And hisbody. Good God. Even in a suit, I could tell he was built. Broad shoulders straining the fabric. Thick arms. Big hands he kept running through his hair or gesturing with when he yelled instructions.
I shifted on the couch, suddenly very aware of how long it had been since anyone last touched me.
The camera zoomed in on his face, and I made an embarrassing sound. Out loud.
What the fuck, Lina?
He had blue eyes. Pale and sharp, almost gray in the stadium lights. With crinkles at the corners that said he laughed a lot, even though he wasn’t laughing right now. He was scowling at something on the field, his jaw tight, and I watched him bark an order at one of his players. His voice was low, rough, barely picked up by the broadcast mics.
My thighs clenched.
You are a United Statessenator. You have a master’s degree from Yale. You are not getting turned on by a soccer coach on television.
But I was. I really, really was.
I watched the rest of the game. His team won. When it was over, there was a post-match interview; he’d taken off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and I nearly choked on my drink.
Forearms. This man hadFOREARMS. Tan and muscular, dusted with dark hair, and I imagined them braced on either side of my head while he…
Okay. Okay. That’s enough.
I turned off the TV.
Then I picked up my phone and Googled his name.
That was almost ten years ago. Years of following his career. Reading interviews. Watching games I didn’t care about just to see him pace the sideline. Finding photos and staring at them longer than any grown woman should.
Years of stupid, pathetic, completely unrequited lust for a man I’d never met.
I’ve thought about Levi Hendricks in bed, in the shower, during boring meetings when my mind wandered. Imagined what his beard would feel like against my inner thighs. What his big hands would feel like gripping my hips. What he’d sound like groaning my name while he buried himself deep inside me.
You are the President of the United States, for God’s sake, Lina! This is ridiculous.
And yet. Here I am, forty-four years old, leader of the free world, and I’m nervous about a photo op because my celebrity crush is going to be in the room.
Girl, you’re a mess.
“Madam President? They’re ready for you.”
I check my reflection one last time. My deep blue dress is perfectly tailored. My hair pulled back in an elegant twist. My makeup is flawless.
I look good. I know I look good.
Not that it matters. He’s not going to noticeyou;you’re the goddamn president! It’s nothing but a handshake and a photo.
I follow Simone to the East Room, my heart beating fast.
Get it together, Lina. You’ve stared down world leaders. You’ve handled international crises. You can shake one man’s hand without losing your damn mind.
The doors open. I step inside. Then I see him.
Oh,no. Ohno,no,no.
He’s better in person. He’s so much better in person, and I was not prepared for this shit.
Levi Hendricks is standing near the back of the room with the rest of the coaching staff, and he looks like he was carved out of fucking marble and testosterone. The photos do not do him justice. Television doesn’t do him justice. Nothing could have prepared me for the reality of this man in the flesh.
He’s tall, taller than I expected. Broad-shouldered, thick through the chest and arms, built like he could still play if he wanted to. His charcoal-gray suit fits him perfectly. It’s tailored close enough that I can see the shape of him under the fabric. The silver hair, the beard, the jaw… Lord, he’s fucking devastating.
