The President’s Study–11:46 p.m.
“So deeply moving, Barack. I can literally feel each and every word,” compliments Lady Michelle on her husband’s scripture. Addressed to the parents of a recently fallen soldier in the Afghanistan theatre, the letter is meticulously written in the President’s hand script. The emotional gravitas of his words reminds her of the distinctive substance which permeates all his writings, especially the letters she’s received
from him over the years. Characterized as cool (to a fault), distant, and emotionally impenetrable by the media and those who wish to know him personally, the First Lady’s is the kindred mind and soul with the exclusive key to the chief executive’s inner-sanctum lock. And she wouldn’t have it any other way.
As his inkpen glides over the parchment like artwork in the making, he feels the soft strands of her hair massage his facial profile like feather ribbons tenderly adrift–their scent and familiarity a pheromone secreted only in his presence–he the sole inducer. Her fragrance wafts about him, at once weakening, awakening and riveting his pulse–and impulses–like no other woman designed by the Creator.
So close is her posture, so intimate her body language, that her exhalations become his oxygen.
“When I told you ‘I’ve got your back’ when we began this journey, I meant it,” she whispers into his ear while he crosses the last of the T’s and dots the final I’s of the letter as the sacred moment turns quietly romantic.
He rests the pen atop the desk and angles his head upward to meet her awaiting lips, gazes into her eyes, and replies, “I believed you . . . even more today.” He wraps his arms around her waist and positions her atop his lap as they both revel in a romantic moment. He then reaches behind her back for the top drawer of the desk and pulls out a Tiffany’s hand-sized box, revealing it to her utter surprise. The smile formed on her stunned face is matched by the oval of her eyes as she unhinges the lid–a Mediterranean pearl necklace and earring set flutters her heart.
“Oh, Barack, how beautiful,” her voice weakened with enchantment. “I love it. But, sweetheart, why?” He pauses to allow the jewels their limelight.
“Because, I’ve got your back, too,” he says into her eyes, “and . . . it’s Pamper-Her-Friday, love.”
The Art of a Presidential Romance. -Rg2
Now Reading: “A Summer’s Romance” Collection by Rg2
© 2012 Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2™