My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon

“Mmm,” I moan, licking and sucking as she arches, pressing more into my mouth. I consume her, intoxicated by her.

Abi captures my hand, pressing it to the moist juncture between her thighs, and I grin around a mouthful of nipple.

I unbutton the top of her denim shorts, teasing her by sliding her zipper down so slowly it’s torture for both of us. “You’ll get what you want, mia rosa, but lovemaking is like cooking . . . best when you take your time.”

Abi growls, her fingers digging in the sand as I tease her other nipple, still not touching her warm, wet pussy until she’s writhing in want and need. I slide the fabric to the side, and she’s soaking wet, easily taking my two fingers and bowing up to meet me as I finger-fuck her rapidly.

I pump quickly, almost harshly, as my thumb rubs her clit, pummeling Abi until she cries out, her voice lifting above the crashing waves as she screams her climax.

She falls to the sand, completely relaxed, and I take this moment to slide my own clothes off. Kneeling next to her, I offer her my long, hard cock, moaning as she happily turns onto her side and sucks my head into her mouth.

“That’s it,” I rasp as she bobs her head back and forth. “Get it nice and wet so I can fuck you.”

Abi pulls back, letting my cock head pop out of her mouth, grinning. “Or maybe this time, we go slow and tender, make love all night?” She laps at my shaft, laying soft kisses to the most sensitive part of me.

“Any way you want it,” I vow and am rewarded by her swallowing me again. She teases my slit, swirling her tongue until my hips are moving on their own, thrusting in and out of her mouth.

“Abigail,” I warn. She pulls back, not letting me come, and flips over onto her knees, offering herself to me.

I grab her hair, pulling her back as I thrust forward, filling her in one deep thrust. Our hips slap together, and I retreat, taking my time relishing the velvety grip of her body before slipping back in an inch at a time, watching the way her eyelids flutter as I fill her.

Abigail meets me stroke for stroke, her hands clenching fistfuls of sand and pushing back into me. We’re moaning, crying out in a love language that isn’t Italian, isn’t English, but a private language that says more than either one.

I love you.

I need you.

You’re mine.

I’m yours.

Forever.

My balls tighten and I swell, teetering on the edge of falling into the abyss, but I won’t go without her. “Come,” I beg.

And she does, pulling me with her into bliss. She cries out as I explode into her. Eventually, we fall apart, collapsing onto the blanket and holding each other until the waves pass.

“What do you think of having a baby?” Abi ventures carefully as her fingers trace my tattoos. She has them memorized by now, could do it blindfolded, but she still does it every time we lie down to relax or after we have sex. It’s become one of our things.

Abigail tells me that every couple has things like that, but I prefer to think it’s only us.

“Is this because Violet’s pregnant again?” I joke, but I want to be sure.

“No,” she says, tears gleaming at the corners of her eyes. “It’s because I am. I’m pregnant, Lorenzo!”

“Oh, mio Dio, mia rosa,” I shout. “You knew and didn’t say anything?”

“Surprise!” Abigail replies with an uncertain smile.

“You have made me the happiest man to ever walk the face of the earth. To know that you carry our child is a miracle I never thought I’d be blessed with. I hope he or she has your wild sense of adventure and my hair.” I push my hands through Abigail’s mass of locks and lay a soft kiss to the tip of her nose.

“I hope they have your bravery and my eyes,” she adds.

“I think that sounds perfect.”

But we both know that whatever comes our way, we’ll greet it with a smile and a barely half-formed plan. It’s who we are, still spontaneous and slightly crazy but together, no matter what.