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“You’ll get used to it.”
“You are used to this because you have had staff all your life.”
“True.”
“I have not.”
“Hey, stop. You’ll be fine. You have been fine here, with Bastian, with Chef and the housekeeper. Just keep doing what you’re doing.”
Alessia frowns. “I am out of the depths.”
I smile. “Out of your depth. And I don’t think you are. You’re going to be amazing. I saw how you and your parents pulled together a full-scale wedding in less than a week. All the skills you need are there.”
* * *
He reaches over and tugs Alessia’s hand, and she moves willingly into his lap, where he folds his arms around her and nuzzles her hair. “Besides,” he whispers. “Who gives a fuck what other people think?”
Alessia chuckles. “You say that word a lot.”
“I do, and your English is improving. I’ve really noticed on this holiday.”
“That’s because I spend my time with someone who speaks it so well, apart from the cursing, of course.”
Maxim laughs. “I know you love it when I talk dirty.”
He’s wearing a loose white cotton shirt and linen trousers. His hair is sun-kissed, and his green eyes sparkle in the wavering candlelight.
He’s delicious.
“Your cognac, my lord,” Bastian says, interrupting them.
“Thank you.”
“I’ve taken the liberty of moving two of the lawn chairs down to the beach and lighting the firepit.”
“Thanks, Bastian. We’ll enjoy one more paddle in the moonlight.”
Alessia climbs off Maxim, and he takes her hand—and his cognac—and leads her down the garden steps onto the beach where Bastian has set up a little bower for them. Torches blaze at the four corners and the firepit flames flicker in the evening breeze.
The lawn chairs, as well as cushions, have blankets draped over them. Alessia takes a seat in one, and Maxim settles in the other beside her. Taking her hand again, he brings it to his lips. “Thank you for a wonderful honeymoon.”
She laughs. “No, Maxim. Thank you. For everything.”
He kisses her palm, then her rings—then leans back, and they each gaze out across the dark water that glimmers in the light of the waning moon. They’re serenaded by the song of the tree frogs, the crackle, hiss, and spit of the fire in the iron pit, and the gentle wash of the Caribbean lapping at the shore. Alessia takes a deep breath, inhaling the scent of the tropics—the lush earthiness of the rain forest and the salty tang of the sea—and she tries to commit the scene to memory. Above them, there’s a spectacular starscape.
“Uau, so many stars,” Alessia murmurs.
“Hmm…” Maxim replies, staring up at the sky.
“They look different here.”
“Hmm…” The sound of his contentment rumbles in his throat once more.
She gazes at the night sky, feeling that providence has provided the impressive light show above them solely to make amends for all that had befallen Maxim and her before their wedding.
Alessia’s heart is full to overflowing.
This is her life now.
She has to pinch herself.
He’s shown her the sights of Tirana, whisked her to Paris and then to this magical place.
What has she done to deserve all this good fortune?
She’d fallen in love with him. Her Mister… No, her lord.
“Dance with me?” Maxim says, interrupting her reverie, and he lays his phone on the arm of his chair and hands her an AirPod. He slips one in his ear, and she does the same. He presses Play, and the familiar strains of RY X fills her ear.
Maxim gazes down at her and opens his arms. She walks into his embrace, and together they sway slowly in the sand.
“Our first dance,” Maxim whispers.
And Alessia is thrilled that he remembers.
“The first of many,” she answers, and he moves his hands to caress her face and turns her lips to his.
They flow together. Taking and giving. Two as one. Alessia clutches the sheets, her body slick with sweat… her sweat… his sweat, and Maxim cries out and stills as he climaxes, triggering her orgasm, so she cries out too and rises and falls through her bliss. She folds her arms around his neck as he collapses on her, then moves them to the side.
“Fuck. Alessia,” he whispers and kisses her forehead as she comes back to sanity.
She opens her eyes and strokes his face as they stare at each other. Her finger tracing the outline of his lips. Lips that have been on her.
Everywhere.
“Is it always like this?” Alessia asks.
“No,” Maxim says and kisses her forehead again. He eases out of her, and she winces. “Are you sore?” His voice rings with concern.
“No. I’m good.” She grins. “More than good.”
“I’m more than good too.”
Their bedroom is all whitewashed wood, with distressed furniture and discreet art. A four-poster bed, sheathed in nets, dominates the room. Alessia loves the romance of the nets—when in bed, they’re cocooned in their own small haven.
As her heart rate slows, a thought that has been nagging her since the wedding strays unfettered into her mind.
