“Where are you taking me?” Abigail asks as I lead her down the hallway. She was a little suspicious when I asked her to put on a blindfold in the elevator, accusing me of having a few Fifty Shades fantasies, but she’s been a good sport so far. Especially considering the blindfold is less silken luxury and more linen napkin from the suite.
I’m working with what I’ve got here.
“Don’t worry, just a few more seconds,” I assure her, guiding her around the final curve.
There are two women there to meet us, but I raise a finger to my lips to tell them to be quiet and they smile as they nod. One of them holds open the door and silently mimes what they want me and Abigail to do.
They close the door behind them to give us a few moments of privacy, and I stand behind Abigail with my hands on her shoulders. I can feel the tension there, from the week’s stress I’m sure, but is there something else too? Maybe she’s sad to see this fake honeymoon end the way I am?
“Abigail, you give so much to so many, making nature’s beauty into something even more magical. So I want to give something to you.” A shiver works its way down her spine at my heated words delivered directly into the delicate shell of her ear. “You deserve the sun and moon and stars. And more. Unfortunately, though I wish I could, I could not capture them for you, so instead, I offer you something less, but hopefully, it will be enough.”
I untie the knot of the napkin, letting it fall away from her eyes. I watch as she blinks before looking around. The light is dim in the room, though there is one full wall of tinted glass. In the middle of the small space sit two white sheet-covered tables.
“You got us massages?” she asks on a gasp.
“I did. You worked so hard yesterday. We both did. We need this.”
We need many things, but this will have to be enough for now. I’m too uncertain to begin the dangerous conversation burning in my throat. Unsure of myself and even more of Abigail.
But I won’t let that mar this one last pristine, beautiful day in paradise.
“The massage therapists will be in momentarily. They said to strip and lie under the sheet.”
Abigail nods but looks carefully at the window. It’s wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling gray glass. “The beach looks awesome out there, but I’m not sure naked beach time massages are on my bucket list,” she says shyly.
I laugh, feeling the same way. I’m a risk taker, but that might be a bit much. “It’s one-way glass. We get all the beauty of the sand, sea, and sky, but no one can see in. I confirmed it with Esmar, and if anyone would know, it’s him.”
Abigail takes Esmar’s word, though she doesn’t even know him, and starts to undress.
I’m supposed to be disrobing as well, but all I can do is watch her, enjoying every inch of flesh as she bares it to my eyes. Her tits pearl up under my scrutiny and goosebumps break out along her skin.
“What?” she whispers.
“You, mia rosa. You’re beautiful. A vision I want to study, memorize.”
Her soft smile seems sad, but she recovers quickly. I wonder if she’s feeling the loss of Aruba’s magic too. “Your turn.”
I have to cup my thickness, which is growing under her hungry gaze. Laughing lightly, I spin her, pushing her toward one of the beds. “I can’t get a massage with an erection, and it’s never going down if you keep looking at me like that. Lie down and cover up.”
She goes slowly, and I reach out to smack her ass, enjoying the way the flesh jiggles. I groan, getting no relief, and she giggles. But she does lie face down on the table under the sheet.
I close my eyes, thinking of my family’s recipe for lasagna, repeating the layers until I get to a thirty-layer dish. That’s deep dish, I think with a chuckle, noting that ricotta is a definite turn-off.
I climb under my own sheet just in time as a knock sounds out on the door. “Come in,” I call out.
The massage therapists take their place beside each bed and slowly start to rub oil all over our bodies. I should be relaxing into the firm touch, my muscles turning to jelly, but all I can do is watch Abigail turn to liquid from her own massage.
Her skin gleams, supple and slick, and I want it to be my hands slipping along her curves, drawing the soft moans and groans from her throat.
Tucking the sheet around her hip, the massage therapist bares one cheek of Abigail’s firm ass and my hips shift of their own volition, looking for some friction on my rock-hard cock. The table isn’t nearly enough.
“Turn over,” I hear above me.
“Uhm, that’s not a good idea,” I say sheepishly. All three women look to me, two with poker straight faces and one, my Abigail, with a big grin.
“What’s wrong, Lorenzo? You got a half-chub from having her hands all over you?” Abigail teases. She thinks she’s playing a game, throwing me under the bus to embarrass me. Little minx having her fun, but she doesn’t know who she’s tormenting.
“No. I’m painfully hard . . . for you, mia rosa. You look so sexy and soft, I want to lick that oil from your skin, feast on your flesh, and drink you down.”
“Oh.” Her voice hitches, unexpectedly high.
Not exaggerating in the slightest, I boldly turn over beneath the sheet. My cock bobs against my belly from the movement and then I pitch an obscene tent in the white sheet.
“Oh!” Abigail repeats, this time sounding more aroused herself. A circle of wetness appears on the sheet where it absorbs my precum.
The massage therapists, probably used to seeing and hearing much worse, maintain absolute and utter professionalism, simply moving to do their jobs on the front sides of our bodies, massaging our arms, legs, and across our chests. The shadows of Abigail’s nipples are visible beneath the thin sheet, tantalizingly hard, and I wonder if she’s getting wet too, if her lush lips are coated with slickness, her own juices mixing with the oil on her thighs.
At the prescribed time, the massage therapists end on a synchronized note. “Thank you for visiting the spa during your stay. There is complimentary lemon water on the table for your refreshment, and you may wear the robes on the hooks back to your suite when you are ready. This beach view room is yours for one hour of additional relaxation.”
She points to the clock on the wall above the door as they exit, leaving Abigail and me alone, nude, slick, and aroused.
Abigail sits up, holding the sheet to her chest as if I couldn’t pluck countless images of her bare tits from my mind. As if I can’t pull that sheet right out of her hands. As if she doesn’t want me to do just that.
“Now what?” she asks quietly, biting her lip.
Isn’t that the big question? Unfortunately, I don’t know the answer.
Yes, you do! my heart thumps out, but my brain overrides it with fear and indecision.
“You want more?” I get up, leaving the sheet on the table to cross the scant feet between us naked as the day I was born. Abigail’s eyes try to lock on mine, I can see her trying, but they dip down to my cock almost instantly as she loses the battle. I give myself a few strokes, looking for some relief for this hunger I feel for her.
Her eyes twinkle, and she flips over to lie back down on her stomach, adjusting herself until she turns her head and looks me in the eye. “Show me what you’ve got. I’m ready.”
I flash a cocky smile her way. “You think so?” Challenge accepted, I pick up a bottle of massage oil and pour a healthy dose into my hand.
“We’ll see,” she teases back lightly.
Warming it in my palms, I start with broad strokes on Abi’s back, causing her to moan.
“Mmm . . . where’d you learn this?” she asks.
I work down her spine slowly, stopping just short of the puddle of sheet at her lower back, and then move back up her sides again, my fingertips brushing the sides of her squished breasts. “One of the chef jobs I took was on a cruise ship,” I tell her, remembering the six-month stint at sea. “I picked up quite a few skills on the Rotterdam.”
“Like what?�
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I start on her shoulders, keeping both my conversation and touch light. “For one, I can strip and remake a bed in under two minutes.”
“Is that one thing, like stripping and remaking the bed, or two separate things like stripping, and also making beds? Very different things, if you know what I mean? Are you holding out on me? You got some Magic Mike moves I haven’t seen?”
“You’ve seen my dance moves,” I remind her, remembering how we’d run off the sunset cruise ship’s dance floor to find the nearest room with a lock and gone after each other hard and fast. I also remember what I felt, what I said.
Heat builds inside me, my skin suddenly too small for everything I’m feeling. Lust, need, care, doubt, and questions all swirl, but Abigail draws me back to here and now.
“That I did,” she agrees on a moan as I push into a knot between her shoulder blades. She’s carrying a lot, and while I can’t get all the tension out without going to painful extremes, I do soothe her body.
She jumps lightly when I start on her toes, her breath catching when I start massaging her foot with some reflexology strokes that have nothing to do with relaxation at all. From there, I work up her gorgeous calves to the backs of her thighs, again stopping just below the edge of the sheet before switching legs.
“I know what you’re doing, Lorenzo,” she whispers huskily. “And it’s working.”
“Good,” I reply, leaning in and kissing the tip of one toe. She moans, her thighs parting and making a dark cave under the sheet for me to imagine. I’m pulsing hard, my cock oozing precum and wanting me to hurry up.
I don’t. I do everything in my power to control my urges, to focus all of my attention on Abigail and what she needs. Finally, I finish both legs, and I’m faced with the toughest decision of all.
If she turns over and I see those soft, pillowy breasts, I’m not going to be able to resist devouring them. But to be able to knead that ass . . .
I reach for the sheet and slide it off to leave her fully bared, Abi humming happily when I do so. I reach out, starting with my thumbs at the dimples on either side of her spine, and work my way down, promising myself that I’m going to actually work her muscles.
That lasts until the second tight squeeze I give her ass muscles because Abigail shudders and spreads her legs invitingly.
Fuck.
No, Lorenzo . . . control. I work my hands lower, smirking when my oily hand brushes over her pussy lips and her hips jerk off the table and into my touch. “Fuck, Lorenzo . . . yes,” she hisses even as I continue to massage her ass while brushing my thumbs over her lips. She’s wet even without my oil, and soon, her pussy’s open, gleaming and begging for more.
Abigail moans deeply, lifting her ass to meet my strokes, and I prop her up with a rolled towel before sliding two fingers deep inside her.
“Mmm . . . more, please,” Abi begs as I curl my fingers inside her, stroking her inner walls and finding every little spot that gives her pleasure. As my thumb brushes over her clit, I explore her ass with my other hand and she pushes against my fingers encouragingly. “Yes.”
I’m tempted to take her sweet ass, but instead, I just massage her while pumping my fingers in and out of her tight, perfect pussy. “That’s it, mia rosa,” I whisper to her as I add a third finger. “Take it. Come on my hand, and then I’m going to fuck you as deep as you can take it. Give my fingers a taste.”
Am I speaking English or Italian? I don’t even know. My brain is short circuiting, but she must understand because she grips the edge of the table, pushing back into my plunging digits. She arches her back, her body trembling on the edge, her breath coming in deep gasps. “Lorenzo . . . fuck me, please. Fuck, I need you.”
“Come for me,” I demand, thrusting my three fingers deep as my thumb finds her clit. She explodes, clenching around my fingers and crying out softly. Her body’s as tense as a drawn bow, the wave pulling her tighter and tighter until she totally releases, her body sagging to the table in a boneless heap as she pants jaggedly.
Even as her legs and arms relax, I can feel her pussy squeezing my fingers and hear the whimper in her voice when I pull out. “Lorenzo.”
“Me too,” I promise her, giving myself a firm squeeze to stave off my pending orgasm as I climb up on the table on top of her. Her ass is oily and slick, nestling my cock and slipping around it to wrap it in her soft warmth.
I know what she said, but I can feel not only her breath catch but the tension in her shoulders when the head of my now oily cock rubs over her ass, and she isn’t ready for that. Instead, I slide back and forth, feeling my balls brush against her pussy.
“Tell me what you want?” I whisper in her ear. “I want to hear you say it.”
“I . . .” Abigail says, swallowing as she takes a moment to look over her shoulder. “I want to feel you fill me. I want you to come inside me. I want to remember this forever.”
This woman . . .
I nearly come right here at her words, but then my breath is stolen from my lungs with her brutal honesty. Maybe that’s what we both need—something to remember.
So I worship her, leaning in to sample her mouth as I move my cock down and then up and into her warm wetness. Both of us moan into the other’s mouth as her body gives way to my invasion.
I give her everything, gripping the table with my toes and hands so I can fuck her, not just with my hard cock but with my whole body as I rub and slide over hers.
We move together until she pushes back, and I understand, getting to my knees as I pull her up by her waist, staying buried balls deep inside her. She wants it hard and fast, and within seconds, my hips are slapping against her in wet, oily smacks that fuel our passion.
When Abigail throws her head back, I wrap my fingers into her hair, pulling her tight and pounding her mercilessly as she’s reduced to being totally in my control. The table shakes, both of us making the wooden struts creak as we drive ourselves to the limit. We’re desperate, or at least I am, fucking myself into her body, her mind, her memory. If that’s what I’m going to be reduced to, I’m going to make it count. I want this to be the moment she compares all others to. I want to be the man she compares everyone else to.
I growl because . . . fuck that. There aren’t going to be any other men, any other lovers, any other orgasms. Not for mia rosa.
“You’re mine,” I growl, tugging on her hair to emphasize my point. “Say it!”
“Yours,” Abigail cries, and I slam home as hard as I can one last time, exploding deep inside her. It’s the most intense orgasm of my life, and Abigail’s body spasms around my erupting cock as I give her what she wants.
As we give each other what we need for as long as we have left.
She sags completely, collapsing into my arms even as I stay nestled inside her. I lower her back to the table, and I soften and slip out.
It’s too soon. It feels final and I want more.
She flips over, ungraceful as she scoots her ass to the side of the table and throws a leg over my head, nearly knocking me out. The only way I avoid a potential concussion is because of my timely duck.
But Abigail’s smile isn’t one that acknowledges the silly awkwardness of the move. No, it’s her fake one, forced to her lips but not reaching her eyes.
Our eyes search each other’s, looking for . . . something. A clue that I’m wrong? A sign that maybe this could be more?
But I see only sadness. I can feel that it’s not only the hour in this room, or the amazing sex, that’s done. There’s a lot that’s over with today. Like us, like this fake honeymoon that became something else to me.
She was making love with me so desperately to tell me goodbye. It’s in her eyes, and I can feel her walls going back up.
I’ve never been the one left behind. I’m usually the one who leaves, so I never realized how much it sucks to know that someone’s walking away from you. Oh, our planes might be going back to the same town, but we’re going back to something very different.
<
br /> Chapter 21
Abi
I can already hear them in my apartment and I’m still down the hall, my suitcase bumping along behind me. “Oops, shit,” I bark out as the hard side case twists in my hand and the corner bumps into the wall, leaving a black mark on the pristine white paint.
“Perfect. Abso-fucking-lutely perfect,” I bitch aloud, not caring about Mrs. Miller’s kids overhearing my curses or anyone thinking I’ve lost my marbles for talking to myself. Especially when the rebound makes the wheel run up on my heel. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I repeat, hopping on one foot and rubbing at the pain.
I knock on my own door, not willing to dig my keys out when everyone’s helped themselves to my place anyway. The door swings open, and Violet dramatically waves an arm through the air as though she’s a Price Is Right girl and I’ve won access to my own apartment. She doesn’t look like a game show girl, though, in sweatpants and one of Ross’s oversized gym shirts. She does look freshly showered, at least. “Come in! We’ve been waiting for you. We’re ready to hear everything!”
“No cheating!” Archie calls out from somewhere inside.
“Cheating?” I ask.
Violet rolls her eyes, “At Aruba Bingo. Archie’s idea. Game is . . . you don’t know the words, but you have to tell us all about the wedding, your trip, Lorenzo, the works, and we have pennies to mark our cards. Winner gets to take home a bottle of wine . . . if there’s any left.”
I smile. I swear I do. But Violet’s eyes go dark and her jaw clenches.
“That son of a bitch!” she hisses. “I’ll kill him for you, don’t you worry about a thing, girl. I’ll send his body back to Italy in pieces and Aunt Sofia will handle things on that end. She knows people.” She makes it sound like that’s a perfectly normal thing to do.
“No, no,” I argue weakly. “It’s fine. I’m fine. Everything’s fine.” If I say it enough, it’ll have to be true, right?
She huffs out a laugh of disbelief then points at me with a short, manicured nail. “Keep on believing that, Abs. Good girl.”
My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon Page 25