My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon - Lauren Landish Page 0,125

and know that I will never leave you again, even if you want me to. Even if you beg me to.” He switches to soft kisses and lapping licks, from one thigh, across my middle, to the other thigh. “Sweet, wild Abigail . . . I’m afraid you’re stuck with me . . . forever.”

I’m already on edge embarrassingly easily with his words that pierce directly into my romantic heart and his tongue that’s hitting my needy clit.

I reach down with my hand, twining it into his hair and holding him to me, demanding what I want. What I deserve.

“Please . . . fuck.” The plea is for more—more of his tongue, more of his poetry, more of something I can’t even name as I’m swirling higher and higher under his power.

But he knows. I don’t know how, but he does. “You’re mine.” The soft claim is paired with a fierce suck on my clit, and together, they send me flying into the abyss. My eyes flutter closed and I see white sparkles against the black of my eyelids. He grunts against me, demanding more until I’m wrung out from the bliss.

Slowly, I come back to the moment and to my body, unsure where I disappeared to but knowing I went on a journey to somewhere magical. Lorenzo is slowly circling my clit with his thumb, patiently waiting on my vision to clear, and when I look down between my legs, it’s to see him with a lazy smile of awe on his face.

“Bellissima, mia rosa.”

I wiggle and he lets me move. I scoot up the bed, waving him closer with one hand. His eyes narrow, asking carefully, “Are you hurting?” He nods his head toward the tattoo.

I bite my lip, not willing to admit that it’s sore and moving around isn’t helping because I want to keep going, especially when I see the hard ridge in his jeans. “Not too much. I might just have to be a starfish this time.”

His brows knit together. “Starfish?”

I lay my arms and legs out wide and lax, telling him dramatically, “Do with me what you will.”

Oh, shit. There’s a fresh gleam in his eye instantly, and his hand goes to his cock, massaging it through the denim. “You’re asking for it,” he warns.

But I don’t need a warning. I need whatever devious thought is running through his mind right now because it’s written all over the hard lines of his face as he grits his teeth, making the muscles in his jaw flex.

My hips buck, looking for something in the empty air above me.

“Don’t move. You’ll hurt yourself.”

The order is clear. And I’m not a girl who takes orders. I’m a girl who gives them. But my hips still, curious at what he’s going to do.

He yanks his shirt over his head, toes off his boots, and slowly, so damn slowly, undoes his jeans. He pushes them and his underwear down in the front, freeing himself. I must make some sound of hunger because his hand goes to the base, squeezing himself tightly. “Cazzo,” he groans.

I’m pretty sure that means ‘fuck’, but even if I wasn’t sure, his tone would tell me. “You said don’t move. You didn’t say I couldn’t talk, Lorenzo. Are you going to climb up here and fuck me or stand there and jerk off onto me?”

Honestly, both options sound pretty stellar right now.

He pushes his jeans and underwear the rest of the way down, leaving a puddle of clothes on the floor. Stroking himself, he tells me, “Neither.”

But he kneels on the bed between my legs, lining up with my entrance. He gives a few shallow thrusts, not breeching me but coating his crown with my juices. My hips buck as I try to impale myself on him to ease this aching need that only he can fix.

His hands find my hips. Pushing me into the softness of the bed, he forces me still beneath him. I gasp in disappointment at losing the contact when I was so close to having him fill me again.

“Abigail, look at me.”

I have to blink to focus on him, but once I do, I can see that he’s on the edge too, holding on by a fraying thread.

“I’m not going to fuck you. Not this time.” He shakes his head, and I swallow a cry. “I’m going to make love to you, and you’re going to let me worship you the way you deserve. You’re going to be still and let