The Missus – Mister & Missus Read Online E.L. James

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Contemporary, Erotic Tags Authors:

Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 142043 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 710(@200wpm)___ 568(@250wpm)___ 473(@300wpm)

The follow-up to the #1 New York Times bestseller, The Mister, a passionate and thrilling love story from E L James, author of the phenomenal bestselling Fifty Shades Trilogies.

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.

What happens once the glass slipper fits…?

Maxim Trevelyan, reluctant Earl of Trevethick, has pursued the woman he loves to the wilds of Albania. Having fought for and won her, he now has to wed her, at the sharp end of a shotgun.

But can a reformed rake like Maxim ever make a good husband — or will his own notorious reputation and the scandalous secrets of his aristocratic family destroy his newfound happiness?

Alessia Demachi has defied and outwitted kidnappers and traffickers, and won the heart of the man she loves, but can she make this marriage work? Confronted by Maxim's lurid past, his forbidding family, and the looks and whispers of London's elite, will she ever be seen as Maxim's countess — or will she always be his former cleaner?

From the majestic mountains of Albania, through the rural idyll of the English countryside, to the shady glamour of contemporary London, The Missus is a spellbinding journey of love, longing, acceptance, and redemption.

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

Chapter One

My footsteps echo an urgent beat on the hard reflective floor, and I squint beneath the unremitting light of the fluorescents.

“This way.” The A&E consultant stops, and she ushers me into a cool, stark room that is the hospital mortuary.

On a table, beneath a sheet is the fractured, lifeless body of my brother.

My shock is seismic, pressing on my chest and squeezing the last of my breath from my lungs. Nothing could have prepared me for this.

Kit, my big brother.

My touchstone.

Kit, the twelfth Earl of Trevethick.


“Yes. This is him.” The words are like cotton in my mouth.

“Thank you, Lord Trevethick,” the doctor murmurs.

Shit. That’s me now!

I look down at Kit.

Except it’s not him. I’m on the table—lying bruised and broken… cold… dead.

Me? How?

From my prostrate position, I watch Kit lean over and kiss my forehead. “Goodbye, you fucker,” he rasps, the strain of unshed tears heavy in his throat. “You’ve got this. This is what you were born to do.” He smiles his crooked, sincere smile that’s reserved for those rare moments when he’s fucked up.

Kit! No! You’ve got this wrong.


“You’ve got this, Spare,” he says. “You’re lucky number thirteen.” His smile slips, and he disappears. And I’m looking down at him once more, leaning over him while he sleeps. Except his battered body belies that—he’s not asleep—he’s… dead.

No! Kit! No! My words stay stuck in a throat that’s crowded with too much sorrow.

No! No!

I wake, my heart pounding.

Where am I?

It takes a nanosecond to orient myself as my eyes adjust to the half-light. Alessia is curled around me, her head on my chest, her hand splayed on my stomach. As I take a deep, cleansing breath, my panic recedes like the gentle wash of a tideless sea.

I’m in Kukës in Northern Albania, at her parents’ place, and across the lake, dawn is a whisper in the sky.

Alessia’s here. With me. She’s safe, and she’s fast asleep. Carefully, I tighten my arm around her shoulders and kiss her hair, breathing in her scent. The faint balm of lavender, roses, and my sweet, sweet girl soothes and stirs my senses.

My body rouses; desire, hot and heavy, flowing south.

I want her. Again.

This is new—this need, but it’s become ingrained, a part of who I am, and it’s heightened when I’m with her. She’s so enticing and lovely that I crave her like an addict. But I resist waking her—she’s been through nine circles of hell.



I bring my body under control and close my eyes as my anger and regret resurface. I let her slip through my fingers. I let that violent arsehole, her “betrothed,” steal her away. What she’s endured, I don’t want to know, but her cuts and bruises tell their own awful tale.

I’m never going to let that happen again.

Thank God she’s safe.

Let her sleep.

Gently, I toy with a strand of her hair, marveling as ever at its softness. Drawing it to my mouth, I brush it against my lips in a tender kiss.

My love. My beautiful, brave girl.

She’s overcome so much in such a short time: trafficking, homelessness, finding paid employment… and falling in love with me.

My sweet daily.

Soon to be my bride.

Closing my eyes once more, I snuggle closer, seeking her warmth, and doze.

I wake suddenly, prompted by—something, an external source.

What was that?

It’s later—the light in the room is brighter.

“Alessia! ”

Her mother is calling her.

Shit! We’ve overslept!

“Alessia! Wake up. Your mother’s calling.” I kiss her forehead, and she grumbles as I extract myself from her arms and sit up. “Alessia! Come on! If your dad finds us, he’ll shoot us both.”

The memory of her father, and his pump-action shotgun from last night, rises unwelcome in my mind.

You’re going to marry my daughter.

Her mother calls again, and Alessia opens her eyes, blinking the sleep away. She looks up at me, all tousled and sleepy and arousing, and beams her brightest smile. For a moment, I forget the grim threat of her father with his trigger finger on that shotgun.

“Good morning, beautiful.” I stroke her cheek, avoiding the scrape that’s still there. Closing her eyes, she leans into my touch. “Your mother is calling you.”

Her eyes spring open, and her smile disappears, replaced with an expression of wide-eyed alarm. She sits upright, wearing nothing but her little gold cross. “O Zot! O Zot!”

“Yeah. O Zot!”

“My nightdress!”

There’s a muffled but urgent knock on the door. “Alessia!” Mrs. Demachi hisses.

“Shit! Hide! I’ll get this.” My heart is beating a frantic tattoo.

Alessia bounces out of bed, all naked limbs and loveliness, while I jump up and slide on my jeans. Honestly, I want to laugh—it’s like we’re in some ridiculous British farce. It’s insane. We’re both consenting adults, and we’re soon to be married. With a quick glance at Alessia, who is wrestling into her gothic nightdress, I pad over to the door, open it a crack, and feign sleepiness. Her mother is on the other side. “Mrs. Demachi, good morning.”