Fucking hell.
I clench my fists, my rage murderous. She’s so still. Head bowed. Folding in on herself.
Calm down, mate. Calm yourself.
I take a deep cleansing breath, my hands on my hips. “I’m sorry.”
Her head whips up. Her look direct and earnest. “You have done nothing wrong.”
Even now she’s trying to pour oil on my troubled waters.
The few steps between us are too great a distance. She watches me warily as I approach, and cautiously I crouch down beside her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I’m just shocked that somewhere out there you have a…suitor, and I have a rival for your affections.”
She blinks rapidly, and her face softens as a rosy tinge marks her cheeks.
“You have no rivals,” she whispers.
My breath catches, and warmth spreads in my chest, chasing the last of the adrenaline away. These are the sweetest words that she has said to me.
There’s hope.
“This man, he’s not your choice?”
“No. He is my father’s choice.”
I reach for her hand and bring it to my lips, planting one soft kiss on her knuckles.
“I cannot go back,” she whispers. “I have dishonored my father. And if I return, I will be forced into marriage.”
“Your…betrothed. Do you know him?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t love him?”
“No.” Her vehement, monosyllabic response tells me all I need to know. Perhaps he’s old. Or unattractive. Or both.
Or he hits her.
Fuck.
Standing, I pull her into my arms, and she comes willingly, putting her hands on my chest. I fold her against my body and hold her. And I don’t know if I’m comforting her or myself. The thought of her with someone else, someone who mistreats her, is horrifying. I bury my face in her fragrant hair, grateful that she’s here. With me. “I’m sorry that you’ve had to put up with so much shit,” I murmur.
Looking up at me, she brushes her index finger over my lips. “That is a bad word.”
“It is. It’s a bad word for a bad situation. But you’re safe now. I’ve got you.” Leaning down, I brush my lips against hers and it’s like a spark to dry kindling, my body comes alive. It takes my breath away. She closes her eyes and tilts her head back, offering her mouth to me. I cannot resist. In the background, RY X is still singing in his husky, melancholy falsetto about only falling in love. It’s soulful. And rousing. And relevant.
“Dance with me.” My voice is hoarse. Alessia gasps as I tighten my hold on her and start to sway with her in my arms. She splays her hands on my chest and glides them over my shirt, feeling me. Touching me. Reassuring me. And curling her fingers around my upper arms as she moves with me.
Slowly.
We shuffle from side to side to the unhurried and seductive rhythm of the ethereal song. Her hands slide up my arms and over my shoulders and into my hair. She nuzzles my chest.
“I have never danced like this,” she murmurs.
My hand skims down her body to the base of her spine, holding her to me. “I’ve never danced with you.”
With my other hand, I gently tug on her plait, lifting her lips to mine. I kiss her. Long. Slow. Tasting her. Rediscovering her sweet mouth with my tongue while we sway together. I unfasten the elastic tethering her hair and slide it off. I groan as she shakes her head, and her hair falls wild and free down her back. Cradling her face, I kiss her again. I want more. So much more. I need to reclaim her. She’s with me. Not with some violent bastard from a godforsaken town a world away.
“Come to bed,” I whisper, my voice low.
“I have to wash the dishes.”
What?
“Fuck the dishes, baby.”
Her brow furrows. “But—”
“No, you don’t. Leave them.”
And the thought pops into my head. If I married her—she’d never have to do another dish again.
“Make love with me, Alessia.”
She sucks in a breath, and an inviting, shy smile curls her lips.
* * *
We flow together. My hands cocoon her head as I move, slowly savoring every delectable inch of her. She is soft and strong and beautiful beneath me. I kiss her, pouring my heart and soul into her mouth. It’s never felt like this. Each stroke is bringing me closer to her. Her legs hold me in place, and her hands run over my back. Her nails etching her passion on my skin. I lean up and study her dazed face. Her eyes are wide and her pupils the darkest, most carnal espresso. I want to see her. All of her. I stop and press my forehead against hers.
“I need to see you.” I ease out of her and roll us over so that she’s on top of me. She’s breathless and unsure. With my arm under her behind, I slide her up my body so her legs are on either side of my hips. And I sit up so she’s astride me, her arms on my shoulders. I clasp her face and kiss her. Moving my hand down to caress her breast, I deliberately tease her nipple between my thumb and finger as my lips skim from her mouth along her jaw to her throat. She tips her head back and lets out a husky moan of pure pleasure. My erection throbs in response.
Yes.
“Let’s try this,” I murmur against the fragrant skin of her shoulder. I wrap my arm around her waist and lift her, my eyes on hers as I lower her slowly onto me.
Fuck.
She’s tight. And wet. And exquisite.
Her mouth drops open as she gasps, her eyes large with want. “Ah,” she breathes, and my lips seize hers, my fingers in her hair as I claim her mouth again.
She’s panting and gripping my shoulders when I pull back.
“Okay?” I ask.
She gives me a frantic shake of her head. “Yes,” she breathes, and it takes me a moment to realize she’s reverted to the Albanian form of yes. I take her hands and lean back until I’m lying on the bed, staring at the woman astride me. The woman I love.
Her hair spills down over her shoulders and breasts in a riotous, sensual tumble. She leans forward and spreads her hands on my chest.
Yes. Touch me.
She sweeps her fingers and palms over my skin. Feeling me. Through my chest hair and over my nipples, which pucker in delight.
“Ah,” I breathe.
She bites her lower lip, stifling her wanton, victorious smile.
“That’s right, beautiful, I love your touch.”
I love you.
She leans down and kisses me. “I like touching you,” she says softly. Shyly. And my cock strains for more.
“Take me,” I murmur.
She pauses, not understanding, and I lift my hips to give her a clue. Alessia cries out, and it’s a loud, guttural sound of pleasure that almost pushes me over the edge. She splays her hands on my chest, trying to keep her balance. I grasp her hips. “Move. Like this,” I hiss through my teeth. I ease her up and back down. And she gasps, but, placing her hands on my arms, she rises up and back down.
“That’s it.” I close my eyes and enjoy the sensual feel of her.
“Ah,” she calls out.
Shit.
Make this last.
She moves. Slowly and hesitantly at first. But as her confidence builds, she finds her rhythm. I open my eyes as she rises once more, and this time I flex my hips, meeting her. Her cry is visceral and wakes every sense in my body.
Fuck. I grab her hips, moving her faster and faster. She’s panting. Short, sharp gasps for air. Gripping my arms. Her head lolling from side to side with each thrust of mine.
Head tipped back. Calling to the gods, she’s every inch a goddess. Her hold on my arms tightens, and she cries out and stills on top of me as she comes.
It’s enough to trigger my release, and I cry out, holding her to me as I come and come and come.
>
* * *
Alessia lies in the afterglow of their lovemaking. Maxim has his head on her stomach, his arms around her, as she runs her fingers idly through his hair. She loves the feel of his hair beneath her fingers. Her mother never gave any indication that the sexual act could be so pleasurable. Perhaps that is not the relationship she has with Baba. Alessia frowns. She doesn’t want to think about her parents having sex, but her mind wanders, and she remembers her grandmother, Virginia. Now, she married for love. They were happy. Even when they were older, her grandparents would exchange looks that made Alessia blush. Her nana’s was a marriage that she hoped to emulate. Not her parents’ marriage. They were never demonstrative with each other.
Maxim never hesitates to hold her hand or kiss her in public. And he talks to her. When has she ever sat for an evening and had a proper conversation with a man? Where she comes from, if a man talks to a woman for any length of time, it is considered by some to be a sign of weakness.
She glances at the little light-up dragon on the nightstand, a beacon in the darkness. He bought this for her because he knows she’s scared of the dark. He brought her here to protect her. He cooked for her. He bought her clothes. He made love to her….
Tears prick the corners of her eyes, and her heart overflows with uncertainty and longing, burning her throat with unspoken emotion. She loves him. Her fingers tighten in his hair as she’s overwhelmed by her feelings for him. He wasn’t angry with her when she told him she was betrothed. If anything, he was anxious that her heart might belong to another.
No. My heart is yours, Maxim.