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“I’m going to bed.” She stared at him for a second longer before looking away. “My bed.”
He compressed his lips. “If that’s what you want.”
Her heart turned over in her chest. What she wanted? She no longer had any idea what she wanted.
She nodded though, careful to conceal her inner most thoughts. “Yes. Good night.”
So formal! And after what they’d just done! Her cheeks must have glowed pink. She left the room before he could notice.
* * *
Max pulled through the water, each powerful stroke like a lash at his spine. What the hell had he been thinking?
You weren’t thinking. He hadn’t been. He hadn’t been thinking straight since London – probably since before that. And now? Dinner with her had been a terrible idea. When they were married, he’d understood that. He’d known spending time with Alessia would be his downfall. She’d accused him of ignoring her and perhaps it had appeared that way. He’d chosen to not spend time with her, but only because he couldn’t trust himself.
And tonight had shown him he still couldn’t. Dinner had been one long damned foreplay. Every time she’d sipped her drink his eyes had watched her lips part and mould the top of the glass. When she’d lifted her fork to her mouth and her tongue been there, pink and beautiful, he’d wanted to push everything off the table top and kiss her, pulling her towards him…
And then, the bliss of being with her, his body reuniting with hers for the first time in months. He deserved a goddamned medal for being able to make it last as long as it had, when the moment he’d pushed into her beautiful depths he’d wanted to lose himself to his own release.
Their coming together had been written in the stars, but Christo, she’d panicked afterwards. She’d tried to hide it, but her swift departure, obvious remorse, made him feel like the worst kind of bastard. And while there were many things he regretted about their first marriage, not sleeping with her wasn’t one of them. If they’d done this then, he would have found it impossible to leave it at one night, one time.
Would that have been so bad? She’d wanted him. She’d married him. She’d married him believing it would be a real marriage.
Max paused at one end of the indoor pool, staring at the reflective glass on the other side without seeing. Their age gap was big, but not by any means the worst he’d heard of. When they’d married, she was twenty and he was thirty two – but it was more than those twelve years. She’d been sheltered all her life, cossetted and adored by a father who’d lost his wife and become so terrified of anything happening to his daughter that he’d basically shielded her from the outside world.
And yet Alessia was strong, fierce and independent. Max hadn’t understood that about her then – or perhaps he’d seen only the parts of her that needed protecting, rather than the sum of her. Maybe he hadn’t wanted to see what she’d been trying to show him? That Alessia was also an intelligent, independent woman?
The same age gap existed between them now, but her being twenty five made all the difference. It shouldn’t have – she was still innocent and inexperienced, but he no longer felt wrong in wanting her. Or perhaps he just couldn’t fight it any longer?
You have to.
She’d panicked afterwards. She’d wanted him but even as they’d made love hadn’t he known that she might regret it? That she might wish she didn’t want him?
God, why couldn’t he make sense of this?
He needed…space.
He needed to think.
When Alessia was around, nothing made sense, even when strangely, everything did.
Chapter Nine
“GOOD MORNING.” HIS EYES held hers for a fraction of a second before dropping back to his newspaper. He scanned the page for a moment longer then folded it up, his long fingers moving effortlessly in the simple action, drawing her attention, and pulling a frown across her brow.
She wished he wasn’t so handsome. Dressed as he was now in a suit – just as he always was when he was due at the office, she felt as though she wanted to push at the jacket and pop all the buttons from the shirt, to pick up where they’d left off the night before.
“Hi.” Her voice sounded croaky and timid; she hated that. She’d braced for this, knowing he’d be here. She’d dressed in an oversized sweater and her favourite pair of maternity jeans, pulled her hair into a low pony tail and put on some bright red lipstick – life always felt better with lipstick in place.
“There are some pastries in the kitchen. Shall I get you a croissant?”
It was just a fluke – there was no way he could know that croissants were her favourite thing, nor that they were her saving grace on mornings when her stomach was unsettled and nauseous.
“I can get it.”
“Sit down,” he countermanded, gesturing to the se
at opposite him. “Please.”
