My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon - Lauren Landish Page 0,140

for consistency, but Belinda and my crew have done a top-notch job. Each bite is pure pleasure.

Everyone else seems to be enjoying their dinner as well.

“Uhm, this is delicious!” Abigail raves about the fettuccine. The dish that started this all. “Promise me we can have this at least once a week.”

“Daily, if you want it,” I vow.

Abigail seems to actually be considering that. But too soon, dinner is over and we move on to dancing.

If there’s anything Abigail’s family enjoys, it’s dancing. Apparently, Violet’s wedding had a dance off that was the stuff of legends, I danced with Abigail at Courtney’s wedding, and now, I’m holding Abigail in my arms once again.

The music is slow and sweet, and I enjoy swaying with her until I see Aunt Sofia dancing with Archie. “Uh, is that okay?” I ask Abigail. “He’s not going to dip her and drop her on the floor, right?”

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