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I’m not supposed to know, already, that I want to spend the rest of my life with him.
But I do know that.
I know a lot of things.
“President Leavitt’s got a nice ring to it, too,” I say.
His eyes come up, a question in them. “You’re not talking about me.”
“President Caroline Leavitt,” I say slowly.
I watch him get it. Understanding shows up on his mouth first—always his mouth—and creeps upward, over his cheekbones, into his eyes. A surprised happiness he couldn’t hide from me if he tried.
He doesn’t try. He just grins and glides his hand down my stomach, right past the waistband of my pajama pants and into the wet heat of me, making me gasp.
“You’d make a hot first lady,” I say, before he scatters what’s left of my marbles.
“Bite your lip, baby.”
I do. As he works his fingers inside me, I bite it hard enough that in the morning it’ll be swollen, but that’s fine. That little twinge of pain—that taste of blood—only heightens the pleasure.
He makes me come with his hand, and then he moves inside me and makes love to me so slow, so quiet, for so long that I feel another orgasm begin to build. That dragging sweaty sweetness swelling between us. When it’s rising up, starting to sharpen, he draws me to my knees and pushes inside me from behind.
He pulls my hair off my neck and whispers in my ear, “I’m going to fuck you like this in the Oval Office.”
Swear to God. West.
Head in my hands, my ass in the air, I’m trying not to laugh when he makes me come again, and this time he goes over the edge with me.
I drop with my face into the pillow, heavy and exhausted, drowsy. He’s so hot and heavy and all over me, his sweaty, familiar weight, the scents of our bodies. Nothing can touch us.
I’ve never lost sight of my happiness.
Not for one minute.
West
It snowed a ton that December.
The first week of Putnam’s winter break was supposed to be Frankie’s last week of school, but it dumped so much on Putnam County that all the schools were closed.
Caroline had planned to spend the few days before Christmas with her dad, but she ended up stuck at our place.
The temperature hovered around thirty degrees. The garage roof creaked and groaned under the weight of the snow.
We ate grilled cheese with tomato soup and watched Christmas movies.
When we were starting to get restless, Laurie and Rikki loaned us a thousand-piece puzzle of the earth made up of hundreds of tiny pictures, and we spread it out on the coffee table and worked on it together for most of the morning and the early afternoon of Christmas Eve.
After a while, Caroline and Frankie wandered off. Frankie borrowed my art pencils and fussed with a drawing she wanted to give Mom for Christmas. Caroline sat on the couch researching media opportunities on her laptop, gearing up to become Iowa’s revenge porn poster girl once the holidays were over.
I stayed with the puzzle, identifying one piece after another. Matching them to their neighbors by color, shape, content, and slotting them into
place.
Piece by piece, the satisfaction built until I’d finished the whole thing.
I looked at what I’d made and realized I’d spent the entire day absorbed in a metaphor.
