My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon

“Beautiful.”Soaking in Abigail’s tub is a necessity tonight. As is the very thorough washing I give every inch of her sugary skin. With her sitting between my splayed legs, I give extra-special attention to soaping her breasts.

“I don’t think I got any cake there,” she teases on a sigh.

I hum in agreement but don’t stop my slippery hands. “Just making sure,” I tell her. I massage the full globes, plucking her nipples and then circling them with maddening strokes that make them harden and poke through the bubbles.

“I’ve got some other places you should check then.”

I do. I check every bit of her, glancing along her fingers and arms, down her chest and belly, and to her core. Beneath the water, I slide my fingers along her slit, finding it slippery. “Is this frosting?” I joke, my voice rough with hunger.

“Wanna taste it to see?” An invitation I intend to accept, but not yet. She’s too soft and warm, melting into me with her head laid back on my shoulder and her eyes fluttering closed from the barest touch along her lips.

I circle her clit with the pad of my finger, slowly stroking her higher and higher. Every few seconds, I tap the little nub firmly and she jolts under the differences in the soft and rough touches.

“Mia rosa, my love, my wife . . . come for me.” I speed up my ministrations to her clit, feeling her slickness even through the water, and my cock aches, wanting to feel it.

“Yes,” she moans, going tight and then shuddering against me. I keep brushing her sensitive pussy, drawing aftershocks from her until she jerks away.

“Mmm, my turn,” she tells me with an evil glint in her eye.

I have no idea what she intends, but I’m with her for whatever it is.

She moves around, splashing water on the floor, to sit astride me. Facing each other now, she peppers my face with butterfly kisses so gentle, they make me groan in need for more. I grip her hips firmly and lift her to line up, and then she impales herself on me.

“Cazzo,” I hiss. The water has washed away some of her juices, but after coming, she is still wet enough for me to enter her. I feel every millimeter of her pussy clench against my hard cock, gripping me tightly.

“Fuck,” she repeats in English. She knows a handful of words in Italian now, but especially when we make love, her English curse words are what fall from her lips.

Placing her hands on my shoulders for leverage, she lifts and lowers herself. I hold her hips, helping her. I try to guide her to go slow, enjoying the drag of her lips along my length, but Abigail is a woman on a mission. She bucks hard and fast, making waves in the bath water that splash over the side. But she doesn’t care. I don’t either. That’s what towels are made for.

So I let her ride me, taking me where she wants to go, enjoying every second of her wild passion.

“I’m coming,” I tell her, and the smile on her face is one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen, second only to the smile that steals across her lips when she comes.

I feel the pulsing jets of cum erupt from my cock, filling her, and together, we sag back into the water. Spent, I’m thinking I could lie here for another hour if the water would stay warm that long. Simply do nothing but recover.

“We should take a shower next,” Abigail suggests.

One thing’s for sure, a life with Abigail will never be boring. She will always keep me guessing, and I love her for it. Wherever she is, that’s my home.EpilogueAbigailOne year laterThere’s arriving in Aruba, and there’s arriving in Aruba in style. For once, I accept the offer of using my family’s wealth, and as the seaplane curves around the island on final approach, I look down on the resort. I can see all the places we visited on our first trip.

“There’s the cove!” I point out, seeing the little postage stamp of a private beach. “Ooh, I want to go back there!”

“So do I,” Lorenzo purrs in my ear, his arms around me in our luxury seats. “In fact, I think we can do everything we did last time at the cove.”

“Plus some,” I promise him, tracing shapes on his hand. “In fact, I was thinking we could recreate several of the things we did all over the island. Yoga, cruise, and even the massages.”

“If you don’t stop, I’m going to have you right here on this plane,” Lorenzo promises me, “and I was going to save that for the private plane home.”

“Mmm . . . good idea,” I agree. Actually, I start looking around, considering whether we have time before landing to mark that off our week’s plans. But the engine’s whine changes pitch, and I realize we’re already losing altitude and getting closer to the ground.