To Portofino.
A town perched on the rugged coastline of Italy, glittering waters stretching toward the horizon, yachts sitting in the bay looking like children’s toys from great heights. We breakfasted on the terrace of our own private villa, me wearing only a tiny white string bikini—Jay had presented me with twenty new ones, varying shades of white, varying degrees of tiny—and Jay in an unbuttoned linen shirt and white linen shorts. His tanned, muscled chest was the most impressive sight, even compared to the town that graced many postcards and prints.
The air was different here, not just on the coast of Italy but between us. Nothing thickened it, apart from the unfailing desire, the hunger that we never got to sate no matter how many times he took me, how many ways. There was always the need for more.
But there was nothing else that we needed. No other pressing matters. No work. No demands from the shadows of Jay’s job. No Russian Mob. No discussions about any of those things. There was just us.
I wouldn’t say the magic of New Zealand was replicated, but this trip created a whole new kind of magic.
The waters of Portofino were a thousand shades of blue. Azure, turquoise, cobalt, sapphire. For as long as we’d been here, I hadn’t seen them up close. Not that I was complaining, lounging about in our fabulous apartment, gazing upon them from afar, reading in my underwear, Jay’s hands on my naked body while picking at fresh fruit and pastries barely clothed. No, I was not complaining in the slightest.
But Jay had proposed an outing this morning over espressos. Jay sitting on the balcony with the town of Portofino and the Italian coast behind him was not a sight that you said no to. Jay sitting in front of a plain white fucking wall was not a sight you could say no to.
I’d put on a white linen sundress with capped sleeves, buttons down the front and a tie at the waist. It hit me mid-calf, the laces of my canvas wedges snaking up my calves. I’d pinned my hair back in a claw clip, intending on putting on makeup. But then Jay had appeared behind me in the mirror, the skirt of my dress lifted to show the barely there white panties I was wearing, and well, we got busy.
I wasn’t wearing any makeup on our outing, just large sunglasses and a glow from two orgasms. Jay’s hand was threaded in mine as we walked down the dock. Somehow undeterred by the heat of the Italian summer, he was wearing all black. The sleeves of his linen shirt pressed up to his elbows, and his shorts showed off his muscular, lithe legs. I’d never thought legs were an attractive part of a man. But Jay’s ... fuck. Especially when I knew those legs could hold my weight while holding me in the shower with his cock inside of me.
He was utter sin. And he was mine. People looked at us as we walked through the cobbled streets. I smiled at them, even the women shameless checking out my man. Because he didn’t glance at anyone. No one existed but me.
Jay stopped to buy me a gelato because he knew I was borderline addicted to it here, and he loved to watch me eat it. He also liked to let it melt on my skin and lick it off me. I quite liked that too.
I didn’t ask where we were going as I licked my gelato and clung to my husband. Why would I need to know?
Jay was not confused by the winding streets. He walked with purpose, as if he owned every single cobblestone we walked on. Soon we weren’t walking on cobblestones, we were strolling down the wooden wharf that jutted out onto the ocean. The wharf wasn’t busy at this time of day. Tourists were eating lunch, locals were sleeping or working. Only a few people milled about, some cleaning the boats—each more impressive than the last—some walking unhurriedly along the wharf just like us.
Then all of a sudden, we weren’t walking. We stopped, almost at the end, where there were fewer boats because these were much, much larger.
“What are we doing?” I asked, taking in the vessels surrounding us.
In front of us was a large yacht. A very large yacht. It was black, sleek and seemed to dwarf every other boat anchored in the wharf. There were larger ones—the money in this single wharf was among the billions, I guessed. But something about this boat seemed larger, more imposing. It was a boat version of Jay.
“This is your wedding gift,” Jay replied.
I turned to look at my husband, to gape at him. “My wedding gift?” I repeated.
Jay nodded.
“You got me a wedding gift,” I reminded him. “A gorgeous pair of earrings that I could be sure were at the bottom of the ocean with the Titanic. This is not a wedding gift. This is a mini fucking cruise ship.”