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.
I remember how we did that, all night.
Him, whispering things so gruffly I didn’t understand what he said, only heard the hunger and tenderness in his voice and the rake of his teeth on my skin as we got rougher, more desperate, our breaths faster.
I remember it all, today, of all days, and I feel my cheeks start to burn bright red as I try to push it all out of my mind.
Amazing how I can forget sometimes what I dreamt, my apartment keys, my cell phone, but not a single detail about him.
Things from the past come to the surface. Holding his jacket for him, accidentally sipping from his coffee cup, spilling my folders at his feet and him kneeling down to help me.
I lift my gaze to find him reading the daily copy of the Washington Post. He’s wearing his glasses.
When he lifts his gaze and looks at me above the gold rims, his eyes darken and my breasts suddenly feel sensitive under my bra. I lick my lips and they feel extra sensitive after being kissed by him all night.
Matt’s gaze falls briefly to my lips, and I can’t help but drop my gaze to his mouth, which looks full and firm. Suddenly all I want is to feel it again, firm and hungry, his tongue ravenous against mine.
I don’t know how I’m going to do it.
How it will be possible to fall out of love with him.
But that’s what I need to do. Because this was only temporary, because that date he proposed won’t be happening.
I need to forget him and I need to put as much of an effort into the task as I did into his campaign.
Still, he’s staring at me across the table with those dark eyes that look both warm and tender.
With a jolt, I remember his jacket strewn across the floor of my apartment along with my lingerie.
The thought of someone seeing that I have it in my possession makes me worry, and my eyes widen and I leap to my feet.
Matt frowns and pulls off his glasses, standing instinctively as if to help me.
“I forgot I have something for you,” I say.
I can see he doesn’t like the idea of me leaving this suite, but I don’t give him time to stop me as I hurry to the door.
“Stay away from the paps and if they question you, you know the drill,” Carlisle says behind me.
“‘No comment,’” I assure him as I swing open the door.
My eyes meet Matt’s, and I feel that familiar skip of my heartbeat. I close the door behind me, the nerves about today’s results multiplying by the second.
I keep my head down to avoid any paparazzi, which I thankfully manage to do as I head to my apartment to get Matt’s jacket.
Once I reach my building, I hurry inside and spot it in the same place I left it.
My heart does that flip again.
I walk toward it slowly, almost as if I expect it to bite me like a cobra. But that’s not really why suddenly time seems to slow down—it’s because I suddenly don’t want to take it back.
I want to slip his jacket around me one more time. I want to wear it and hug myself and pretend that my arms are his arms. I want to tuck my face back into its collar and breathe in his scent.
The urge to do this is so enormous. I stifle the impulse with a lot of effort, calling back my professional side, the side that knows last night was not just unplanned, but a mistake.
So I take the jacket in my hands and fold it neatly into a department store shopping bag, then I head back to The Jefferson Hotel, determined to be professional and to put last night behind me as our farewell.
39
YOUR NAME IS CHARLOTTE
Matthew
There’s a calm I didn’t expect as we wait for the popular vote results to come in.
Charlotte brought me my jacket a while ago. Hell, I didn’t want it. I wanted a piece of me with her. I can’t shake her off and when it comes to her, I’m selfish enough that I don’t want her to shake me off either. Her concern for others keeps mystifying me. She’s been more concerned about a scandal than I have all this time. More concerned with making sure that the man the country sees is the one she makes me want to be.
She’s in my veins, this girl.
Nobody would guess that I sit, watching and waiting, lifting my eyes to find her watching the screen, twirling her hair on one finger, biting her lips, sometimes looking back at me—nobody would guess how much I want every inch and piece and breath of hers.