The metal box is quiet and we stand next to each other without touching. As the elevator climbs, I peer up at Maxim, whose eyes dart away from me like he was already looking down at me.
Is he. . .nervous?
He hasn’t seemed nervous even once through the day, a picture of serene composure.
I blink, wondering what it could be that has him on edge now, but as the doors open to the world’s most glamorous suite, it dawns on me.
Today was our wedding. Tonight is ourwedding night.
Do we begin attempting to make a baby tonight? Am I even ovulating?
I suppose we should have discussed expectations on the matter of sex further than “full fidelity” and creating the Orlov heir.
I exhale a breath and step into the suite—thoughsuitedoesn’t even begin to describe the grandeur that is this massive apartment-like hotel room. It opens into a living room not unlike Maxim’s with tall windows spanning the walls, only, there’s a patio of sorts—if you can call it that. I stalk across the room to investigate this, the exterior lights drawing my eye to. . . Is that?
I slide open the glass door and poke my head out to find, yep, a private hot tub with a perfect view of the city. It’s insane, and garish, and even though it’s still cold as hell outside, the water is bubbling and steaming. I kneel and feel the water, which is hot, perfect for soaking. Despite my protests, Willa insisted she pack my bag for this little mini honeymoon. She thought I wouldn’t bring enough fun outfits, but I think most of my outfits are mostly fun. I can only hope she included a swimsuit.
Maxim stands at the door, those blue eyes impassive as he watches me.
“I’ve never stayed at an Orlov,” I say as I stand, flicking the water off of my hand. “Are they all like this?”
“No, they’re not all so ridiculous.”
“Hm.” I stride past him, my arm lightly brushing his chest as I do. On the marble table in the kitchen, a bottle of champagne sits on ice in a metal bucket next to a plate full of chocolate strawberries. There’s a note, too. Handwritten congratulations and a reminder that room service is on call for us at any hour.
I offer the note to Maxim between my index and middle fingers and take one of the strawberries before circling the table, my fingers skimming over stone. There’s a fridge with various beverages in glass bottles and fresh fruits, a bedroom with carpet so plush, I kick off my heels just to feel it beneath my feet, and one massive bed.
I stare at it, unsurprised that there’s only one bed in this romantic honeymoon suite, but still surprised at the unease of what it means. Of course newlyweds share beds. Of course, so will we.
I hear his leather shoes step slowly through the hall until they stop at the doorway behind me. Even if I hadn’t heard him, I would feel his eyes on me, heavy as they always are. His attention is tangible.
I peer over my shoulder. “I’ve never stayed somewhere so nice,” I say, and his eyes dart to the floor, almost as if he’s embarrassed, like he’d been when I mentioned the plane, the boat, the car. “I like it.”
“Good,” he says, and his shoulders relax just so. I stand, waiting for him to talk, but he remains quiet.
I lean against the foot of the bed and cross my arms and ankles in front of me. I am channelingrelaxed, confident, coolinto my every motion and word, though my skin is tingling with the general anxiety that I’ve felt all day. Part of my mind still works to convince me that Maxim thinks I’m too young, toochildish, a nuisance, and now his responsibility ‘til death do us part.
“You should take off your shoes,” I say after the moment of levity dissolves into silence. He blinks once, and does as I say. Seeing his black socks feels intimate.
It serves to remind me that I’ve just married a stranger.
“Is the weight of your mistake dawning on you now?” I ask.
“What?”
“Because unfortunately you’re rightfully stuck with me now. Before law and God.” I point toward the inordinately high ceilings, and he winces.
“No, of course not, it’s—” He stands straighter. Maximisnervous, I wonder how many people have seen this side of him, even momentarily. It makes me want to press, to needle, so I step closer. “It’s only that I don’t want you to think that I have expectations of you. Not tonight.”
“Expectations,” I repeat.
I know he means sex. He expects that I will produce him a baby, and presumably he knows how babies are created, but I like to see him this way, so I raise an eyebrow and wait for him to spell it out in no unclear terms.
“There’s no need to consummate tonight,” he explains. “I don’t even expect we share a bed?—”
“You don’t want to share a bed with me?”
“I mean only that I do notexpectthat you share one. Nor do I believe that because you’re my wife am I entitled to your body in any way.”
