by Julia Kent
“No one tells you,” I say, tightening my legs around him. “You have to find it for yourself. This kind of love.”
“How can we know there’s love like this if no one ever tells us?”
Tears fill my eyes, the emotion too much, too sweet, too sudden. “What if they don’t know? You’re so special, Declan.”
I swear his eyes start to shine.
“We’re special,” he says, his voice low as he moves inside me again, deeper now, my hips opening, as if there’s an inner sanctum in this space we forge, one that can only be found if he goes deep enough. “What we have, together. I don’t know what to call this. Love isn’t enough.”
I reach up and stroke his lip, my fingertip lifting up at the bow, moving down his jaw line, memorizing his face in this moment, when we’re as close as can be.
“I want to cry,” I confess. “For knowing how close I came to never meeting you. Never knowing you.” I cling to him, my kiss frantic, as if he’s about to disappear. The feeling makes no sense, and yet he meets me with a mouth as heated and desperate as mine, his hips pulling out, arms on either side of me. I’m caged by him, body and soul.
“You do know me. And this is just the beginning.”
We stop talking, emotion too much, letting our bodies say what our mouths cannot, and in the end we cry out, gratitude filling the space, mixing with love to create an intoxicating spell, a chant I feel in my bones.
And then we sleep, curled into each other like lovers who know nothing else.
* * *
I wake up to morning wood, pressed against my tailbone, its owner blissfully unaware of the rather impolite positioning of his wand. Cuddling and spooning is wonderful, on paper.
The actual contortionism involved in being affectionate while sleeping is significantly less appealing.
Slipping away from his grasp, I peer at the curtains over our window. Daylight peeks in. There are no clocks here, but I suspect we’re in the wee hours of the morning. Yesterday, we made love three times, pausing only for food, water, and that one time when Declan pleaded for a “chafing break.”
Sexual inertia is no joke. A body at rest stays at rest.
A woman’s body in motion stays in motion and no, sir, nineteen orgasms isn’t enough, for the record. This body needs to stay in motion for as long as possible.
Isn’t that the very definition of a honeymoon?
Crawling under the covers, I find his glorious shaft resting against his abs, the tip against his navel. I don’t touch it. Declan doesn’t know this, but sometimes, when he sleeps, I go on Penis Watch. The damn thing is fascinating. It’s like a curiosity attached to him, a museum piece you can’t stop looking at.
When it’s hard, it’s filled with promise, arousing and visually stunning, making me hot for him, needing sex.
When it’s soft, it’s cute, like a puppy without fur, floppy and strange.
As I stare at it in the semi-dark of the covers, it goes soft, the process like watching a hot air balloon after it lands, the shrinkage a little sad, like something beautiful’s been lost, tucked away for another time.
“Hello,” his penis says.
Huh. It’s never talked before.
“What are you doing?” Declan rips the covers back, exposing our naked bodies.
I am, er...eye to eye with his appendage.
“Watching your penis.”
It twitches.
“I see that.”
“You have a muscle that does that? Can you make it bob up and down?”
“Would you like me to make it wave to you, like the Royal Family on the balcony at Balmoral Castle?”
I sit up and start clapping. “Yes! You have a royal penis!”
He laughs. “And you can be a royal pain.”
It deflates. I don’t respond.
“I’m a little nonplussed here. Do you often stare at my cock while I’m sleeping?”
“If I say yes, will you divorce me?”
“No.”
“Will you tease me mercilessly?”
He snorts. “Yes.”
I weigh it all out. Eh. Why not? “Okay, then yes.”
He smiles. “You know, I do the same thing when you’re sleeping.”
“You watch my penis? I thought I had such a good tuck job.” I pout. “You found it.”
Tracing my finger along his inner thigh, I stroke the soft skin, like collapsible lambskin. He starts to harden. I kiss my way to the tip, then take him all the way in my mouth.
He inhales sharply, hands sinking into my tangled hair, the feeling of power complete.
“I married you for your heart, but your mouth’s a close second,” he says with a groan. I take him in deep for two or three strokes before his arms go corded with tension, stopping me.
I look up, mouth still on him.
Our eyes lock.
“Not like this,” he says.
I remove my mouth. “Then tell me how you like it. I want to please you.”
“Oh, hell, Shannon, you always please me. You’re doing it right. Trust me,” he moans, cupping my jaw with his hand. “I just don’t want to come this way. I want to be in you.”
I move up his body. “That can be arranged.”
“Not here.”
“If not here, where?”
“I have an idea. Ever had sex outdoors?”
“You mean, on the beach?” I snuggle up to him, licking his elbow, peppering his arm with kisses. “The bed is so inviting. Let’s just have sex here,” I purr.
The look on his face tells me he’s torn. I suck hard, then nip at the sensitive spot above his wrist. He groans, but gives me a naughty look.
Declan peers out the window, where a stunning view of a volcano fills the air. “My idea’s even better.”
Chapter 10
“You do realize you’ve left me with rubber bands for legs after all that sex yesterday,” I call out, huffing as we hike up the zig-zagging trail. Declan’s got this bright idea that a mid-afternoon hike up the side of an inactive volcano is a great way to spend part of the day.
Aside from being able to get a beautiful view of his muscular calves, taut with effort at every step and stippled with dark, thick, springy curls like a baby’s first locks, I’m pretty sure this level of exertion should only be expended in bed.
“Good! Then I did my job.” He laughs, the sound carrying back to me. I can’t help but smile. When he’s happy, I’m happy.
We’re multiply happy right now.
Halfway up the non-active volcano trail, we’re hundreds of feet in the air, the views of the ocean breathtaking. It’s like Hawaii is ours, a private paradise for just the two of us. We’ve turned the land into a sacred space for our love, too.
“Here!” he calls out. “Up here!” There’s a small clearing, the ground covered with lush, wide leaves that form a blanket. We’re about two hundred feet from a stark cliff. We walk close to the craggy edge, my fear of heights clicking as we get closer to the dropoff. I stop at the border of my comfort zone.
Black jagged hills to one side. The sun above. The ocean in all its shades of green and grey, blue and turquoise, spreads out like a panorama designed for us.
“It’s beautiful.”
“So are you.” Declan peels his backpack off, pulling mine from my shoulders, and the kiss is heated, fast and perfect. I’m wet and warm, blood pulsing to all stations, the sex from yesterday priming the pump. I want more and more and more.
But here?
“You want to make love here?”
His mouth is red from so much kissing, a day’s worth of stubble giving him a casual, wild look I don’t see often in him. His eyes flash with passion. “Yes. Here. I want to see you naked and free, your body under the sunlight, and make love in rhythm with the ocean. We can become part of nature here. I want to forget the rest of the world exists and become part of it at the same time, just with you. In you.”
As he speaks, he’s pulling on my shirt, yanking it up, free
ing my breasts, his mouth on one, hand on the other, my throat tight with pleasure, skin on fire. I slip his shorts down, freeing him, and he gently nudges me to the ground next to our backpacks, on the giant green leaves that welcome us, whispering encouragement.
Be here. Be with us.
Be free.
This is so forbidden. Dangerous and exotic. We don’t need foreplay because I’m wet and trembling, aching to have him inside me again. Once this insatiable quality is unleashed, it seems, it cannot be undone.
“This is amazing,” I call out as he enters me. We’re half clothed, half crazed, and the wind carries the ocean’s tune to us, a sound like nature’s symphony as he pushes into me, our bodies the conductor, the ocean the melody.
“You are so hot,” he groans, looking over my head, then back to me, my fingers clenching his ass, encouraging him. He twinges, startled, but presses on, each stroke feeling better than the last. “I never thought I’d find a woman like you.”
I’m loving this side of him.
I know he’s into trying new things, but on the next stroke, the pinch I feel is a little too adventurous. I can’t even bring myself to bleach that part of my body, much less have a little sexy pain introduced there.
“Dec, honey, that hurts.” I hate interrupting the mood, but suddenly a cloud covers the sun, an ominous sign.
“Mmmph. Sorry.” He shifts, thighs spreading my legs a little, but the burning pinch just increases. I twitch as it happens, over and over, with increasing frequency.
“I think we’re, um, tweezing something. Like you’re catching my—” I let out a gasp of pain, a moan that sounds erotic but isn’t.
“Is that—ooh.” He grunts. “Uh, Shannon, you’re pulling my—hey, let’s...” Declan thrusts one more time, the feeling gravelly, like there’s sand being pushed inside me.
“Are we on sand? Something feels weird inside me.” Pinch. Pinchpinchpinch.
His eyes fly wide open and he pulls out, looking down.
I’ve never heard Declan scream. Really scream. You learn something new about your husband on your honeymoon. He has multiple octaves, and while he’s normally an Easter Island statue emotionally, he’s anything but right now.
His panic triggers mine. In triplicate.
Even though he’s out of me, the pinching continues, turning into a wave of fire that won’t stop. I look down.
“What is all over me?” I scream. I look like someone did a very, very poor job of applying a spray tan to my thighs.
“SHANNON!” he bellows, batting at his equipment, which is filled with a weird cinnamon color. Dec’s a naturally dark guy, without any auburn highlights. This doesn’t make sense.
Pinch. Pinchpinchpinch.
Burn.
And then I scream again, no words, a high, hollow sound, as something deep inside me twists, like a tiny corkscrew being embedded in a place where sharp implements don’t belong.
“Get up!” He shouts. “We’re on a fire ant hill! That’s not sand you’re feeling!”
I look down, between my legs, as I sit up on my elbows.
It’s like a tiny re-creation of that Prestonpans charging scene from Outlander, only with fire ants instead of redcoats, and my mons is the English camp.
Jamie Fraser charging up between my legs? No problem.
Fire ants?
PROBLEM.
“NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” I stand and brush down, down, down, struggling to stop the pinching and burning, the biting and the tearing, knowing hundreds of these tiny torture devices are on me.
In me.
“They’re in my hoo haw!!!!!” I shout, Declan jumping and twisting like he’s starring in the next Goofy movie.
“The water! We need to get to the ocean!” he screams, grabbing my hand. Dec’s pulled his shorts up, but he hasn’t fastened them, and I see why.
Ants cover his thighs.
We sprint down the trail, my water bottle falling on my foot, sandals flying off our feet, bare tree roots digging into my soles.
“This was supposed to be romantic!” I call out, beginning to tremble, nerves overcome by the sheer enormity of so many hundreds of bites. “We were supposed to commune with nature!”
We get to the beach, Declan running straight for the water.
I let go of his hand.
He keeps running.
And then he bellows bloody murder, because fresh bite marks + salt water = agony.
Pinch. Burn.
Twitch.
Another pinprick inside me and I waver. Brushing furiously, I try to get them off me.
“Shannon! Just get in the water.”
“I can’t! Salt!” I’m in full-blown freak-out mode, nerves shot, rational thought a nice, distant memory.
“GET IN.”
“No!”
Zap. Now they feel like little electric zings inside me. The only electric zing I want in there is from Edward Cullen.
Ah, God.
In the distance, I see fellow resort guests—all five of them—on phones, and a siren floats through the air. The resort’s version of medical services appears to be on the way. It’s a sand dune buggy with a red cross sign on it.
Dec’s next to me on the beach, soaking wet, screaming at me. I can’t understand a word he’s saying, but in seconds I’m in his arms, pressed against his soaking chest, the button of his open shorts digging into my hip.
And then I’m dumped, unceremoniously, into the ocean.
If this is his version of carrying me across the threshold, the man needs to up his game.
* * *
There is not enough lidocaine cream in the world for more than two hundred fire ant bites on your private parts.
Even a billionaire can’t buy enough.
We are back in our hut. Declan and I are wearing hula skirts, but mind you, this is no sensual or entertaining scene. He has his sterile blanket, I have mine. Medical services came to our aid, kindly avoiding eye contact and administering immediate attention to the, ah...affected parts.
Strict doctor’s orders: no sex for two weeks.
I half expected Dr. Porter from the emergency room back in Boston to show up.
Declan’s scrotum looks like one of those Christmas orange clove ornaments kids make, only instead of shoving the cloves into the orange, the ants took tiny bites out of it.
I have parts of me so swollen they could double as biosphere domes.
And the best part?
Aunt Flo just visited. That’s right. Get it?
Aunt? Ant?
Oh, never mind.
I’m sitting—gingerly—on a lidocaine-slathered donut pillow, reading on an eBook device, while Declan plays chess.
Against himself.
Because that’s what you do on your honeymoon.
Right?
He looks up and winces, standing. Walking like a sumo wrestler with a hundred-pound weight on his balls, he reaches me in five minutes.
“Shannon? I’m so sorry.” I look up. He remains standing. I remain sitting.
“I know.” This is the thousandth time he’s said it.
“I thought—we just—it was so—”
“I know.”
“You keep saying that.”
“It’s better than calling you names.”
He shakes his head. “It’s really not. Go ahead. Do your worst. I can take it.” The corners of his mouth turn down as he stares at his sac. It looks like a big fireball of red, the size of a Texas Homecoming mum and about as useful. “You wanted to stay in bed and I pushed to go outside.”
I give him a weak smile. “Nah. These things happen.”
“Fire ants turning my balls into a canapé doesn’t just happen.” Contrite and grunting with pain, he sits next to me and holds my hand.
“Try getting a pap smear from a fire ant, Dec.” I hand him the giant tube of numbing cream.
He tries not to laugh. He fails. A sweet kiss on my temple follows. That’s about as sexual as we’re getting for the rest of
our honeymoon.
“This is our story. Ours only,” I declare.
He nods.
“You know how we said we make our own little world and no one else really understands what we have between us?” My voice sharpens. “That. That exactly. This stays between us.”
“Absolutely.”
“We will never, ever speak of this again. Pinkie promise.” I say the words as I try not to laugh, too.
He holds up his pinkie. I link mine in his.
“Pinkie swear.”
And we never tell.
* * *
;)
* * *
Move on to the next book in the New York Times bestselling Shopping series, Shopping for a Highlander, coming spring 2017. Learn more at http://www.jkentauthor.com , and thank you for reading!
About the Author
Text JKentBooks to 77948 and get a text message on release dates!
New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Julia Kent turned to writing contemporary romance after deciding that life is too short not to have fun. She writes romantic comedy with an edge, and new adult books that push contemporary boundaries. From billionaires to BBWs to rock stars, Julia finds a sensual, goofy joy in every book she writes, but unlike Trevor from Random Acts of Crazy, she has never kissed a chicken.
She loves to hear from her readers by email at [email protected], on Instagram and Twitter @jkentauthor, and on Facebook at facebook.com/jkentauthor
Visit her website at http://jkentauthor.com
