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“It’s okay, baby,” I murmur. “I should have told you.”
When she’s not angry with me, she’s my guiding light, and with her so close, her scent fills my senses, soothing me.
As Alessia’s breathing settles into the rhythm of sleep, I close my eyes and join her.
Chapter Twenty-Two
I wake with a start. It’s a bright spring morning, and a glance to my side tells me I’m on my own.
Hell! Is she here?
I leap out of bed, grab my jeans, slip them on, and stalk out of the bedroom. Alessia is in the kitchen making bread, her face etched in furious concentration. She’s bent over the counter kneading the dough like it’s deeply offended her, or her life depends on it—I’m not sure which. She’s barefoot but not pregnant, I think idly and watch as a tendril from her ponytail escapes and curls down her cheek and under her chin. She shakes it loose, peers up, and freezes when she sees me.
“Good morning.” My voice is a whisper.
“Hi,” she says and stands upright. She’s in tight jeans and a tighter T-shirt, and it’s stirring as hell, but her dark eyes are wary.
Is this a hangover from yesterday’s debacle? “You okay?”
She presses her lips together, quickly rinses her hands, and grabs her phone from the countertop. “My mother. She sent me this. She has the Google alert.”
My heart sinks as she hands me her phone, and sure enough, she reveals a tabloid article titled “The Earl, the Ex and the Wife.” A series of photographs from last night accompany it—Alessia, Caroline, and me arriving at the party, together at the party, and there’s a photograph of Charlotte kissing me. In it, I’m obviously taken aback and not a willing participant. I’m vindicated, though I’m sure that’s not what the picture editor who chose the photo intended. I slide my gaze to Alessia’s. “I love the one of you and me.” I hand her phone back. “Your mother sent that?”
Alessia nods and sets her phone on the counter. “She worries.”
“Did you reassure her?”
“I did.”
“Good. Are you reassured?”
She bites her lip, her eyes shining with unshed tears—and I have my answer. Reaching up, I run my thumb over her trembling bottom lip. “You didn’t sign up for any of this, did you?”
She inhales sharply, and I dread what she’s going to say. But she runs her tongue across my thumb, then purses her lips and kisses the tip. The jolt travels like lightning to my groin, heating everything in its path, and I suppress a groan, taken completely by surprise.
Alessia’s eyes, intent on me, widen a fraction.
Not from fear or anger.
From the same jolt of desire.
Her sharply exhaled breath dries the spot on my thumb moistened by her kiss, sending my blood racing.
South.
Her eyes follow, and my dick rejoices as I drop my hand.
“Alessia,” I whisper, and I don’t know if it’s a plea or a warning. Her darkening eyes lift, pinning mine. Gone are the unshed tears; there’s just her burning gaze full of carnal promise. I step closer so I’m bathed in her scent and the warmth of her body. I want nothing more than to grab her, strip off her jeans, and fuck her on the kitchen counter. But I want her to make the first move. “What do you want, my love?”
Tentatively, she raises her hand and traces my bottom lip with her thumb. “No, I didn’t sign up for this. But I did sign up for you.”
The words are softly spoken.
And in them. There’s hope. For us.
My senses heightened, I feel the air thicken between us, full of lush anticipation.
And heat.
And expectation.
It’s heady and addictive.
I’ve never felt like this with anyone else. My sweet, siren wife. She has no idea about the potency of the magic she weaves and the spell she casts over me.
Or maybe she does.
“What do you want, Alessia?”
“You,” she whispers, and using one hand, she runs the tips of her fingers down my sternum, firing synapses throughout my body. Then across my chest, so my nipples pucker at her touch, and down my stomach, my belly, and my happy trail to the button on the waistband of my jeans. Keeping her eyes on mine, she undoes the button in one nimble move. And her fingers skirt lower, cradling my heavy erection through the denim.
“You have me.” I tilt my pelvis, finding some friction against her palm, and close my eyes, fisting my hands to stop myself from wrapping her in my arms.
* * *
Alessia regards her husband through heavy-lidded eyes.
You’ll have to fight for him. Her mother’s words from their call this morning ring through her head. And fight, she will. Using every available weapon she has.
She loves him.
She knows this.
She wants him.
And she wants him to want her. She skirts her fingers over his unyielding erection once more. The rigid proof at her fingertips means she’s succeeded.
