The Mister

This is not what I had in mind when I brought her down here. Her inexperience is an issue. I like sexually adventurous women who know what they’re doing, know what they want, and know their limits. Breaking in a virgin is a big responsibility. I towel-dry my hair.

It’s a tough job, but someone has to do it.

Might as well be me.

I stare at the cad in the mirror.

Dude. Grow up.

Maybe she wants a long-term relationship.

I’ve had two relationships, but neither of them for longer than eight months. So not that long. Charlotte was socially ambitious, and she moved on to a baronet from Essex. Arabella was too into drugs for my liking. I mean, who doesn’t like a bump now and then, but every day? No way. I think she’s in rehab again.

A relationship with Alessia. What would that entail?

I am getting way ahead of myself here. Wrapping a towel around my waist, I head back into the bedroom. She’s gone.

Fuck. My heart rate doubles.

Has she fled? Again?

I knock on the door of her room. No reply. I enter, and I’m relieved to hear the shower.

For fuck’s sake, get a grip.

I leave her and go to get dressed.

* * *

Alessia doesn’t think she’ll ever leave this shower. At home in Kukës, the bathroom had a rudimentary shower and the floor had to be mopped after each use. At Magda’s the shower was over the bath. This shower has its own enclosed space, and the hot water cascades over her from the biggest showerhead she’s ever seen. Even bigger than the one in Mister Maxim’s bathroom at his apartment. It’s blissful and like nothing she’s experienced before. She washes her hair and carefully shaves her body with the disposable razor Magda gave her.

She scrubs herself with the body wash she’s brought from home. Her soapy hand moves over her breasts, and she closes her eyes.

I want you, Alessia. Very much.

He wants her.

Her hand moves down.

And in her mind it’s his hand on her body. Touching her. Intimately.

She wants him, too.

She recalls waking up in his arms and feeling the warmth and strength of his body against her skin. Her belly flutters at the memory as her hand moves. Faster. Faster. And faster. She leans against the warmed tiles. And raises her head. Her mouth open as she gulps in air.

Maxim.

Maxim.

Ah.

Her muscles clench deep inside as she comes.

Catching her breath, she opens her eyes.

This is what she wants…isn’t it?

Can she trust him?

Yes.

He’s done nothing to shake the trust she’s placed in him. Last night he rescued her from her night terrors, he was kind and gentle. He let her sleep with him to keep her nightmares away.

She feels safe with him.

She hasn’t felt safe for so long. It’s a novel feeling, even though she knows that Dante and Ylli are still out there somewhere looking for her.

No. Do not think about them.

She wishes she knew more about men. Men and women in Kukës don’t interact like they do in England. At home men socialize with men, women with women. It has always been this way. Not having brothers and kept separate from her male cousins in social situations, her experience was limited to the few male students she met at university—and her father, of course.

She runs her hands through her hair.

Mister Maxim is not like any man she’s ever known.

With the water pouring onto her face, she resolves to put all her problems out of her mind. Today, as Maxim says, it’s a holiday. Her first.

Wrapping her hair in a towel and her body in a bath sheet, she pads into the bedroom. A pounding beat is coming from downstairs. She listens. The music seems at odds with what she knows about him. His compositions suggest a quieter, more introspective man than the one blasting this loud music through the house.

She lays out her clothes on the bed. All of them, with the exception of her jeans and bra, had been given to her by Magda and Michal. She frowns, wishing she had something more attractive to wear. She slips on an off-white, long-sleeved T-shirt to wear over her jeans. It’s a little shapeless, but it will have to do. It’s all she has.

Towel-drying, then brushing out her hair, she leaves it loose and heads downstairs. Through the glass wall surrounding the staircase, she watches Maxim in the kitchen. He’s wearing a pale gray sweater and the ripped black jeans and has a tea towel draped over his shoulder while he stands at the stove. He’s frying bacon—the aroma is delicious—and he’s shuffling to the beat of the dance music that is thumping through the room. Alessia cannot help but grin. While cleaning his apartment, she had never seen any evidence that he could cook.

Men, where she is from, don’t cook.

Or dance while cooking.

The flex of his broad shoulders, the swivel of his slim hips, and his bare feet tapping in perfect time to the music are mesmerizing. She feels a delicious tightening in her belly. He rakes his fingers through his damp hair and then flips the bacon. Her mouth waters.

Mmm…the smell.

Mmm…the sight of him.

He turns suddenly, and his face lights up when he sees her on the stairs. His enormous smile mirrors hers.

“One egg or two?” he shouts above the music.

“One,” she mouths as she comes down the stairs and into the big room. She turns and gasps as she looks out through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

The sea!

“Deti! Deti! The sea!” she shouts, sprinting to the glass wall of doors that lead onto the balcony.

* * *

I lower the heat under the bacon and hurry to the balcony doors to join Alessia, who’s jumping from foot to foot, incandescent with excitement.

“Can we go down to the sea?” Her eyes are alive with delight as she bounces up and down like a child.

“Of course. Here.” I unlock the balcony door and slide it open so that she can go outside. A gust of glacial air catches us both by surprise. It’s freezing, but she rushes out, not caring about her wet hair, bare feet, or thin T-shirt.

Doesn’t this woman have any decent clothes?

I pick up a gray throw that’s draped over the back of the sofa and walk out after her. I wrap my arms and the blanket around her, holding her as she admires the view. Her face is lit up with wonder.

The Hideout and our three other holiday homes are built along a rocky promontory. A small winding path at the end of the garden leads down to the beach. It’s a bright, clear day. The sun is shining, but it’s bitterly cold in the howling wind. The sea is a chilly blue, flecked with white surf, and we hear the boom of the waves as they crash against the cliffs on each side of the cove. The air smells fresh and salty. Alessia turns to me, her expression one of complete awe.

“Come on, let’s eat.” I’m conscious that breakfast is on the stove. “You’ll catch your death out here. We’ll go down to the beach after breakfast.” We head back inside and close the door. “I just have to do the eggs!” I shout above the music.

“Let me help!” Alessia shouts back, following me into the kitchen area, still draped in the blanket.

I turn the Sonos volume down via the app on my phone. “That’s better.”

“Interesting music,” Alessia says in a tone that tells me that perhaps it’s not her thing.

“It’s Korean house. I use a few tracks when I DJ.” I retrieve the eggs from the fridge. “Two eggs?”

“No, one.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Just one. I’m having two. You can make some toast. Bread is in the fridge, and the toaster is over there.”

Together we work in the kitchen, an

d I’m able to watch her. Using her long, nimble fingers, she fishes the toast out of the toaster and butters each slice.