My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon

I focus on her in the here and now, hair fanned out on the blanket like a dark halo and eyes gleaming in the full moon’s light.

“You look . . . take off your dress,” I tell her gruffly, knowing that right now all my sweet words won’t help. Instead, I take charge, getting to my knees and helping her pull the excess of fabric down once she finds the clasp behind her neck and releases her breasts.

She’s a goddess. I grew up on tales of the old gods, of Jupiter and Apollo, of Diana the Huntress and Minerva the Wise. But of all of them, I have the living embodiment of Venus herself before me, her creamy skin bathed in moonlight.

I unbutton my shorts but don’t push them down just yet, so overwhelmed with desire that I have to kiss her, tender at first, holding myself over her body much the way she did to me today. Our kiss deepens with every second until she reaches up, pulling me on top of her warm body.

The feeling of her nipples brushing against my chest is like little sparks between us, igniting the fire that threatens from the heat of our lips. I kiss down her throat, licking and tasting the salty tang from where the sea’s breeze has claimed her skin.

“Mmm . . . Lorenzo,” Abigail whispers, her words disappearing in a gasping moan when I find a nipple and suck it into my mouth. I flick and wrap my tongue around them with teasing licks, one then the other, as my hands roam her skin, my fingertips exploring every inch.

This isn’t before, when we were faking it for Emily against the door even as our bodies took us to the limit or when we knew we’d have to stop or put on an intimate show the way some of the other yoga couples did.

This is real, the true Abigail and Lorenzo choosing to make love under the moonlight.

Her ass dimples under the grip of my squeezing hands as I kiss my way lower, knowing what I really want.

I pause just below her bellybutton, looking up at her face as she gives me a slight nod, knowing what I want. She’s surrendered to me, and that fuels me even more as I lower my lips to her.

She’s smooth, supple, and wet, ready for my probing tongue. She’s tangy, sweet, and deliciously intoxicating as I swipe a long lick between her lips, lapping voraciously at her pussy. Whatever it is that makes up Abigail’s special juices, I can’t get enough of them and am an instant addict, hungry for more. I suck and nibble, tasting and worshipping every inch of her flesh until she’s squirming, lifting her hips, and begging me for release.

“Lo—oh, God, Lorenzo, please.”

I grin, trailing my tongue up to the button of her clit and flicking her with the tip of my tongue. She bucks, jolted into pleasure, and her hands fly to my hair, her inner sexual animal growling to be liberated.

She is magnificent in her wanton abandonment of any rules or expectations, freely giving in to her basest urges and instincts. I do my best to release her, letting her cries guide my pace and her tugs on my hair lead the placement of my tongue. She grinds her clit against me, searching for completion.

The intensity rises and builds until she’s reduced to guttural noises. I grip her thighs, holding her apart and not letting her shrink back from the enormous release that’s building within her.

“F–fuck . . . ahh!” Abi screams, her voice rising over the lap of the waves and the nocturnal cries of the animals to pierce the night.

She is fierce and proud, a woman claiming her release and celebrating her pleasure.

It’s beautiful, more than the finest opera, more arousing than any other sound I’ve ever heard. In an instant, I’ve let go of her thighs to push my shorts down, and I quickly roll a condom onto my raging stiffness.

Even before the last quiver’s left her pulsing pussy, I bury all of my cock inside her tight velvety wetness with a single deep thrust. Abigail cries out anew, her body still thrumming with the throes of her orgasm. The fluttering squeezes are almost too much for me. I’m on the edge from all the flirting and teasing we’ve done, and I almost come right there, but I hold back, looking into her wide, vulnerable eyes.

“Mia rosa,” I whisper, swiveling my hips to feel every inch of her pussy wrapped around me. “How do you want it?”

We have shared much, but this is something different . . . and though I can’t bear to think it, it’s perhaps a one-time memory in the making. I want it to be everything for her, a perfect blissful moment she pulls out of her mind with a smile every time she thinks of me.