My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon

by Lauren Landish

  There’s a gasp of shock that has to be Abi and then she laughs too. “Of course I did! Did you see his belly button? I already have fantasies of swimming in it on my way to slide down Cock Mountain. First, with my mouth and then with my pussy.”

  I blink at the picture her words paint, my cock instantly growing hard in my pants. I trace my hand over my abs and grip myself hard, willing the stiffness to subside. Instead, I involuntarily groan.

  “What was that?” I hear Janey say through the wood.

  Fuck. They heard me.

  I hold the key card up to the door and am greeted by the green light. I open the door and walk into the suite, the outline of my hard dick obvious in my lightweight linen pants.

  “Oh! Uh, hi,” Abigail stutters cutely, her cheeks going pink. She’s wearing a gauzy, waffle weave, white hotel robe and it’s gaping at the neckline. She follows my eyes, flushing further when she realizes how much cleavage she is showing. She makes a squeak of horror, and sadly, draws it tighter to cover herself from my prying eyes.

  “Buona sera,” I reply. “I hope I am not too early? I thought we should go over some details before getting ready for dinner, to help sell the honeymoon?”

  Janey points at me. “I like the way you think, mister. I’m going to leave you two to it. Abi, I’ll head back down to the storage room and start organizing the boxes into categories.”

  Abigail tears her eyes from me, focusing on Janey. “Make sure to keep the silk ribbon separate from the glitter tulle or it’ll snag.”

  Janey rolls her eyes and murmurs, “Duh. She acts like I’ve never done this before.” And she’s gone, leaving us alone.

  I wonder what Abigail has on beneath that robe. I wonder if she can tell I’m commando beneath my pants. I consider the thread counts of the combined fabrics that separate us.

  Abigail is quiet for too long, and though I’d like to do wicked things to her, I spoke the truth. We do need to talk before tonight.

  “Abigail, tell me what I need to know about you.” It’s an order, but open-ended, allowing her to share what she feels is relevant. To tonight, to forever, whichever she prefers.

  She shrugs. “I don’t know. I’m an Andrews. My dad started Andrews Consolidated when he was younger and made bank. My parents have been married for decades, and somehow, are still in love. My brother, Ross, is married to Violet. They just had a baby, but you already know that. My sister, Courtney, is married . . .” She pauses, and I wonder if she’s remembering the wedding where we met the way I am. She licks her lips nervously before continuing, “She works for my dad.”

  I sit down beside her on the couch, getting closer than is polite. “That’s not what I asked and you know it. That’s your family. Tell me about you.” My voice is deeper, darker now.

  She hesitates but gives in. “I’m weird, not like my family—all serious and business-y—but I am that way sometimes, if that makes sense? Like I’m a square peg that doesn’t fit in a round hole, but I’m still a peg. Does that even track?” She shakes her head, leaving the metaphor behind. “I’m creative, wild, and free. Half the time, I don’t even know what I’m going to do or say next until it happens. I’m just as surprised as everyone around me.” She laughs like she didn’t expect to say that, proving her point.

  “Good,” I praise her. “Tell me about your flowers.”

  That seems to be an easier topic because she speaks comfortably, fast and with bubbly enthusiasm. “I’ve loved flowers since I was little. I would help the gardener and make bouquets. One year, we watched the Tournament of Roses—do you know what that is?” she asks.

  “I’ve heard of it. A parade, right?”

  She nods. “Yeah, so we’re watching that on television and I was in awe of what they could create with flowers. While Dad and Ross watched the game, I went out in the yard with my Barbie car and a pair of kitchen scissors and went to work. It was awful,” she says on a horrified laugh, “but I thought it was amazing. That was when I knew, though it took me a bit longer to actually figure out how to do things well.”

  I see the light in her eyes, the way her voice changes. Gone is the nervousness. Gone is the worry. She loves her craft, and even though I’ve never seen her arrangements that I’m aware of, I admire her passion.

  It’s the same passion I have for cooking, I suspect.

  “And this Emily? You said she was a rival of sorts?”

  I can see her mind disappear into the past, her vibrancy dimming. “Yeah. I don’t know what started this thing between us. It was just always there. Admittedly, as Ross’s younger sister and an Andrews, I was kind of automatically popular. I never really cared about things like that, though. But Emily did. At first, she tried to copy me—her hair, her clothes, stuff like that. In hindsight, I think she was even trying to be friends. But I had Violet and we were thick as thieves, and I truly didn’t even notice Emily. Until she started talking shit about me. That got my attention. And somehow, it was like ‘game on’ between us. She would show up at parties I went to and stand on the table, playing Queen Bee. She dated the football star from our year and then became head cheerleader. She kept climbing the ladder, like she had something to prove, and I was just doing my own thing. If I wanted to date, I did. If I wanted to cheer, I did. If I wanted to do theater, I did. I would flit from one thing to another with the attention span of a gnat and she would follow along doing everything I did, still copying me. But it wasn’t friendly then. Especially not when she slept with my boyfriend. She just sucked all the joy out of what should’ve been some of my best years, and though it’s stupid—and believe me, I know how juvenile it sounds—I want to show her that despite all that, I still did okay.”

  “That you won,” I surmise.

  Abigail flops back to the couch, her arm going over her eyes. “Oh, God, I’m awful. I’m so sorry for dragging you into this. We can call the whole thing off or whatever. Tell her I lied. You don’t need this drama, especially this week. Fuck, I don’t need it this week.”

  She’s right. This week, this wedding is big for the both of us. But I sense that something even bigger is happening to Abigail. If she walks away from this thing with her tail between her legs, she might never recover. It will foundationally affect who she believes herself to be.

  “No,” I say sharply. “This is a . . . how do you call it? ‘No harm, no foul’. We’ll play along as newlyweds and have a little fun while you get your closure with this Emily.”

  She peeks from below her arm. “Really?”

  “Yes. Now, it’s getting late. We should get ready because I need a shower after being in the kitchens.”

  I rise, heading toward the bedroom and already dreaming of the ensuite bathroom that will surely be as luxurious as the rest of the room.

  Abigail sits up. “Wait, what about you? I don’t know anything about you!”

  I grin. “You’re welcome to shower with me if you’d like?” At her sour look, I soften the vulgar suggestion. “Come. Sit and talk to me while I get ready.”

  That has her hopping up to follow me.

  Chapter 6

  Abi

  Hell no, I’m not going to miss a Lorenzo show. I’m not stupid, just a bit crazy.

  I’m going to memorize every word from his mouth, every flex of his muscles, every sound the water makes as it hits his body, and replay them later . . . when I’m alone with my buzzy little friend.

  He struts through my bedroom—our bedroom?—and into the bathroom, looking around appraisingly. “Nice,” he says simply about the marble, walk-in shower, double vanities, and wall-sized mirror. It’s way more than ‘nice’.

  I sit in a chair just outside the bathroom, expecting him to close the door for some privacy. But I forgot how ‘no big deal’ Europeans are about nudity. Or maybe it’s just Lorenzo?

  He pulls his shirt off his shoulders, dropping it to the floor, and my tongue lolls out at the expanse of skin. The tattoos that line his neck and trail down his arms begin here, on the sharp ridges
of his spine and smooth muscles of his back.

  I watch as he reaches into the shower, turning the water on.

  “What do you want to know?” Lorenzo asks, drawing my attention directly to him.

  As if he timed it for my eyes to catch it, his linen slacks fall to the floor, and he kicks them off along with his flip flops. The puddle of his clothes means I can see his entire bare backside, from his shoulders to his heels and everywhere in between.

  God, his ass is biteworthy! Butt dimples!

  I must make some noise, a strangled sound of embarrassingly horny lust, probably, because he says again, “Abigail? What do you want to know?”

  I want to know what your cock looks like.

  I want to know if you speak English or Italian when you come.

  I want to know why you’re doing this.

  None of those are what I ask. As he steps into the shower and out of sight, I ask, “How did you get into cooking?”

  From behind the glass, he speaks, “My Aunt Sofia taught me when I was a boy. I think it was mostly a way to keep me busy and out of trouble. I was a bit of a hellion even then, and she thought keeping me by her side would be good for me. She was right.”

  He’s quiet for a moment, and I think he’s done, but then he adds, “Until I wanted more. I left Positano—you should remember that. Say it.”

  Dutifully, I repeat, “Positano. Where’s that?”

  “West coast of Italy. That’s where I’m from.” I nod, though he can’t see me, storing the information. “I’d been cooking everything for my family for years by the time I was eighteen—made from scratch noodles, sauces and ragu that took all day to simmer, and growing fresh vegetables in our garden. After a while, it was . . . routine. I knew there was more out there. More flavors, more spices, more textures . . . just more. So I left. I traveled Europe, spent some time in Spain, but the flavor profiles were similar and I wanted something truly different. I made my way through Germany, then Japan, then India. I never stayed anywhere more than a few months, getting a taste of the culture and style. I even came to the States for a short while, exploring California fusion and New York’s steakhouses. But after a long while, I was homesick. I went back to Italy, to the beginning, to my roots. It was there that I got the offer for Avanti. I’ve been making Italian food for the last couple of years, honoring my Aunt Sofia’s lessons every day.”

  “Wow,” I breathe, not able to imagine uprooting and moving every few months. “That sounds . . . awful.” I slap my hands over my mouth. “I mean, awesome.”

  A deep chuckle echoes in the shower. “A nomadic life is not for everyone. But for others, it’s the only way.”

  I lean forward, putting my elbows on my knees, and consider his words. Movement in the corner of my eye catches my attention. I look closer and realize that from here, I can see the reflection of the shower in the mirror. If the fog were wiped off the glass enclosure, I could see Lorenzo in all his naked glory.

  Oh, it’s glorious. I’m sure of that just from seeing the back side.

  Rapt, I watch as a haze of white suds covers the hazy blob of Lorenzo. Though it’s blurry, I can tell what’s happening as his hands massage the bubbles across his chest . . . down his abs . . . to where he takes himself in hand and gives himself a few good strokes.

  Oh, God! Is he jacking himself off?

  I’m mortified until his hands continue their trek, washing his thighs. It’s then that I realize this heat is not mortification. It’s disappointment. I want to watch him boldly fuck his hand right in front of me and watch him find his release while his eyes are locked on mine.

  I squeeze my thighs together, honestly considering whether there’s a way for me to touch myself and get off quickly without Lorenzo being the wiser. It wouldn’t take but a few strokes across my clit, I’m certain of that. But even as my desperate pussy argues with my logical mind and my hands wander up my thighs, the water shuts off and I miss any opportunity I might’ve had.

  Lorenzo steps into the bedroom, a white towel tucked around his waist. “Abigail? You okay?” he asks, his brows knit together in concern.

  I must look extra crazy if he’s asking so gently. I can feel the flush on my cheeks, the wetness between my thighs under this robe, and the racing of my heart. “Yep, my turn.”

  I get up and swish past him into the bathroom. I consider being just as bold as he was and leaving the door open as I shower, but I’m not that brave. So I push it closed with a foot, dropping my robe, and climbing into the shower. A cold shower.

  It doesn’t matter, though. I’m so hot, the steam is coming from me instead of the water, and a naughty thought steals through my mind. Lorenzo is on the other side of the door now, not able to see me the way I could him. If I’m quiet . . .

  I bite my lip, leaning back against the cool tile of the shower wall and letting my fingers dance down my belly. No time for foreplay, not even with myself this time. This has to be fast. I swipe through the moisture gathered at my center and massage it over my clit in a small circle.

  “Abigail?” Lorenzo’s voice calls out from the other side of the door.

  “Yes?” I say, hoping my voice sounds natural.

  “What about our story? How we met? The proposal and wedding?” he says. Is it my imagination or does he sound strange? His voice is tighter than usual.

  “Oh!” I say, half in answer to him and half because I tapped on my sensitive bud. I bite my bottom lip for strength and try to answer as my fingers keep moving. “Let’s keep it as close to the truth as possible. We met at Courtney’s wedding and hit it off.”

  Until he ran out.

  I let the negative thought float away as pleasure begins to rise higher.

  “Yeah, and then we got married on the beach. Just the two of us, because that’s kind of what happened today.”

  His voice is definitely sounding strangled. I imagine him on the other side of the door, jacking off as I touch myself, and even the mere idea turns me on even more.

  “But it would’ve had to be sooner, not today. A fast . . . really fast . . . build-up,” I gasp out.

  “To our wedding. You wearing white and saying my name.”

  I don’t think we’re talking about an imaginary wedding anymore.

  “And now we’re on our honeymoon, blissfully away from everything and everyone at home. Just the two of us.”

  I grunt and bury my sealed lips against my shoulder to keep quiet as a wave of ecstasy washes through me. I keep tapping at my clit, prolonging the orgasm until I’m jerking with release and overstimulated.

  “That sounds great. Love it, mia rosa,” Lorenzo says quietly. He sounds relieved too, and I wonder again.

  I quickly wash off and step out of the shower to dry off. Wrapping up in a fresh towel, I walk into the bedroom to find Lorenzo.

  Only, it’s empty.

  “Lorenzo?” I call out.

  “In here. I got dressed while you were showering. Go ahead and get ready. They’ll be here soon.” His voice is in the living room now, leaving me alone with my thoughts and spent body.

  He’s right, though. I need to hurry and get ready.

  I pull on a white sundress Archie picked out as a vacation option. Beneath the thin gauze, I pull on a nude thong because it’s the only thing that won’t give me panty lines. The strapless dress also doesn’t allow for a bra. Both of those reasons are why I’d called the dress ridiculous, but Archie was right, and I’m thankful to have it with me and not only work clothes. A touch of bronzer and some mascara make me glow like I’ve been kissed by the sun, and after pulling a brush through my mane of thick hair, I pull it up into a loose bun, leaving my neck exposed. It’s too warm to do much more.

  Lorenzo looks up as I walk into the living room.

  “Oh mio Dio,” he whispers. “Bellissima, mia rosa.”

  I don’t speak Italian, but I know he just called me beautiful. I return the compliment. “You look nice too.”

  Nice?

  He looks
good enough to eat. He’s got on beige slacks and dress shoes, with a white button-down shirt. It could be stuffy and stodgy, an outfit worthy of a boardroom, but not the way Lorenzo wears it. The collar of the shirt is unbuttoned, plus probably one more button than most American men would wear. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, showcasing the tattoos on his forearms and his watch. Only one side of the shirt front is tucked in to highlight the supple leather of his belt and the slim cut of his trousers. It’s the epitome of casual, effortless European hot.

  He doesn’t approach me so much as he stalks toward me like a lion. And like a stupid gazelle, I stand stock-still and let him. Lorenzo picks up my hand from my side, kissing the back the way he did that first night. “You are brighter than the sun, deeper than the moon, lovelier than the stars.”

  And wetter than the sea, I think. Luckily, my mouth and brain are working together for once and I manage to keep that to myself this time.

  “You don’t have to do that, you know? Say all that romantic stuff,” I tell him, ducking my chin down. “I get it. It’s fake. Been there, done that with my family, except I’m smart enough to not get caught in the ‘feels’ trap.”

  He lifts my chin with his other hand. “I’m Italian. We are romantic. I simply say what I think.”

  He makes it sound like he really does think those lovely things about me, but how can he when I’ve gotten him into this mess?

  “Are you sure about this?” I ask, offering him one more chance to back out.

  Before he can answer, there’s a loud knock on the door. Emily and Doug are right on time.

  Lorenzo steps closer, his body a breath away from mine as he whispers, “Trust me?”

  I have no idea what he’s asking, but I nod because what else am I gonna do? We’re about to go to dinner and pretend like we’re happy newlyweds with someone who could blow up my entire social circle, and likely my professional life, with a single well-placed word.