My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon

I squeeze my thighs together, honestly considering whether there’s a way for me to touch myself and get off quickly without Lorenzo being the wiser. It wouldn’t take but a few strokes across my clit, I’m certain of that. But even as my desperate pussy argues with my logical mind and my hands wander up my thighs, the water shuts off and I miss any opportunity I might’ve had.

Lorenzo steps into the bedroom, a white towel tucked around his waist. “Abigail? You okay?” he asks, his brows knit together in concern.

I must look extra crazy if he’s asking so gently. I can feel the flush on my cheeks, the wetness between my thighs under this robe, and the racing of my heart. “Yep, my turn.”

I get up and swish past him into the bathroom. I consider being just as bold as he was and leaving the door open as I shower, but I’m not that brave. So I push it closed with a foot, dropping my robe, and climbing into the shower. A cold shower.

It doesn’t matter, though. I’m so hot, the steam is coming from me instead of the water, and a naughty thought steals through my mind. Lorenzo is on the other side of the door now, not able to see me the way I could him. If I’m quiet . . .

I bite my lip, leaning back against the cool tile of the shower wall and letting my fingers dance down my belly. No time for foreplay, not even with myself this time. This has to be fast. I swipe through the moisture gathered at my center and massage it over my clit in a small circle.

“Abigail?” Lorenzo’s voice calls out from the other side of the door.

“Yes?” I say, hoping my voice sounds natural.

“What about our story? How we met? The proposal and wedding?” he says. Is it my imagination or does he sound strange? His voice is tighter than usual.

“Oh!” I say, half in answer to him and half because I tapped on my sensitive bud. I bite my bottom lip for strength and try to answer as my fingers keep moving. “Let’s keep it as close to the truth as possible. We met at Courtney’s wedding and hit it off.”

Until he ran out.

I let the negative thought float away as pleasure begins to rise higher.

“Yeah, and then we got married on the beach. Just the two of us, because that’s kind of what happened today.”

His voice is definitely sounding strangled. I imagine him on the other side of the door, jacking off as I touch myself, and even the mere idea turns me on even more.

“But it would’ve had to be sooner, not today. A fast . . . really fast . . . build-up,” I gasp out.

“To our wedding. You wearing white and saying my name.”

I don’t think we’re talking about an imaginary wedding anymore.

“And now we’re on our honeymoon, blissfully away from everything and everyone at home. Just the two of us.”

I grunt and bury my sealed lips against my shoulder to keep quiet as a wave of ecstasy washes through me. I keep tapping at my clit, prolonging the orgasm until I’m jerking with release and overstimulated.

“That sounds great. Love it, mia rosa,” Lorenzo says quietly. He sounds relieved too, and I wonder again.

I quickly wash off and step out of the shower to dry off. Wrapping up in a fresh towel, I walk into the bedroom to find Lorenzo.

Only, it’s empty.

“Lorenzo?” I call out.

“In here. I got dressed while you were showering. Go ahead and get ready. They’ll be here soon.” His voice is in the living room now, leaving me alone with my thoughts and spent body.

He’s right, though. I need to hurry and get ready.

I pull on a white sundress Archie picked out as a vacation option. Beneath the thin gauze, I pull on a nude thong because it’s the only thing that won’t give me panty lines. The strapless dress also doesn’t allow for a bra. Both of those reasons are why I’d called the dress ridiculous, but Archie was right, and I’m thankful to have it with me and not only work clothes. A touch of bronzer and some mascara make me glow like I’ve been kissed by the sun, and after pulling a brush through my mane of thick hair, I pull it up into a loose bun, leaving my neck exposed. It’s too warm to do much more.

Lorenzo looks up as I walk into the living room.

“Oh mio Dio,” he whispers. “Bellissima, mia rosa.”

I don’t speak Italian, but I know he just called me beautiful. I return the compliment. “You look nice too.”

Nice?

He looks good enough to eat. He’s got on beige slacks and dress shoes, with a white button-down shirt. It could be stuffy and stodgy, an outfit worthy of a boardroom, but not the way Lorenzo wears it. The collar of the shirt is unbuttoned, plus probably one more button than most American men would wear. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, showcasing the tattoos on his forearms and his watch. Only one side of the shirt front is tucked in to highlight the supple leather of his belt and the slim cut of his trousers. It’s the epitome of casual, effortless European hot.