My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon

That has her hopping up to follow me.Chapter 6AbiHell no, I’m not going to miss a Lorenzo show. I’m not stupid, just a bit crazy.

I’m going to memorize every word from his mouth, every flex of his muscles, every sound the water makes as it hits his body, and replay them later . . . when I’m alone with my buzzy little friend.

He struts through my bedroom—our bedroom?—and into the bathroom, looking around appraisingly. “Nice,” he says simply about the marble, walk-in shower, double vanities, and wall-sized mirror. It’s way more than ‘nice’.

I sit in a chair just outside the bathroom, expecting him to close the door for some privacy. But I forgot how ‘no big deal’ Europeans are about nudity. Or maybe it’s just Lorenzo?

He pulls his shirt off his shoulders, dropping it to the floor, and my tongue lolls out at the expanse of skin. The tattoos that line his neck and trail down his arms begin here, on the sharp ridges of his spine and smooth muscles of his back.

I watch as he reaches into the shower, turning the water on.

“What do you want to know?” Lorenzo asks, drawing my attention directly to him.

As if he timed it for my eyes to catch it, his linen slacks fall to the floor, and he kicks them off along with his flip flops. The puddle of his clothes means I can see his entire bare backside, from his shoulders to his heels and everywhere in between.

God, his ass is biteworthy! Butt dimples!

I must make some noise, a strangled sound of embarrassingly horny lust, probably, because he says again, “Abigail? What do you want to know?”

I want to know what your cock looks like.

I want to know if you speak English or Italian when you come.

I want to know why you’re doing this.

None of those are what I ask. As he steps into the shower and out of sight, I ask, “How did you get into cooking?”

From behind the glass, he speaks, “My Aunt Sofia taught me when I was a boy. I think it was mostly a way to keep me busy and out of trouble. I was a bit of a hellion even then, and she thought keeping me by her side would be good for me. She was right.”

He’s quiet for a moment, and I think he’s done, but then he adds, “Until I wanted more. I left Positano—you should remember that. Say it.”

Dutifully, I repeat, “Positano. Where’s that?”

“West coast of Italy. That’s where I’m from.” I nod, though he can’t see me, storing the information. “I’d been cooking everything for my family for years by the time I was eighteen—made from scratch noodles, sauces and ragu that took all day to simmer, and growing fresh vegetables in our garden. After a while, it was . . . routine. I knew there was more out there. More flavors, more spices, more textures . . . just more. So I left. I traveled Europe, spent some time in Spain, but the flavor profiles were similar and I wanted something truly different. I made my way through Germany, then Japan, then India. I never stayed anywhere more than a few months, getting a taste of the culture and style. I even came to the States for a short while, exploring California fusion and New York’s steakhouses. But after a long while, I was homesick. I went back to Italy, to the beginning, to my roots. It was there that I got the offer for Avanti. I’ve been making Italian food for the last couple of years, honoring my Aunt Sofia’s lessons every day.”

“Wow,” I breathe, not able to imagine uprooting and moving every few months. “That sounds . . . awful.” I slap my hands over my mouth. “I mean, awesome.”

A deep chuckle echoes in the shower. “A nomadic life is not for everyone. But for others, it’s the only way.”

I lean forward, putting my elbows on my knees, and consider his words. Movement in the corner of my eye catches my attention. I look closer and realize that from here, I can see the reflection of the shower in the mirror. If the fog were wiped off the glass enclosure, I could see Lorenzo in all his naked glory.

Oh, it’s glorious. I’m sure of that just from seeing the back side.

Rapt, I watch as a haze of white suds covers the hazy blob of Lorenzo. Though it’s blurry, I can tell what’s happening as his hands massage the bubbles across his chest . . . down his abs . . . to where he takes himself in hand and gives himself a few good strokes.

Oh, God! Is he jacking himself off?

I’m mortified until his hands continue their trek, washing his thighs. It’s then that I realize this heat is not mortification. It’s disappointment. I want to watch him boldly fuck his hand right in front of me and watch him find his release while his eyes are locked on mine.