We spend the short flight discussing politics and democracy.
I learn Matt’s favorite book is The Righteous Mind, which examines why conservatives, liberals, and libertarians have different opinions about right and wrong, most based on their gut feelings. He calls it an eye opener on all our curses and virtues, and says a candidate must bring people together.
When we arrive in New York, I do a good job of acting cool and collected, until Matt tells me he’s heading out for a bite with Hessler and asks me to come along.
“Sure,” I say, as calmly as I can.
But when we stop off at the local campaign office first, I make a detour to the restroom and pull out my makeup kit, making sure I look amazing. Just because I’d never really gone out with him, and it feels like this is the closest thing to a date we could ever have.
Matt asks his driver to drop us off in Nolita so we can walk a bit before arriving at the restaurant in Chinatown. We’re trailed by four security guards as Hessler, Matt, and I make our way along Mott Street to the Peking Duck House, a restaurant he fondly recalls coming to with his parents on special occasions.
There’s something so vibrant about the New York streets. And Matt fits right in. He drew a lot of attention in the other cities we visited, but New York is used to celebrities. Amidst the hustle and bustle, everybody is doing their own thing—and Matt Hamilton isn’t Matt Hamilton today. He’s just a hot guy casually dressed in jeans and a V-neck T-shirt, walking next to a girl who’s having trouble keeping her cool. It’s nice to be able to walk next to him without attracting the attention of everyone passing by.
“This is incredible,” I say, smiling as I take in everything around us.
Hessler is smoking to my left; Matt’s got his hands in his pockets, a look of thoughtful enjoyment on his face as he studies my profile.
“Are you hungry?” he asks.
I groan and clutch my stomach. “Extremely so. You?”
“I’ve definitely got my eye on something tasty,” he says with a wicked sparkle in his eye. And he leans over to whisper, “As always, you look amazing.”
I feel my cheeks warm at the gruffness in his tone. I look down at my low-cut black lace camisole, short black flouncy skirt, and black high-heel sandals.
He smiles at me, amused by the blush rising up my cheeks as he raises his arm over my head and catches the door Hessler just opened. At the move, I catch the delicious scent of his Bond No. 9 cologne.
As Hessler walks toward our table, Matt softly brushes his fingers over my exposed back, just under the fall of my hair. The gesture is simple, a little proprietary, and so unexpected that an intense ribbon of heat shoots down my spine.
I can’t believe how turned on I am by the time I take a seat. I get wetter every time Matt moves his hand under the table along my thigh, his fingers caressing the inside of my legs under the hem of my skirt.
He occasionally removes his hand, but never for long.
I can see him scanning the restaurant, confirming his touch is private—only for us.
We have the most delicious lunch while I enjoy hearing Matt and Hessler talk about their interests outside of politics. Hessler is an avid golfer. Matt grew up playing baseball and still closely follows the Mets, his favorite team.
Hessler leaves early to smoke before heading to the rally in Washington Square Park. Matt picks up the check while Wilson and the three other security guards wait for us outside.
I watch raindrops start trickling along the windows as we wait for his credit card to be returned. By the time we’re outside, it’s pouring. Matt tells Wilson and the other guards to stay twenty feet behind us. My heartbeat picks up as I anticipate the alone time.
I smile at the guards as we walk past, and I pull an umbrella out of my handbag. Matt holds it above our heads as I curl against his side and we begin walking up the street.
The rain is coming down so hard that the umbrella provides little protection. I begin laughing and point toward a deserted covered fruit stand. “We should get under that awning.”
“Nice ploy.” He shoots me a smirk and a knowing look—as if I’m intentionally trying to steer him off to the side.
I open my mouth to set the record straight, but before I can, Matt firmly pulls me toward him and tenderly presses his lips to mine. His hand slides around my waist, down to my butt, gripping me tight against him.
He lowers the umbrella a bit, shielding us from prying eyes. He tightens his grip, his mouth hungrily devouring mine.
The moment is electric, mind-blowing—his mouth as wet as the raindrops on my hair, sweet and minty and hungry. His shirt wet, plastered against his sculpted chest.
His tongue moves over mine. I deeply inhale the scent of his cologne.
Delicious. Intoxicating.
Then, as if stirred from a beautiful dream, I suddenly come to my senses.
“Are you crazy?” I whisper and pull free, my voice barely audible through the pounding rain.
He grins, eyes dancing. “Yes.”
I laugh, and he’s smiling, but his smile doesn’t last long.
He pulls me back against him and rests his forehead on mine, his eyes searching my features. “Tell me how I can satisfy this country when I feel so lacking? Tell me.” He squeezes me, silently asking for an answer.
I know what he means.
He means that he has me, but not openly, and I have him, but not for long. What we have satisfies our physical cravings, but we’re left wanting more.
Matt gingerly tips up my chin as he lowers his face to mine. First he nuzzles my nose and strokes his thumb across my lips. He presses gently down on my bottom lip to open my mouth. My eyes slowly drift closed and my mind goes blank as he tenderly presses his lips to my cheek. I inhale deeply, and so does he.
“How do you not get bothered by it? The press following your every move? This is the first time we’ve been outside without being followed,” I say breathlessly.
“I grew up with dozens of lenses surrounding me—they were never far away. I grew blind to the extra eyes, and most days I don’t mind being watched.” He glances at my lips, then returns his gaze to mine, and quietly adds, “But sometimes they’re so close I feel like I have no space to breathe.” He smiles down at me and lifts the umbrella. “Let’s go—we have a rally to attend.”
“Washington Square Park. I still can’t believe we secured the permit—although it’s probably because your family owns a good portion of New York.”