I let his words glide over me, as warm and soothing as a blanket. “You’re very good at that, you know.”
“At what?”
“At making me feel as special with your words as you do with your body.”
“How many times have I told you, Nikki? I will always give you what you need.”
I ease forward and press a soft kiss to the tip of his nose. “Thank you for this honeymoon,” I say. I’m not sure what answer I expect. A smile, perhaps. Or a tease. Even some romantic words.
Instead, I see a shadow in his eyes.
“Damien?”
He shakes his head. “Sorry. I was just thinking about our hotel in Paris.”
“Problem?”
“I certainly hope not.”
I frown. I’m still confused, but tell myself that there must have been some sort of snafu that was troubling him. But even that seems odd, because Damien is the kind of guy who simply tells someone to fix something, then forgets about it, knowing damn well that his staff will make it happen. Then again, this is our honeymoon. So perhaps he’s taking more of an interest in the details. I snuggle closer, the thought pleasing me.
“Don’t go to sleep just yet,” he says, though his voice sounds as lazy as I feel.
“I’m not sure I have a choice in the matter. You’ve thoroughly relaxed me.”
“I know the feeling, and while I do want you well rested for when we land, the fact is that Katie will be here soon with our dinner. And before she comes, I have a present for you.”
“Really?” Despite the fact that I’m already feeling deliciously spoiled, I’m as delighted as a child at the idea of a gift. I sit up. “What?”
He chuckles, obviously amused at my eagerness. He sits up as well, then trails his fingers casually over my bare thigh before standing and moving to the door. There is a leather folio on the ground. It wasn’t there before, so he must have entered with it, and I was too lost in a sensual haze to notice.
I make a small noise of satisfaction as he bends over, naked, to pick up the folio. “If my present is this view, I like it already,” I say.
“Minx,” he counters, making me laugh.
He returns to sit by me, then places the notebook in my hands. It is leather bound and zips around the edges. On the cover, embossed in the leather, are the words, To Nikki. Because you are my world, I give you the world.
My heart seems to skip a beat, and I look up at him, my eyes wide so as to prevent the tears that I know are inevitable.
He brushes a soft kiss over my lips. “Open it.”
I unzip the case and open it, revealing the map of Europe he gave me the day he asked me to marry him. On that day, there were stickers only on Munich and London. Now, the map is splattered with stickers, as if a wash of confetti has fallen atop it.
I tilt my head to look at him, pleased but not entirely sure I’m seeing the bigger picture.
From the twinkle in Damien’s eye, I think he understands my confusion. He reaches over and turns the page, revealing a map of North and Central America. South America is on the next page, then Asia, then Africa, then Australia.
“I only gave you Europe, when I’d wanted to give you the world.”
“You gave me that a long time ago,” I say, feeling sappy and romantic and warm and loved. I flip back to the page with Central America and put my finger on the dot covering Mexico. “It was a beautiful wedding,” I say. “And an exceptional wedding night.”
His arm goes around my shoulders and I lean against him. “Are there more stickers?”
“In the back,” he says, and I flip to the end and find a little pocket with a sheet of colorful dots. I peel one off, then find the page for Europe again. The continent is as colorful as a rainbow, and the only real gap is directly over Paris, the one major destination we didn’t spend any time in during our Grand Tour. I’d expected we would—after all, Damien had taken me there to meet the man who designed my wedding dress—but we’d gone straight from the airport to Favreau’s studio, then spent a night in a nearby hotel before I returned to the studio the next day to try on the basted-together dress which Favreau had worked on through the night. Once both Favreau and I were satisfied, Damien had whisked me back to the jet.
When I’d asked why we were rushing off to Italy, Damien had been surprisingly vague. I had considered telling him that I wanted to stay—that I wanted to see the sights and soak in the atmosphere of that famous, vibrant city. But I had seen something in Damien’s eyes, and so I had remained silent, confident that wherever Damien took me, simply being with him would be enough.
Now, I carefully put the dot over Paris.
I tilt my head so that I am looking at him again, and grin. “I can’t wait,” I confess. “I’ve always wanted to explore Paris.”
His smile seems hesitant, and for just the flicker of an instant, I think I see shadows in his eyes again. I take his hand. “If you’d rather go someplace else, that’s okay. We didn’t do Japan, and you sounded pretty keen on that.”
His brow furrows in what I recognize as genuine confusion.
“I just mean—it’s our honeymoon. I want us to go somewhere that we both like. …” I trail off, now as confused as Damien looks.
His expression fades quickly enough, though, and he laughs out loud, all trace of the earlier shadows erased. “Sweetheart, I love Paris.”
“Oh.”
“I would say I’m sorry that we didn’t spend time there on our last trip, but I’m not,” he adds, making me even more confused. He knows it, too. And he’s enjoying himself, the bastard.
I narrow my eyes and cross my arms over my chest, trying to look stern but probably not managing too well. “You love it? Then why on earth didn’t we sightsee or go to restaurants or take a stroll along the Seine when we were there? I mean, we traipsed all over Europe. We couldn’t squeeze in an extra day or two after my dress fitting?”
“One, I don’t traipse,” he says, making me laugh out loud. “And two, I wanted to save it.”
“For what?”
“For you.”
I am truly baffled now. Smiling, Damien lifts my hand and kisses each of my fingertips. “Paris is light and love and romance,” he whispers. “And so are you. I knew from the first time I touched you that I would explore Paris with you. But only as my wife.”
His words squeeze tight around me, constricting my chest with the force of our shared emotion. I open my mouth to say his name, but my throat is too thick, and even that one simple word cannot escape.