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“To us. Gëzuar, my love.” In the soft light, his green eyes glitter with a warmth that stirs her blood.
“To us. Gëzuar, Maxim,” she responds, and they clink glasses. She takes a sip, enjoying the taste of a joyous summer and mellow fruits as it slips down her throat. She feels a little shy now that they’re finally alone together.
Shy of my husband?
Husband.
She lets the word ring in her head, enjoying the sound of it there.
Maxim turns to the view once more. “‘Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,’” he whispers, almost to himself.
“‘Enwrought with golden and silver light,’” Alessia answers.
Maxim turns his head to her in surprise. “‘The blue and the dim and the dark cloths.’”
“‘Of night and light and the half-light.’”
“‘I would spread the cloths under your feet.’” His eyes sear hers, his expression intense.
“‘But I… being poor… have only my dreams,’” Alessia whispers, and her throat burns with unshed tears and the truth of the words.
Maxim smiles and traces her cheek with the back of his forefinger. “‘I have spread my dreams under your feet. Tread softly,’” he murmurs.
“‘Because you tread on my dreams.’” Alessia blinks back a tear, and Maxim leans down and plants a gentle kiss on her lips.
“You never cease to amaze me,” he says.
Alessia swallows, searching for her equilibrium. At every turn, she’s reminded of what he’s done for her—and the difference between them, but she shakes off the idea. It’s too complex and too overwhelming to contemplate now. “My English grandmother. She loved her poets. Yeats and Wordsworth. We have books of their poetry. Scandalous in Albania a few decades ago.”
Nana.
What would she have made of her granddaughter, married to an English lord, sipping champagne in the presidential suite of a fine hotel in Tirana?
“I wish I’d met her,” Maxim says.
She smiles. “You would have liked her. She would have loved you.”
“And I her. I know you’ve been through a great deal over the last couple of weeks. We have two items of business at the embassy tomorrow when we collect your visa. But that’s it. We’re on our honeymoon now. It’s just us. Relax. Enjoy.” He slips his arm around her waist, pulls her to his side, and nuzzles her hair.
She rests her head against his shoulder as together they stand in an easy silence and stare out at Tirana and sip their champagne.
“More?” Maxim asks, looking at her glass.
“Please.”
He refills their flutes and replaces the bottle in the ice bucket. She watches as he slips off his jacket and drapes it over one of the sofas. At the console table, he connects his phone to a speaker and selects some music. A moment later, the strains of a guitar echo through the room and a man with an American accent starts to sing.
“Who is this?” Alessia asks as Maxim comes to stand beside her once more.
“It’s an oldie, but goodie,” he murmurs and wraps his arms around her, her back pressed to his front. He rests his chin on her head and starts to sway. “JJ Cale. ‘Magnolia.’ Hmm… You smell good.” He kisses the top of her head.
Alessia relaxes against him, swaying with him, placing a hand on top of his and sipping her champagne.
The song is soft and sensual—more so as Maxim sings a line quietly in her ear.
“Makes me think of my babe…”
She grins.
He can sing! Sweetly too.
“Let’s go to bed.” His voice is husky and full of promise as he gently tugs her earlobe with his teeth.
Alessia’s breath catches, and that sweet, delicious pull tightens deep in her belly. Then she remembers. “Um…”
Maxim takes her glass and sets it on the table.
“Hmm?” he asks and tips her chin up, his eyes burning. He kisses the corner of her mouth. “What did you say?”
“I–I…”
He kisses her again at the pulse point beneath her ear as she presses her hands against his shirt. Her fingers move of their own accord to the buttons.
Just a bit longer.
And she starts to undo them.
He cups her face between his hands and angles her head, bringing his lips to hers.
“Wife,” he whispers and gently teases her lips with his, the tip of his tongue seeking hers.
She sighs, and his tongue finds and caresses hers while his hands glide down her body, one pressing her to him while the other skims her backside. Alessia abandons his buttons and tugs at his shirt, freeing it from his pants. Her hands coast up his firm biceps and shoulders, and her fingers fist in his tousled, soft hair as they devour each other.
He groans and pulls back, winded. “I’ve missed you,” he whispers. “So much.”
“I’ve been here…” Her voice is a breathless whisper.
“Not like this.” He moves suddenly, scooping her up into his arms.
She smiles, her heart brimming with love, and folds her arms around his neck as he carries her through the suite into the bedroom, leaving behind the velvet timbre of JJ Cale.
