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He brushed her cheek, locked his gaze with hers. “I love being inside you, and touching your face, and opening my eyes so I know it’s really you.”
She shivered.
“And after we’re finished, I go into a fever thinking about a day when I can leave myself inside you. When I’ll steal the soap and turn off the water so I stay there . . . inside you . . . part of you.”
Her skin burned. He rubbed his thumb across her bottom lip, and his voice was a husky seduction. “I think about you walking around that way, talking to people, going about your business, and you and I are the only ones who know that I’m there inside you.”
She burst into flames.
“And I finally understand the whole unbelievable beauty of two people being one because that’s the way I want it to be, the two of us one.”
His eyes had begun to glisten with tears. Her own spilled over her bottom lids and trickled down her cheeks.
His voice grew fierce and raw. “You’ll never ever find a man who’ll love you as much as I do, who’ll protect you better than you’ve ever been protected—even from yourself—and who’ll be right at your side while you become the best person you can be. Because I know that’s what you’re making me, the best man I can be.”
A hiccup rattled her chest.
“And I don’t give a damn about living with all the red, white, and blue star-spangled baggage you’re carrying around. In fact, I love it because it’s made you what you are—the best woman I’ve ever known, and the only woman I’ll ever love.”
He finally stopped and simply gazed at her. It was as if all the words had run out of him, leaving raw emotion in their place.
She touched his face with the tips of her fingers, traced the moist tracks down the hard, handsome planes of his cheekbones, and absorbed the absolute rightness of everything he’d said. Yes. This was what she’d dreamed of but never believed she’d have.
When she managed to speak, she could think of only one thing to say. “Could you please repeat all that?”
He let out a ragged bellow of a laugh, pulled her into his arms, and made love with her just the way he’d imagined.
Epilogue
NEALY HAD NEVER looked more beautiful to Mat than she did that
January day as she stood in front of the United States Capitol with the sun glinting in her hair. One end of the red, white, and blue scarf draped around the collar of her wool coat caught the wind and fluttered behind her, giving the cameras another great shot.
All of their family was gathered with them. Button had one little sister on each side of her. At nine, she was just as strong-willed as she’d been as a baby and she only permitted the family to call her Button behind closed doors. To the rest of the world, she was Tracy, her own way of dealing with the name Beatrice. Her long blond hair whipped in the breeze as she kept a careful eye on Holly, since the four-year-old tended to be unpredictable at public gatherings. Six-year-old Charlotte stood on her other side. Although she was on her dignity at the moment, Mat knew it wouldn’t last. Both girls had his dark hair and their mother’s blue eyes.
Lucy, the big sister all three girls idolized, stood just behind them with Bertis and Charlie, most of his own sisters, and her pompous old goat of a grandfather, who’d slipped his hand in hers. At twenty-two, his oldest daughter had a fresh new college degree in social work and a thirst to change the world. Although she scoffed when he brought it up, he suspected it was only a matter of time before she followed her mother into political life. He was more proud of all of them than he could ever express.
Nealy’s eyes met his, and he could almost hear her thoughts. Another new adventure, my love. Are you ready?
He could hardly wait. They’d already had so many adventures together. He thought of the past eight years—the joy and laughter, the hard work, long hours, heated discussions, and even more heated lovemaking. So much happiness.
Not that there hadn’t been hard times, too. The worst had come when they’d lost their beloved nanny Tamarah to a virulent case of pneumonia, but even that had eventually led to joy. His chest filled with pride as he gazed at his only son, eight-year-old Andre.
Most families were made when sperm met egg, but his had been put together less conventionally with blood that was red, blue, and black. If families had pedigrees, his could only be classified as American mutt.
He realized it was time to play his part, and he proudly lifted the tattered Jorik family Bible. Nealy’s hand was steady as it rested on top. Steady at the helm of the Ship of State.
The occasion was a solemn one, but he couldn’t keep the smile off his face when she began to speak.
“I, Cornelia Litchfield Case Jorik . . .”
After all these years, he still couldn’t quite believe that she’d taken his name.
“. . . do solemnly swear . . .”
He held his breath.
“. . . that I will faithfully execute . . .”
