My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon

Oh, shit. There’s a fresh gleam in his eye instantly, and his hand goes to his cock, massaging it through the denim. “You’re asking for it,” he warns.

But I don’t need a warning. I need whatever devious thought is running through his mind right now because it’s written all over the hard lines of his face as he grits his teeth, making the muscles in his jaw flex.

My hips buck, looking for something in the empty air above me.

“Don’t move. You’ll hurt yourself.”

The order is clear. And I’m not a girl who takes orders. I’m a girl who gives them. But my hips still, curious at what he’s going to do.

He yanks his shirt over his head, toes off his boots, and slowly, so damn slowly, undoes his jeans. He pushes them and his underwear down in the front, freeing himself. I must make some sound of hunger because his hand goes to the base, squeezing himself tightly. “Cazzo,” he groans.

I’m pretty sure that means ‘fuck’, but even if I wasn’t sure, his tone would tell me. “You said don’t move. You didn’t say I couldn’t talk, Lorenzo. Are you going to climb up here and fuck me or stand there and jerk off onto me?”

Honestly, both options sound pretty stellar right now.

He pushes his jeans and underwear the rest of the way down, leaving a puddle of clothes on the floor. Stroking himself, he tells me, “Neither.”

But he kneels on the bed between my legs, lining up with my entrance. He gives a few shallow thrusts, not breeching me but coating his crown with my juices. My hips buck as I try to impale myself on him to ease this aching need that only he can fix.

His hands find my hips. Pushing me into the softness of the bed, he forces me still beneath him. I gasp in disappointment at losing the contact when I was so close to having him fill me again.

“Abigail, look at me.”

I have to blink to focus on him, but once I do, I can see that he’s on the edge too, holding on by a fraying thread.

“I’m not going to fuck you. Not this time.” He shakes his head, and I swallow a cry. “I’m going to make love to you, and you’re going to let me worship you the way you deserve. You’re going to be still and let me love you. This is a time for you to take, to feel, to receive.”

He doesn’t give me a chance to agree or disagree. He slides inside me in one smooth thrust forward, stealing my breath.

Complete. That’s what I feel with him inside me, his eyes locked on mine and his heart written all over his face. It’s been in his every action. I was just too fearful to trust. Until now.

Cathartic tears pour out of my eyes as he strokes into me, keeping a steady and even pace as he whispers love, tells me all the things he sees in me that are beautiful, and appreciates my passion, needing nothing less or nothing more than exactly who and what I am.

I didn’t know I wanted this. I certainly didn’t know I needed this.

But this is what my romance looks like. A little reckless, a lot spontaneous, and a whole lot of carpe the shit outta that diem. With Lorenzo.

I wrap my legs around his and grip his shoulder with my one hand, staying still but wanting to be there with him, giving him back as much as he’s giving me.

“I love you, Lorenzo,” I shout.

I know, I know. Women aren’t supposed to say it first. It’s like the kiss of death that instantly scares guys off. But it’s the truth, and I don’t play by others’ rules. I feel it, so I’ll own that, and he deserves to know.

Instantly, he grunts and thrusts deep into me, holding still for a split second with his neck muscles strained and his eyes locked on mine. I feel him throbbing, the pulse of his hot cum filling me as he vows, “I love you too, mia rosa.”“I think there’s a spatula in that drawer,” I tell Lorenzo the next morning while he tries to make us breakfast with the woeful lack of supplies in my apartment.

He opens the drawer only to find more take-out menus.

He glares at me, holding up a flyer from my favorite pizza place. I don’t move from my perch on a stool at the counter and only offer a shrug, knowing I’m blushing and hoping he thinks it’s cute that I can barely boil water.

“I need to eat. I don’t need to cook,” I tease.

He digs around a bit more and comes out victorious with a spatula after all. He then promptly gathers up all of my menus and dumps them in the trash.