My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon

by Lauren Landish

  Abigail shrugs. “He’s usually pretty good. I’m more worried that Sofia is going to pinch his ass . . . again.”

  I look at her in surprise. “She did that?”

  “Yep. More than once. So if he dips and drops, she might deserve it.”

  I can’t help but laugh, and now I don’t give Aunt Sofia another thought as she and Archie dance on around the floor.

  We face off, small bites of white cake in our fingers. “Don’t you dare,” Abigail warns me.

  This is another one of those American things I don’t get . . . when the bride and groom don’t politely feed each other bits of sweets but rather shove it in each other’s faces. It seems so . . . rude?

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” I tell her.

  I feed her a gentle bite, leaning forward to kiss the tiny bit of white icing that’s left on her top lip. It’s even sweeter from her skin. “Beautiful.”

  Abigail giggles. “You mean delicious?”

  I shake my head. “Beautiful.”

  She ducks her chin, and I lift it back up with a finger, forcing her eyes to mine. “I love you, Abigail.”

  “You sure?” she dares, looking at the cake still in her fingers.

  I open my mouth for her to feed me the sweet morsel. She does . . . sort of. The rest of it smashes into my cheek and she laughs boisterously.

  The crowd gasps in shocked horror. But I grab Abigail around the waist and pull her to me, leaning down to kiss her fiercely—cake, icing, mess, and all. She squeals in shock, writhing in my arms as she tries to get away. “Ah! You said you wouldn’t!”

  But she’s laughing, encouraging me as I rub my face along hers. She reaches toward the cake, her only available weapon, and before I know it, she’s smashed another fresh handful of cake in my face.

  I lick my lips with a smile. I lean forward, posing as I ask, “Want a taste?”

  She meets me this time, not play fighting. Her tongue swipes along my freshly-shaven jaw. “Ooh! It is good.”

  “You want to try some?” Abigail asks the crowd.

  Some people scatter. I even see Archie pick up Aunt Sofia and take off with her protectively. Others argue with Abigail . . .

  “Abi, no!”

  “Please!”

  But Abigail does what she wants and suddenly, there’s cake flying everywhere. People cry out, but some grab fistfuls themselves and throw it back at us. Well, at Abigail. But since she’s taken to ducking down behind me, it all hits me first.

  It’s utter madness in cake form, with a mess all over the restaurant, but all I can care about is the way Abigail is laughing so happily as she licks icing from her fingers.

  I grab her hand, taking her thumb into my mouth to suck it clean myself.

  “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.

  Epilogue

  Abigail

  One year later

  There’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.

  Moments later, we’re standing in the resort lobby, the sea breeze blowing through the open doors making my skirt dance. Lorenzo wraps his arms around my shoulders and murmurs into my ear, “We made it. Back to where it all began.”

  “No. Way.” I hear from off to my right.

  A shock of horror jolts through my entire being, and Lorenzo stiffens behind me, and definitely not in the good way. I turn toward the voice.

  “Emily?” I say softly, not believing my eyes. “What are you doing here?”

  “It’s our one-year anniversary,�
� she says as she holds up her and Doug’s interlocked hands. He looks like he wouldn’t mind sinking through the floor a bit. “You?”

  “Us too,” I answer.

  We freeze, eyes locked on each other for a long moment.

  “We should get dinner or something. You know, like we did before,” she suggests, but I can hear the hesitation in her voice.

  I relax, purposefully letting my posture lean into Lorenzo. If I said yes, he’d think I’m crazy but he’d do it. For me.

  “Let’s not pretend anymore, Emily. We weren’t friends in school, we weren’t friends last year, and we’re not friends now.”

  Blunt? Yeah. True? Also yes.

  “So, let’s just not,” I offer with a shrug. “You do your thing, we’ll do ours, and hopefully, we won’t run into each other again, just like we haven’t back at home.”

  “Wow,” she snarks. “Still the same old Abi Andrews, aren’t you?” Bitch is implied.

  Lorenzo moves as though to defend me, but I don’t need him to. “You know what, Emily? I feel like you have some things you need to say. It might make you feel better. Go ahead and get it all off your chest.”

  She makes a tight sound of dismissal, but then she opens her mouth. “You always thought you were better than me, but you know what? I’m living my best life with a man I love, a happy life, with a baby on the way. So what if Claire Johnson says it’s ‘totes adorbs’ that her floral designer and chef are in love. Who needs that kind of ass kissing?” She points a finger at me. “You do, that’s who.”

  She’s furious, so mad that tears fall down her cheeks, and Doug is trying to comfort her though he looks more confused than concerned.

  “Anything else?” I ask gently.

  She sniffles, wiping at her cheeks with the back of her hand as she shakes her head.

  I wasn’t going to say anything, but her coldness tells me that maybe it’ll help. “Emily, everyone’s the villain in someone’s story. And they’re the hero in their own. Neither is actually true.” Her eyes narrow, not believing me. “Congrats on a happy life, a good husband, and the baby. Enjoy it. I truly wish that for you.”

  Doug dips his chin at me, trying to put together whatever he’s heard from Emily with what’s happening right now, and leads Emily away.

  “That was sexy,” Lorenzo whispers against my ear.

  “What? That?” I say faux-modestly. “That was nothing.”

  He chuckles. “Last time we were here, you would’ve taken that challenge and had us out to dinner, doing crazy stunts, and battling it out like this was some game show. But you’re different now, stronger and more settled.”

  I swat at his chest indignantly. “You take that back. I’m just as crazy as I always was. I’m not some old, can’t we just get along type now.“

  “Never. You’ll be old and gray and still causing a ruckus wherever you go. I can’t wait to see it each step of the way.”

  “Ruckus?” I question the odd word usage.

  Lorenzo looks pleased that I noticed. “Courtney showed me an app. There’s a word every day, some obscure, some humorous, and some particularly unusual, but I like it.”

  “I like you.”

  “I love you,” he answers with all the heat and passion of the first time still burning in his blood. For me.

  Lorenzo

  The waves lap at the shore, the sun nearly touching the sea beyond the cove, but I barely notice as I kiss my wife, cupping her cheek and tasting her deeply. We’ve been doing this almost from the first instant I spread the blanket on the sugary sand, kicking off our sandals and lying down, our hands going to each other. Our picnic basket’s ignored, but we can get food later.

  After all, the resort’s got twenty-four-hour room service, and Esmar would let me in his kitchen any time, day or night.

  “You’re smiling,” Abi murmurs as I pull back. “Why?”

  “I’m happy,” I admit, kissing the tip of her nose and then the point of her chin.

  Abi nods, her chin pressing into the top of my hair as I kiss down her throat to the V of her blouse. I’ve undone all of the buttons so it’s only gravity keeping her perfect mounds from being exposed, and as my tongue traces the edge of the cotton, her little hitching sighs tell me that her nipples are being slowly teased by the blouse as it gives up its touch on her skin.

  “Mmm,” I moan, licking and sucking as she arches, pressing more into my mouth. I consume her, intoxicated by her.

  Abi captures my hand, pressing it to the moist juncture between her thighs, and I grin around a mouthful of nipple.

  I unbutton the top of her denim shorts, teasing her by sliding her zipper down so slowly it’s torture for both of us. “You’ll get what you want, mia rosa, but lovemaking is like cooking . . . best when you take your time.”

  Abi growls, her fingers digging in the sand as I tease her other nipple, still not touching her warm, wet pussy until she’s writhing in want and need. I slide the fabric to the side, and she’s soaking wet, easily taking my two fingers and bowing up to meet me as I finger-fuck her rapidly.

  I pump quickly, almost harshly, as my thumb rubs her clit, pummeling Abi until she cries out, her voice lifting above the crashing waves as she screams her climax.

  She falls to the sand, completely relaxed, and I take this moment to slide my own clothes off. Kneeling next to her, I offer her my long, hard cock, moaning as she happily turns onto her side and sucks my head into her mouth.

  “That’s it,” I rasp as she bobs her head back and forth. “Get it nice and wet so I can fuck you.”

  Abi pulls back, letting my cock head pop out of her mouth, grinning. “Or maybe this time, we go slow and tender, make love all night?” She laps at my shaft, laying soft kisses to the most sensitive part of me.

  “Any way you want it,” I vow and am rewarded by her swallowing me again. She teases my slit, swirling her tongue until my hips are moving on their own, thrusting in and out of her mouth.

  “Abigail,” I warn. She pulls back, not letting me come, and flips over onto her knees, offering herself to me.

  I grab her hair, pulling her back as I thrust forward, filling her in one deep thrust. Our hips slap together, and I retreat, taking my time relishing the velvety grip of her body before slipping back in an inch at a time, watching the way her eyelids flutter as I fill her.

  Abigail meets me stroke for stroke, her hands clenching fistfuls of sand and pushing back into me. We’re moaning, crying out in a love language that isn’t Italian, isn’t English, but a private language that says more than either one.

  I love you.

  I need you.

  You’re mine.

  I’m yours.

  Forever.

  My balls tighten and I swell, teetering on the edge of falling into the abyss, but I won’t go without her. “Come,” I beg.

  And she does, pulling me with her into bliss. She cries out as I explode into her. Eventually, we fall apart, collapsing onto the blanket and holding each other until the waves pass.

  “What do you think of having a baby?” Abi ventures carefully as her fingers trace my tattoos. She has them memorized by now, could do it blindfolded, but she still does it every time we lie down to relax or after we have sex. It’s become one of our things.

  Abigail tells me that every couple has things like that, but I prefer to think it’s only us.

  “Is this because Violet’s pregnant again?” I joke, but I want to be sure.

  “No,” she says, tears gleaming at the corners of her eyes. “It’s because I am. I’m pregnant, Lorenzo!”

  “Oh, mio Dio, mia rosa,” I shout. “You knew and didn’t say anything?”

  “Surprise!” Abigail replies with an uncertain smile.

  “You have made me the happiest man to ever walk the face of the earth. To know that you carry our child is a miracle I never thought I’d be blessed with. I hope he or she has your wild sense of adventure and my hair.” I push my hands through Abigail’s mass of locks and l
ay a soft kiss to the tip of her nose.

  “I hope they have your bravery and my eyes,” she adds.

  “I think that sounds perfect.”

  But we both know that whatever comes our way, we’ll greet it with a smile and a barely half-formed plan. It’s who we are, still spontaneous and slightly crazy but together, no matter what.

  Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed this story, make sure you read the other two, My Big Fat Fake Wedding (Violet and Ross) and My Big Fat Fake Engagement (Courtney and Kaede). Read on for an excerpt of Violet & Ross’s story!

  Excerpt: My Big Fat Fake Wedding

  Violet—Five Months Ago

  This can’t be happening. He can’t be leaving me.

  Not now.

  Not ever.

  My heels click across the hospital floor as I race down the hallway. I’m in such a panic, the words blaring over the PA system hardly register from the blood rushing through my ears in a dull roar.

  “Code blue, room four! Code blue, room four!”

  I nearly trip over my own feet as I break into a shuffling run, boomeranging for the nearest patient room. I swear my heart is going to explode when I spot the correct door and burst inside to see . . .

  “Nana!” I exclaim as I see my grandmother, Angela Russo. She looks up from where she’s hovering like a hen over my grandfather. The scowl on her face highlights the parentheses of wrinkles around her lips, making her worry immediately apparent.

  My grandfather, Stefano, looks up at me, his unusually pale face widening into a huge smile. But even with the happiness blooming, I can tell he’s worn out, aged decades in the short time since I last saw him.

  “My beautiful little flower, Violet!” he sings, his Italian accent coming through as he holds his arms out to me. “I knew you would come. Come here so I can give you a kiss!”

  “Oh, Papa, I was so scared!” I say, rushing into his arms and collapsing into a ball of relief. “I dropped everything and came as soon as I heard.”