My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon

by Lauren Landish

  I can feel the stretch through my thighs as they clamp down for purchase. I can feel my chest opening and my arms lengthening, but surprisingly, I feel like my body is capable of more. At least with Lorenzo’s support.

  “Let my right hand go,” I tell Lorenzo.

  “What?” he questions even as he does what I’ve asked.

  I move my hand to the blanket beneath my head. “Left too.”

  And then I’m in an upside-down handstand with my legs still wrapped around Lorenzo’s waist. His hands have moved back my hips, keeping me in place. “Cazzo.” Though his fingers are wrapped over my hips, his thumbs stroke at the very edge of where my inner thigh becomes my pussy. I must be obscenely on display for his eyes. I worry whether I’ve soaked through my cute purple shorts and consider getting down so he can’t see the proof of what he does to me.

  “Ahh, excellent!” Amalya cheers with a small clap. “Variation three, if you would like to try it.”

  “Hell, no,” one of the women tells her husband. “I’d bust my head open.”

  Another couple simply laughs boisterously from their position on the blanket in variation one.

  “Harrumph.” Emily pouts, mad that I’m out-yoga-ing her now.

  It’s not a battle, though. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in yoga class, it’s that it really is a journey, a practice. There are sometimes the tiniest, wimpiest looking women in there who are able to do strength poses the most muscled-up guys on the weight floor couldn’t hope to do. Everyone has their own path and this is not your grandma’s yoga, anyway.

  Amalya suddenly appears right side up next to me. From her bent-over perch, she asks, “Would you allow me to assist in a progression?”

  “Uh, sure.” I have no idea what she’s about to do to me, or with me, but I’m open to deepening my flow. Especially with Lorenzo pressed to my body because I can feel his strength and steadiness surging through me.

  “Hold her hips with power. Let her know that you have her,” she tells Lorenzo, and I feel his grip tighten. “Good. Now . . .”

  She pauses, waiting for me, and I fill in for her, “Abi. And Lorenzo.”

  “Abi, keep your legs tight but unlock your feet, allowing Lorenzo to take your weight.” I do as she instructs, but Lorenzo grunts when my heels dig into the muscles of his lower back. “It’s okay,” Amalya coaches patiently. “Abi, move your right leg around to Lorenzo’s front, straightening it to lie up to his shoulder. And then the left as well.”

  I blink and try to visualize what she’s telling me to do. When I realize that it’s a true handstand with my calves on Lorenzo’s shoulders and him holding my hips, I’m able to make the adjustments to get there. I’ve done this with a wall as my support, but Lorenzo feels even sturdier somehow.

  “Yes, yes, yes!” Stefan is excited now too. “Hold her hips, Lorenzo,” he advises.

  “Can you arch your back in this posture?” Amalya asks me from an upside-down vantage again.

  “Uh—” Not sure myself, I try to curve my back. I’m so focused on my spine that I’m surprised when what actually happens is that my core presses to Lorenzo’s abdomen in a whole new way. Instinctively, his forearms come to wrap around my thighs, holding me there as he grinds against me. “Oh!” I call out, shocked . . . in a really good way.

  “So, other than watching the sexcapades show, what should the rest of us be doing?” Emily snips out. Carefully, so as not to mess up my balance, I turn my head to see her standing with her arms crossed and one hip popped out as she taps her bare toes.

  Before I even think about what I’m doing, I stick my tongue at her. Childish? Yep. Do I care? Nope.

  The mood broken, I kick my leg out of Lorenzo’s grip and do a walkover to the ground. I have to slowly roll up to let the blood flow out of my head and back into my body. I’m sure my face is as red as a tomato, but that was so worth it. I’ve never been able to do that with a wall in the yoga studio at home.

  Amalya pats my shoulder and Lorenzo’s at the same time. “Excellent.” To everyone else, she says, “Let’s all return to a seated position.”

  Before we sit, Lorenzo pulls me in close and bends down to whisper in my ear. “That was magnificent. I want to kiss you desperately, sip your beauty from your lips, and taste the heat I see gathering at your pussy. But if I start, I fear I won’t be able to stop, and while I would like nothing better than to feel you shatter for me, I will not share that with these people. I want it greedily for myself so it must be later.”

  Wow. Maybe my blood flow hasn’t quite worked itself out yet or maybe it’s just him, but I get a bit lightheaded at his words. He makes it sound like our having sex is a foregone conclusion, and though I hate to admit it and maybe even fear the consequences, I know he’s right.

  I want him. Past, present, and future be damned. I’ve always been one to chase butterflies, and Lorenzo is like a whole swarm of them, flitting in and around me with buzzing, heated lust. I want to fly with them, even if only for a moment.

  “Please allow one partner to lie face up on the blanket, feet spread slightly apart, and arms in a T. The other partner should carefully make their way to a plank position, hands above their partner’s shoulders and toes on the blanket between their legs.” She and Stefan demonstrate, him basically being a quintessential starfish and Amalya in a push-up position above him. “Feel the connection flowing as you shift forward and back.”

  She puts more weight into her hands and then moves it back to her feet, her whole body moving up and down Stefano’s, though there is a foot of space between them.

  “If you feel called to do so, you may lower to your elbows and continue the flow.” She’s now grinding her pelvis against Stefano, who smiles blissfully. “The important thing is for the lying partner to simply receive the gift of energy. This is a reminder that while some poses are give and take simultaneously, it is necessary to sometimes be only the caregiver and take nothing but the spiritual satisfaction of generosity. As it is also necessary to sometimes take what you need to gain fulfillment without apologies. All are healthy in their balance.”

  The couples look from Amalya and Stefan to each other. We are all painfully aware of what that looks like and is emulating. But I guess what happens at couples’ yoga stays at couples’ yoga? Surely, there’s like a Las Vegas code for this, right?

  “Give me some of that energy, Abigail.” Lorenzo is smiling like the cat that ate the canary, excited for me to rub all over him, and I vow to do the best damn energy giving of my life right here and now.

  Lorenzo assumes the starfish position, and I get the sense that he’s fighting to maintain it. I think he’s not accustomed to being a passive bystander to any action, and the mere act of keeping his hands from me is a difficult task. I like that he’s doing it for me, though.

  I start in the higher push-up position to drive him crazy. His eyes drift from mine, sliding down my body. They linger on my tits which are falling forward to fill the cups of my sports bra, then trace down over my bare abs to the flare of my hips.

  “Cazzo a mi,” he murmurs. I have no idea what that means, but I can read the hunger in his eyes.

  I push forward and then back, keeping the scant inches between us until he whispers, “Please, Abigail.” The begging hitch in his voice has me lowering until we are pressed together, chest to chest, hips to hips.

  I can feel his arousal against my pussy, and I forget my flow, simply grinding against his hardness.

  “Yeah, babe. Gimme more of that . . . flow,” Doug grunts out, and despite my utter lack of desire to see anything that remotely looks like Emily Jones’s sex face, I can’t help but look over. She’s on her elbows, pushing forward and back the way Amalya instructed. But instead of sexy and seductive forward and back, it looks as though she’s fighting her way through push-ups like she’s in a competition to win a car.

  Who can do the most? Winner takes home this brand-new Buick!

  “Like this, Abi. Did you forget how?” I
can’t decide if she’s teasing me about my lack of sex or that I’m stupid. I decide it must be the latter since she thinks I’m on my honeymoon getting sexed up non-stop. “Or are you just worn out from showboating with that backbend?”

  “Come back to me, Abigail. I need you,” Lorenzo groans, and any competition, real or imagined, with Emily floats away when I meet his eyes.

  I push forward into my shoulders, and my clit rubs along his length, drawing a hiss from Lorenzo. A surge of power rushes through me. I’m in control of his pleasure, his pain, his everything right now, and he has to lie there and take it from me as he begs for more. I’m not usually dominant in bed. I prefer a more equal sporting event if I’m honest, but this excites me.

  I glide down his body, enjoying the way the head of his cock bumps over my clit and down my slit. I’m giving him pleasure as I take some of my own. Amalya might’ve said this was a give or take position, but I’m finding it to be quite give and take.

  I find a rhythm and pace that I can maintain, and the flow up and down Lorenzo’s length is driving us both mad. My breath is panting, my brow sweaty, and my eyes are locked on his as we reach higher and higher.

  Around us, the intrusive sound of grunts tells me we’re not the only ones, but I focus solely on Lorenzo now.

  He groans deeply, and then, despite the rules of the pose, his hands slap down on my ass, stilling me fiercely. In his grip, I can’t move an inch, can only feel the pulsing throb of his cock against my clit. I raise my brows and he shakes his head slowly. “Not here. Not our first time.”

  Sweet. Sexy. Man.

  Oh, shit . . . he said first time! Did Emily hear that? That’ll ruin everything. I pale and look over, half expecting to see her evil smile of ‘gotcha’ at discovering our charade, but I find her shuddering on top of Doug, who seems pretty pulled together and clear-eyed.

  Did she? Did he? Oh, my God. Seriously?

  Wait, don’t answer that, universe. I do not want to know.

  As if the universe is actually granting wishes, Amalya calmly advises, “Last but not least, please find your way into any comfortable position that has you and your partner connected. This could be spooning, on your backs holding hands, on top of one another, et cetera. The connection is the important thing.”

  Lorenzo and I lie on our sides facing one another with our hands and legs interwoven between us. Eyes locked on one another, I try to read what lurks in his. Hunger and lust are easy to see. But could there be more? Do I even want more? I certainly don’t have time for it beyond this week. Hell, I don’t even have time for more this week!

  But I let that go and simply stare into his eyes as Amalya leads us through a guided meditation of connection and hope for our future as couples. It’s lovely, though I couldn’t tell you a thing she says because I’m too caught up in what Lorenzo’s eyes might be saying.

  Chapter 12

  Lorenzo

  After that sexy version of yoga, Abigail and I get lunch. I’m hungry for her, not food. But it’s the only thing that allows us to escape from Emily and Doug without agreeing to another double date.

  “I think she actually rubbed one off on Doug,” Abigail whispers conspiratorially as though she didn’t nearly do the same thing to me.

  “Ah, to each their own.” I shrug, unconcerned with anyone else’s proclivities. “I am relieved they had a moment to themselves and left us alone.”

  “Barely.” Abigail shudders as though she’s still picturing Emily and Doug having a bit of exhibitionistic playtime.

  I take her hand in mine across the table and pull her attention back to us. She laughs a tinkly sound of disbelief. “This is so crazy,” she confesses.

  “What is?”

  “You. Me. Us. This whole scheme. I knew it’d all come back to bite me in the ass. I just didn’t know how. I certainly never would’ve imagined this in a million years.”

  “Scheme?”

  She rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “I’m to blame for the whole Violet and Ross fiasco.”

  “Fiasco? You mean their happy marriage and new child? Blame doesn’t seem the correct word.” I get it, my English is good, but sometimes, a usage confuses even me.

  For example, I heard a comedian once joking that if you’re ‘the shit’, that’s a good thing. But if you’re just ‘shit’, that means you’re an awful human being. Nuances are tricky things.

  But blame? That has a negative connotation that doesn’t fit with the smiles I see on my cousin’s face each time I spend the day with her.

  “Well, it ended up great, but it could’ve gone the other way. And then Courtney and Kaede too, though that was their doing. But I’m always the puppet master, and now I feel like someone else has my strings in their hands.” She mimes her arms lifting at the elbow and dangling loosely as though she’s out of control of herself. “It’s humbling to feel this way. I hate it.”

  “Or perhaps there are no strings at all?” I hypothesize. “Even with Violet, you might have pushed her, but she made those choices. And us? I stepped in—my own doing,” I remind her. “And you went along with it. That’s your part in this. Each choice we make, thousands every day—what time to get up, what to wear, what to eat, who to spend time with, what to do—all direct us one way or another. None are wrong, none are right. They simply exist along a path of our life, creating new experiences with each decision.”

  “Very philosophical,” she agrees.

  “Are you regretting the choices you’ve made?” I’m not sure I want this answer, but it seems prudent to ask.

  She shakes her head quickly, but it doesn’t seem to be a knee-jerk reaction. To the contrary, it seems as though she’s thought about this quite a bit. “No. Not regretting things I’ve done or things I want to do. Just realizing my own limitations and respecting other people’s too.”

  That definitely sounds like she’s talking about me. But she sounds resigned to where she thinks we’re going. Truth be told, I have no idea where we’re headed. That’s usually how I live my life. I enjoy the possibilities of not knowing, of making those choices each day and seeing where that leads.

  Except there is one very specific thing I would like to choose.

  Tonight.

  “Another surprise?” Abigail says. I can hear the fresh delight in her voice. “Two in one day. You’ll spoil me.”

  “I would be honored to have that privilege.”

  I asked Esmar for recommendations for tonight’s plan. He’d sagely nodded and said he knew just the place. I hope he’s right.

  I follow his directions to the letter, carefully walking Abigail down the patio outside the resort to the beach. We turn right and begin the short walk to the secret cove Esmar told me about in whispered tones after extracting a promise that I won’t tell the tourists. That he told me feels like a sign of acceptance as one of the crew.

  “It’s so pretty out here tonight,” Abigail whispers into the darkness of the night, though there’s no one around.

  Further down the beach, I duck around a large rock and follow the new curve of the shore as the beach behind us becomes invisible. We are truly alone now, in a private paradise of our own.

  I pull the blanket from the bag I’ve carted along with us and spread it out along the sand. “Sit with me, mia rosa.”

  She daintily lowers herself to the blanket, and I pull things out of the bag like a magician. “What all do you have in there?” she asks.

  “Strawberries and champagne. Cheese and bread. What would you like?” I prepared the platter of food this evening, packaging it up carefully to make the trip. The plastic glasses took less prep and seem cheap, but glass is forbidden on the beach and I didn’t want to risk one breaking. However, with the sweet bubbly in them, they seem perfectly adequate.

  Holding one up, Abigail toasts, “To moonlit romantic picnics in paradise.”

  “Si. And to beauty personified before me. It is a sight I am fortunate to behold.” We click our cups together and I see the shy sm
ile on Abigail’s lips. She’s not bashful in the slightest, but sometimes, her worries float to the surface and make her seem so. “You are beautiful,” I repeat. I do not want her to ever doubt or question her loveliness for even a moment.

  We sip at our champagne, talking of food and flowers, of the past and home, carefully avoiding any discussion of the future. We talk philosophy and point out constellations in the stars that we can’t see at home in the city.

  Lying back, our hands connected between us as we stare into the dark abyss above us, I can’t wait any longer. I can barely believe I’ve waited this long to taste her, touch her, feel her beneath me.

  “Abigail.” A statement, a question, and a plea in three syllables that she has heard her entire life, but she knows this time is different.

  “I’m ready too. Please, Lorenzo. Make love to me.”

  Bold and direct, that’s my Abigail. It’s sexy as fuck to think she could be feeling even a portion of what I am for her.

  I want Abigail.

  For now. For more. Forever.

  Forever?

  I don’t know what makes me think of a future where we could live this charade out in truth, but it teases along the edges of my mind like the promise of a hazy fog, blurring out other possibilities until there is only Abigail.

  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.