Page 44 of American Queen (New Camelot Trilogy 1)
I left him a quick note on the hotel stationary—my number and hotel name and room number and promised I was just leaving to reassure my relatives that I wasn’t bobbing facedown in the river. I told him I wanted to see him today as soon as he woke up, and I’d be waiting for his call.
I signed my name, and added:
ps. I wouldn’t do any of it differently. Any of it. I can’t wait to see you again.
But I didn’t see him again.
He didn’t call, didn’t come to my hotel, didn’t write. Didn’t try to contact me or find me. I spent the week curled up in bed while Abilene brought me ice cream and counseled me through what she thought was a normal post-one-night-stand heartbreak. My grandfather flew back to Manhattan with me and tried to cheer me up by taking me to my favorite restaurants, my favorite Broadway shows, and for him I tried to fake smiles and happiness, but the moment I boarded the plane to London eight weeks later, I let the mask fall from my face and shatter at my feet.
For the first time, I considered that Merlin’s admonition against kissing was meant for my own well-being. Perhaps he knew, with whatever foresight he seemed to possess, that I was simply doomed to heartbreak. That no matter how isolated I tried to make myself, the men I would invariably trust with my body and my heart would treat those gifts carelessly.
Well, I wouldn’t make that same mistake again, I vowed. No more kisses, no more men. No more trusting and giving and hoping. No more of that girl who craved rough and wrong and reckless, no more wanting to crawl or be held by the neck and dominated. That Greer was over, through, suffocated and dead and buried. There would be books and libraries and manuscripts—things that I could trust—and I would build a life all by myself, without anyone else, without the chance of getting used up and brokenhearted again.
I never stopped waiting though. For Embry to call. For Embry to show up with his crooked smile and colorful pants and the best excuse for not coming after me that week in Chicago.
He never did.
Except, of course, five years later when he strolled into my office at Georgetown and asked to take me to dinner.
14
The Present
I wake up expecting Ash to be long gone, for the bed to be cold and empty next to me, but that’s not what happens. Instead, I wake up nestled into a warm chest, a heavy arm draped over my side. For a moment, I forget where I am—when I am—and squint at the tall windows at the edge of the room, expecting to see the looming outline of Chicago skyscrapers. But no, it’s the weakening fall sunshine overlooking the South Lawn, and I’m not in a hotel room with Embry, I’m in the White House. In bed with the President.
I roll over to look at him, taking care not to wake him up. He stays fast asleep, his breathing deep and even, his face relaxed and vulnerable. I stroke the thick black hair brushing against his forehead and finally indulge my urge from ten years ago and trace his mouth with my fingertips. Against my belly, I feel his sleepy erection, impressive and thick even at half-mast.
My fingertips on his face wake him.
His eyes blink open, finding my face immediately. “Greer,” he says, his voice sleep-rough and warm.
I snuggle into him, kissing the warm space below his collarbone. “Good morning, Mr. President,” I say.
“I fell asleep,” he says, sounding surprised. “I fell asleep with you.”
“Wasn’t that the idea?”
He kisses the top of my head. “The idea was for you to sleep in my bed. I haven’t had a full night’s sleep since my first tour of duty.”
I pull back to look up at his face
. The thought sends a pleasant warmth to my chest, that I was able to give him something, that he had something with me that he hasn’t had in fourteen years. “Maybe I’m your sleeping lucky charm.”
“In that case,” he says with a smile and a sudden move so that he’s on top of me, “I might have to keep you in my bed forever.”
He pins me with his arms and kisses me, and my sighs turn into moans as he rocks his hips against me.
“I want to stay in your bed forever,” I breathe. “Please.”
And with the pert rap of awful timing, a knock sounds at the door, followed by Belvedere’s exasperated voice. “Mr. President, please. I’ve called every phone you own, and I more than anyone am happy you’re still in bed, but you have a meeting in your office in thirty minutes. It’s time to peel yourself away from Ms. Galloway and get in the shower.”
I burst into giggles, and Ash grins down at me. “I should fire him,” he says, leaning down to bite my earlobe.
I run my hands up the wide, muscled lines of his back, trailing my nails back down to his ass, regrettably covered up by his boxer briefs. “You should go,” I whisper.
He nods, giving my earlobe a final nibble and then rolling off me. He goes to the door, opening it to an impatient but amused Belvedere. “I’m up, I’m up,” he says. “I’ll be down in twenty-five minutes.”
“Sure,” drawls Belvedere. “You won’t have any temptation to linger while there’s a warm, sleepy blonde in your bed. Maybe I should stay.”
