Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 142043 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 710(@200wpm)___ 568(@250wpm)___ 473(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 142043 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 710(@200wpm)___ 568(@250wpm)___ 473(@300wpm)
And it’s my fault.
Alessia is new to drinking, and I should have kept a better eye on her. I bet she’ll have a hangover tomorrow.
“Come on, princess. I’ve got you.” I hold her tightly to my side as we stagger out of Loulou’s to a hail of flash photography and clamber into the cab. In the back seat, I direct the cabbie to take us home and keep an arm wrapped around my wife.
Alessia gives me a crooked smile. “Maxshim.”
“I think you’ve had too much sake and gin, baby.”
“Yesh. I like the gin. But it is fun. Was fun,” she corrects herself. “S’good to meet your friends.”
“I think you dazzled them.”
“You have many friends. Women too. How many have you had sexual…intercourse with?”
Whoa! “What?”
“How many?” She gazes at me, dark eyes hazy and unfocused. She closes one and squints, trying to look serious.
Two. I think.
“Let’s talk about this when we get home.”
When we started our evening, I didn’t know we would end up at Hertford Street. But after these last few shitty days, it seems we both wanted to let off steam.
This much steam?
I pull Alessia closer and kiss her forehead. She raises her face to mine and puckers her lips, looking adorable.
How can I resist?
I offer her a quick peck on the lips.
“Why so many lovers, Maxshim? I don’t understand,” Alessia says.
“Can we talk about this when you’re sober?”
She considers my response. “Yesh. I will not forget.”
Oh, I hope you do.
I’m worried about her line of questioning. I thought we had settled this the other day. She seems obsessed with my sex life prior to meeting her, and I don’t know why. I didn’t behave inappropriately with any of the women we met tonight. Did I? I was friendly enough. But just that—friendly, even with Natasha and Sophie, two one-night hook-ups. I sigh and nuzzle Alessia’s hair, wondering how to reassure my wife.
* * *
Maxim sits Alessia on the edge of the bed. “Let’s get you undressed.” He sinks to his knees and removes her boots.
Alessia reaches out, running her fingers through his hair. “So soft,” she whispers.
Maxim removes her socks, then stands up and wrestles her out of her jacket.
“The photographs in here,” Alessia says and sways as she turns toward the nudes. “You know these women?”
“Yes.” He tosses her jacket on the sofa.
“In the…um…biblical sense.”
Fuck.
Maxim grasps her chin, forcing her gaze on him. She squints so that he’s in focus. “Alessia, you’ve got to let this go. For your sanity and mine. I’ll take these photos down. It was thoughtless of me to leave them here. I’ll do it tomorrow.” He leans down and kisses her, his tongue warm and wet, and Alessia wraps her arms around his neck, tugging him onto the bed. He falls to her side, still in her arms.
In the light from the bedside lamp, she studies him.
Her husband.
Her lover.
Her lothario.
His eyes gleam, a brilliant emerald, the pupils dilating. She runs her fingers over his stubble and traces the soft cushion of his lips, which part as he inhales.
“I love you,” she whispers. “But I don’t want to be a chattel.”
“Chattel?” His eyes cool. The fire in them doused with doubt.
“You want a partnership. What do I bring to our partnership?”
He gasps. “Everything.” The word is a prayer.
Alessia cups his cheek—her throat suddenly raw.
“Hey. What’s this about?” Maxim peers into her eyes, and his beloved, concerned face blurs through her tears. “Alessia, what’s wrong?”
She shakes her head as the question spirals through the drunken haze in her mind.
So many women.
“Tell me,” he pleads, and when she doesn’t answer, he continues. “Oh, my love, we’ll figure this out. It’s going to be okay. Have faith.” He kisses her forehead. “I love you.” He tugs her into his arms and holds her.
The knot in her throat gradually dissolves, and her anxiety recedes as she falls into a drunken sleep.
* * *
Alessia’s breathing settles, and I know she’s fallen asleep, but I don’t move. I don’t want to disturb her. Instead, I stare at the ceiling, mystified. What’s brought about her emotional outburst? Is it the drink talking? I thought she was happy. But have I been deluding myself? I’ve been so hung up on my own shit that I haven’t thought about how she’s been settling into her new life in London. She’s been present and giving, consoling me while I deal with my mother and Kit’s mystery genetic issue—even though she knows nothing about it. And I’m loath to tell her because it’ll add to her anxiety.
And she might have second thoughts about us.
Dude. Don’t go there.
Being cooped up in the flat may be affecting her. It’s spotless—that hasn’t gone unnoticed—but she needs more. She needs friends. She’s here on her own, isolated, and only has me.
Fuck. Mate.
Tomorrow we’ll start applying to the music conservatoires in London and find a finishing school for etiquette lessons. She’ll be less isolated and have more to do. If that’s what’s bothering her, that should help.