The Mister

by James, E L

  Her blood drums through her body with a reckless beat. Inside, she’s melting. Everywhere. She flexes her fingers, but he doesn’t let them go.

  “Do you want to touch me?” he asks against her throat.

  She groans.

  “Tell me.”

  “Yes,” she whispers, and he tugs her earlobe gently with his teeth. Squirming against him, she moans and flexes her fingers again. This time he releases her and his hands grab her hips and tug her against his erection.

  “Feel me,” he murmurs.

  She does. All of him.

  Ready. Waiting. For her.

  Her heart stutters, and she gasps.

  He wants her. And she wants him.

  “Undress me,” he coaxes, and her fingers find the hem of his T-shirt. Hesitating for only a moment, she drags it up and over his head. Once she’s dropped his clothes on the floor, he puts his hands on his head.

  “Now what are you going to do with me?” he asks, and a pleased, sexy smile curls his lips.

  Alessia inhales, overwhelmed by his bold invitation as her eyes flit over his body. Her fingers are itching to touch him. To feel his skin beneath hers.

  “Go on,” he whispers, a seductive challenge in his voice. She wants to touch his chest, his stomach, his belly. She wants to kiss him there, too. The thought elicits a strange, delicious tightening deep inside her. Hesitantly, she raises her hand, and with her index finger she traces a line from his chest down between his abdominal muscles to his navel. His eyes never leave hers, his breath hitches, and she continues skating her finger down over his belly through the hair to the top button of his jeans. Her courage deserts her, and she hesitates.

  Maxim grins and grabs her hand, raising it to his lips and kissing her fingertips. He turns it over and places his lips and the tip of his tongue on the inside of her wrist where her blood is pumping. He circles his tongue deliberately over her pulse, and Alessia gasps. With a smile he releases her and clasps her head. His lips find hers once more, and he explores her mouth.

  She’s panting when he lets her go. “My turn,” he says. And with infinite care and a feather-light touch, he trails his index finger between her breasts, down her stomach, to her navel, which he rings twice before proceeding to the waistband of her pj’s. Alessia’s heart starts thumping, echoing in an insane rhythm in her head.

  Suddenly he kneels down in front of her.

  What?

  She grabs his shoulders to stay upright. His hands move around to her behind as he kisses the underside of each breast and trails soft, sweet kisses to her navel.

  “Ah,” she groans as his tongue rims and dips into her belly button. She runs her fingers through his hair, and he looks up at her and gives her a wicked grin. With his hands on her behind, he sits back on his haunches and pulls her forward, holding her in place, and runs his nose up her sex.

  “Wha—!” Alessia exclaims in shock. She tightens her fingers in his hair, and he groans.

  “You smell good,” he whispers, and she gasps. His hands slip into the waistband of her pj’s and cup her bare backside, kneading her flesh as he rubs his nose over her clitoris, on and on.

  This is not what she was expecting. The sight of him on his knees at her feet, doing what he’s doing to her body, is too stimulating. She closes her eyes, tips her head back, and moans. His hands shift, and she feels her pj’s gliding down her legs.

  Zot.

  His nose stays at the apex of her legs.

  “Maxim!” she cries, scandalized, and she tries to pull his head away.

  “Hush,” he murmurs. “It’s okay.” And his tongue replaces his nose as he resists her feeble attempts to stop him.

  “Ah,” Alessia moans as he continues to tease her, his tongue circling around and around and around. She stops fighting him. Losing herself to the sensation and reveling in the carnal delight of his touch. Her legs begin to tremble, and Maxim grasps her hips and persists in his delicious torment.

  “Please,” she begs, and he stands in one fluid movement. She clutches his hips, and he kisses her again, his hands in her hair pulling her head back, and she opens up for him, relishing his tongue. He tastes different—salty, slick, and she realizes he tastes of her!

  O perëndi!

  His mouth on hers, his hand skims down her body, his thumb brushing over her nipple, tracing the line of her waist, then down to the junction of her thighs. His fingers tease her where moments before his tongue had been, and he slips a finger inside her. Quivering and driven by instinct, she presses her hips toward him, trying to find relief against his hand.

  “Yes,” he hisses with obvious pleasure as he circles his finger inside her, pushing in and out. When she tips her head back and closes her eyes, he withdraws his hand and tugs at his jeans. The zipper obliges, and out of his back pocket he produces a condom. He makes short work of removing his jeans, and Alessia watches dazed but fascinated as he rips open the packet and rolls the condom over his erection. She’s breathing hard and fast…but she wants to touch him. There. Except she doesn’t have the nerve. Yet.

  And they’re not even in bed….What is he going to do? He kisses her again and puts his hands around her waist.

  “Hold on,” he whispers, and he lifts her. “Wrap your legs and arms around me.”

  What? Again?

  She does as he asks, surprised once more by her own agility while he puts his hands under her behind and leans her back against the wall.

  He’s panting. “You okay?” he asks.

  She nods, wide-eyed and needy. Her body aches for him. She wants him…badly. He kisses her and eases his hips forward and slowly sinks into her.

  She groans and winces as he stretches and fills her.

  He stops. “Too much?” he asks, and she hears his concern. “Tell me.” His voice is urgent. “If you want to stop. Just say.”

  She flexes her thighs. This is okay. She can do this. She wants this. She lays her forehead against his. “More. Please.”

  He groans, and he begins to move, flexing his hips. Slow at first, but as Alessia pants and moans, he increases his rhythm. She tightens her hold around his neck as he picks up speed. The feeling is intense as the sensation spirals through her body. And she starts to build as he moves and moves.

  Oh. No. This is too much. It’s too overwhelming. She digs her nails into his shoulders.

  “Maxim, Maxim,” she whimpers. “I can’t.”

  Immediately he stops moving, his breathing ragged. He kisses her and takes a deep breath, and without breaking their intimate contact he turns and walks to the bed. He sits down on the bed, then eases her gently onto her back and gazes at her with eyes the color of a forest in spring, his pupils large, betraying his need. Reaching up, she caresses his cheek, marveling at his athleticism.

  “Better?” he asks as he nestles between her legs and holds his weight on his forearms.

  “Yes,” she whispers, and her fingers thread through his soft hair. His teeth nip at her lips, and he begins to move again. Gradually at first, but increasing his speed. This is easier, not quite as deep, and before she’s aware of it, her body is no longer her own but moving to Maxim’s rhythm, matching his pace as he moves back and forth into her time and again. She’s lost in him, with him…building and building, stiffening and stiffening.

  “Yes,” Maxim hisses, and he pushes once more and suddenly stills with a growl. Alessia cries out as she explodes around him once, twice, again, spiraling out of control beneath his tense body.

  When she opens her eyes, his forehead is against hers, his eyes screwed shut.

  “Oh, Alessia,” he breathes.

  After a moment he opens his eyes, and she strokes his cheek as they gaze at each other. He is so dear. So, so dear.

  “Të dua,” she whispers.

  “What does that mean?”

&n
bsp; She smiles, and he responds in kind, his face full of wonder and…reverence, maybe. He bends and kisses her lips, her eyelids, her cheeks, her jaw, and slowly eases himself out of her. Alessia whimpers feeling the loss, then she drifts, replete but exhausted, and falls asleep in his arms.

  * * *

  She lies curled up beside me, swaddled in the quilt.

  Small. Vulnerable. Beautiful.

  This young woman who has been through so much is now here beside me, where I can protect her. I stretch out, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest: her lips parted as she breathes, her dark lashes fanned out over her cheeks. Her skin is fair, her lips rosy. She’s gorgeous, and I know that I will never tire of looking at her. I’m enthralled and spellbound by her. She’s magical, in every way.

  I’ve had sex too many times to count, but I’ve never felt this connected. It’s a foreign and unsettling feeling, as is my yearning for more.

  I brush a stray lock of hair off her forehead simply as an excuse to touch her. Alessia stirs and mumbles something in Albanian, and I freeze, afraid that I’ve woken her. But she settles once more into a peaceful sleep and I remember that she’ll fear the dark should she wake. Careful not to disturb her, I climb out of bed and hurry downstairs to retrieve the night-light I purchased earlier. I fit the batteries, switch it on, and place it on the bedside table next to Alessia. Should she wake, she won’t be in darkness.

  Slipping back under the covers, I lie down and study her. She’s lovely—the curve of her cheek, of her chin, the way that tiny gold cross nestles in the hollow at the base of her throat—she’s exquisite. She looks young but serene as she sleeps. Taking a strand of her hair, I wind it around my finger. I hope to God she’s feeling safer now. And that her dreams aren’t the nightmares she endured yesterday. She sighs, and her lips curl in a smile. Her expression is encouraging. I gaze at her until I can no longer keep my eyes open. And before I drift off to sleep, I murmur her name.

  Alessia.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I sense her before I’m fully awake. The warmth of her body seeps into mine. Enjoying the feel of her skin on my skin, I open my eyes to greet the misty morning and the lovely Alessia. She’s fast asleep and curled around me like a fern, her hand on my belly, her head on my chest. My arm is wrapped possessively around her shoulders, holding her close, and she’s naked. I grin as my body rouses.

  What a difference a day makes.

  I lie for a moment cherishing her heat and the fragrance of her hair. She shifts and mumbles something unintelligible, and her eyelids flutter open.

  “Good morning, beautiful,” I whisper. “This is your early-morning wake-up call.” And I ease her onto her back. She blinks a couple of times as I kiss the tip of her nose and nuzzle the pulse point beneath her ear, and she beams and throws her arms around my neck as my hand travels down to her breast.

  * * *

  The sun is shining. The air is crisp and cold. “No Diggity” blares over the sound system as I drive up the A39 toward Padstow. I’ve ruled out going to Sunday service. There’ll be too many people at the local parish church who know me. Once I’ve told Alessia who I am and what I do…then maybe. I glance at her as her heels bounce in time to the music. She flashes me a quick crotch-tightening grin.

  Man, she is captivating.

  Her smile lights up the Jag’s interior—and me.

  I give her a wicked smile in return, remembering this morning. And last night. She tucks her wild hair behind her ear, and an innocent blush steals across her cheeks. Perhaps she’s thinking about this morning, too. I hope so. I see her, a vision in my bed, head tipped back in ecstasy, her mouth open as she cries out and comes, her hair spilling over the edge of the bed. My blood heads south at the thought. Yeah. She seemed to enjoy it. She seemed to enjoy it very much. Shifting in my seat at the memory, I reach across to squeeze her knee.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  She nods, her deep brown eyes sparkling.

  “Me, too.” I take her hand, bring it to my lips, and give her a grateful kiss on her palm.

  I feel buoyant—more than buoyant, I’m elated. I’m happier than I’ve been…since…since Kit died. No. Since before Kit’s death. And I know it’s because I’m with Alessia.

  I’m intoxicated with her.

  But I don’t dwell on my feelings. I don’t want to. They are new and raw and a little unsettling. I’ve never felt like this. Truth is, I’m excited. I’m going shopping with a woman, and I’m looking forward to it—is this a first?

  But I suspect it will be a battle with Alessia. She’s proud. Maybe it’s an Albanian characteristic. At breakfast she was adamant that I couldn’t buy her any new clothes. But she’s sitting beside me in her only pair of jeans, the thin, graying white top, her leaky boots, and my sister’s old jacket. This is a fight she’s not going to win.

  I park in the spacious car park by the quay. She’s curious, peering through the windscreen at our surroundings.

  “Want to look around?” I ask, and we climb out of the car.

  It’s a picture-postcard scene: antiquated houses and cottages built of gray Cornish stone line the small harbor where a few fishing boats are moored up, idle, because it’s a Sunday.

  “This is a good view,” Alessia says. She’s huddled in her coat, and I stretch my arm around her shoulders and hold her to me.

  “Let’s go and get you some warm clothes,” I offer with a smile, but she immediately steps out of my embrace.

  “Maxim, I cannot pay for new clothes.”

  “It’s my treat.”

  “Treat?” She frowns.

  “Alessia, you have nothing. This is very easy for me to put right. Please. Let me. I want to.”

  “It is not right.”

  “Says who?”

  She taps her finger to her lips, and it appears that this is not an argument she’s considered. “Me. I say,” she answers eventually.

  I sigh. “They are a gift for all your hard work—”

  “They are a gift because I have sexual intercourse with you.”

  “What? No!” I laugh, appalled and amused in equal measure. I quickly scan the quay to check no one can hear us. “I offered to buy you clothes before the sex, Alessia. Come on. Look at you. You’re freezing. And I know your boots leak. I’ve seen your wet footprints in my hallway.”

  She opens her mouth to speak.

  I hold up my hand to stop her. “Please,” I insist. “It would give me great pleasure.”

  She purses her lips, unimpressed. I try a different tack. “I’m going to buy them for you anyway, whether you’re there or not. So you can come with me and choose something you like or leave it to me.”

  She folds her arms.

  Fuck. Alessia Demachi has a stubborn streak.

  “Please. For me,” I beseech her, holding out my hand. She glares at me, and I give her my very best smile. Then she sighs—resigned, I think—and puts her hand in mine.

  Yes.

  * * *

  Mister Maxim is right. She needs clothes. Why is she being so obstinate about his generous offer? It’s because he’s done so much for her already. She trots beside him along the quay, trying to ignore the scandalized voice of her mother that rings in her head.

  He is not your husband. He is not your husband.

  She shakes her head.

  Enough!

  She’s not going to let her absent mother make her feel guilty. She is in England now. She is free. Like an English girl. Like her grandmother. And Mister Maxim said that she is on holiday, and if it gives him pleasure…After the pleasure he’s given her, how can she refuse? She blushes recalling his…what did he call it?

  Early-morning wake-up call.

  Alessia fights back her smile. He could wake her up like that any day.

  And he cooked her breakfast again.


  He is spoiling her.

  She hasn’t been spoiled in a very long time.

  Ever?

  She glances up at him as they walk into the center of Padstow, and her heart lurches. He looks down at her, his eyes lively, and his handsome face erupts into a wide grin. He looks roguish this morning. It must be the stubble on his face. She likes the feel of it beneath her tongue. She loves the feel of it against her skin.

  Alessia!

  She had no idea she could be so wanton. Mister Maxim has woken a monster. She laughs to herself.

  Who knew?

  Her thoughts take a somber turn. What is she going to do when they go back to London and the holiday comes to an end? She wraps one hand around his biceps and squeezes his hand with the other. She doesn’t want to think about that. Not now. Not today.

  This is a holiday.

  As they walk, the words became her mantra.

  This is a holiday.

  Ky është pushim.

  Padstow is bigger than Trevethick, but the old, cramped houses and narrow lanes are the same. It’s a picturesque little town. The place is bustling with people, tourists and locals out enjoying the sunshine in spite of the cold. There are children eating ice cream. Young people holding hands, like Maxim and her. And older people happily arm in arm. Alessia is amazed that people can express their affection so freely on the streets. It is not the same in Kukës.

  * * *

  I turn into the first shop that sells women’s clothing. It’s a local chain store, and I stand in the middle of the shop staring at all that’s on offer. Everything looks pleasant enough, but frankly I’m a little overwhelmed. Alessia is hanging on my arm like a limpet. And I have no idea where to start. I’d had the vague idea that I’d have her cooperation, her enthusiasm, even—but she doesn’t seem interested in the merchandise.