similar to the one sent to you, all those we could find dating back to your father, and all the prints match White House staff. One shows a print from an external." c.o.x pulls out an image of a large, balding man. "We sent a team. The guy worked at the Post Office in Milwaukee around the times the letters were dated. He doesn't remember a thing."

I rub my thumb restlessly over my lower lip. "Any other leads?"

"Negative, sir."

"Let's keep digging."

"Yes, sir."

He exits, and for a second, I grind my molars and glance at the photograph of my father on my desk as I pull out the files and get prepped for my meeting with the Attorney General.

28.

THE UNEXPECTED.

Charlotte A week after our return from Camp David, I slip on my bra and feel a little bloated as I step into my skirt.

Last week when I realized I was late, I attributed it to the huge life changes of the past few months, plus the fact that the pill could be making everything screwy, but now I'm concerned.

I'm just not that irregular. I never have been.

I can't stop thinking about it as I do an interview in one of the White House rooms. The moment we're done, I call up my press secretary. Lola is thirty-five, young and feisty, and I've developed a good friendship with her. Although I may be closer to Alison, as she's new to the White House like me, Lola is a bit savvier on secrecy and I really need this to be between us. She meets me in the Yellow Oval, where I've been pacing nonstop.

"I need a favor."

"Anything."

"I need Kayla to come visit me. And to find a way to discreetly bring me a pregnancy test."

"That's not necessary. I'll set you up."

"Thank you, Lola."

It doesn't take her long. Less than an hour later, she returns with an unlabeled plastic bag in hand. "Okay, I was careful with who I asked. I ordered several brands, too." She hands them over, smiling. "I'm nervous and excited for you."

"I'm nervous and excited too."

She leaves, and I rush down the hall to the Queens' Bedroom and go through the whole procedure. Four times. Each of those times, it's positive.

I'm pregnant with Matthew Hamilton's baby.

I look at the tests in bewilderment, amazement, excitement, and fear. Complete, paralyzing fear.

Shock slaps me.

I'm confused, wandering restlessly down the halls as I wait for him to wrap up in the West Wing for the day. I call Portia and ask her when I can see the president. He's in a cabinet meeting, but she a.s.sures me she'll let me know when he's done and fit me in before he meets with his national security advisor.

Forty-eight minutes later, I walk into the Oval, and Matt is looking down at some papers, his gla.s.ses perched on that elegant nose of his, one of his hands gripping his hair as if he's frustrated. Some bill not quite there yet, I suppose.