My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon - Lauren Landish Page 0,34

jumps against me. I like that he’s carried away too as he dry humps me, only hinting at what we’re playacting.

“Take it. Take me, Abigail,” he hisses through clenched teeth. Is that for effect or is he holding the reins that tightly?

“Yes, my Italian Stallion!” I cry out, clawing at his shoulders for purchase.

Confusion mars his face as he mouths, “Italian Stallion?”

I shake my head and whisper back, “I don’t know, it just came out.”

He grins like that’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard and goes back to thrusting against me with renewed furor. “That’s it, mia rosa. Are you going to come for me?”

Oh, shit. I am.

Like I am . . . for real.

Any sane, rational, reasonable person would tilt their hips and move away from the power of his thrusts to save a little face. Do I? Absolutely not. If anything, I’m humping him back, riding him like the pony at my sixteenth birthday party. Don’t laugh . . . it was an amazing blowout. Like I’m about to have . . .

“Yes, yes. Right there, Lorenz-ohh!” He pulls me tight against him, his cock grinding against my clit as he grunts through several short strokes and says something I don’t understand in Italian.

Is he? Did he?

As I float back to Earth and realize what just happened, there’s another knock on the door. This one is harder and louder. “Hey, Abi! We have reservations, you know?” Emily yells through the wood, literally inches away from where I just loudly came on Lorenzo’s cock for real.

But while she’ll think it's part of the newlywed thing, he doesn’t need to know that my knees are knocking and my legs are Jell-O as he lowers me back to the floor.

“Uh, yeah. Sorry. One second.” My voice is too high, and as I look at Lorenzo in disbelief, I can’t help but giggle. He looks so . . . tense.

My giggles turn into laughs. “Oh, my God,” I mutter. “I can’t believe—”

I shut up at the dark look in Lorenzo’s eyes. “Ready for dinner, Abigail?”

With that, he opens the door, leading me from a dream to a nightmare.

Heat is the fancy dinner lounge that Emily and Doug lead us to. I have to say, they’re not lying about the name. Unless they just flat-out called it Sex with a Side of Dinner.

It’s like every romantic movie got distilled, remixed, and given a sex club twist. Along one wall is a beautiful mirrored bar complete with a shiny bar top and black leather stools that scream late-night sexual hookups, while the center of the room has been left open as a dance floor that’s certain to lead to other types of seduction.

Even the table booths are private and intimate. A couple could easily go quite a long way toward full-on sex without anyone noticing, and a more adventurous couple could probably get the whole damn thing done.

Surrounding it all is a view of the beach and sea through the wall of open doors that let the sea breeze dance through the space. Right now, we can’t see the moon, but the light’s still glimmering off the water, taking my breath away as our waitress leads the four of us over to one of the larger booths.

“This is . . . nice,” Doug says lamely, trying to find words and pretty much revealing that he’s never going to be a contestant on Jeopardy!

He’s trying, though he’s the consummate American on a tropical vacation. He’s wearing a tropical shirt, his hair spiked up, and khakis that walk the line of ‘yacht club’ and ‘business attire’.

Honestly, I do have to give him credit for the shirt. It’s a no-bullshit tropical shirt, right down to the orchids and toucans. And the orchids are a beautiful print. I wish I could pluck them right off his shirt and create something with them.

Hmm, I wonder if he got that here? With a little creative stitching, it might be possible to turn the fabric into ribbon strips for some of the more casual affairs I’ll be doing flowers for, I think.

“I like your shirt, Doug,” I tell him. “Where’d you get it?”

He looks down as though he has no idea what he’s wearing. “Oh, this? I think my mom got it for me. A honeymoon gift for the tropics.”

“Oh.” His mom bought his clothes. Seriously? I mean, I go shopping with my mother too, and she’s even bought me gifts for special occasions, but something about the way he said