Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 94436 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 472(@200wpm)___ 378(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94436 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 472(@200wpm)___ 378(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
And as hard as I’d tried to join in with my friends, my dad, everyone at the wedding, only Jay existed for me too. Though I did not miss the way my father had lingered around Janet. That would’ve been something I would’ve focused on a lot more had my husband not purred in my ear about being hungry for my pussy.
“Do you care where we’re going?” he asked, hand moving over my bare ass. The one he’d spanked then fucked. My entire body thrummed with exertion, muscles little more than jelly.
I thought about that. “Not at all, as long as I’m with you. Though you didn’t have to spirit me away on some fancy jet. We could’ve just stayed at home for a week.”
Jay cocked a brow ever so slightly. “No, we couldn’t have. For the first week that you’re my wife, I’m going to fuck you in a foreign country, barely let you leave bed and make sure you wear as little clothing as possible.” His lips fastened over my nipple. “And I will have none of the shit lurking in L.A. even touching us.”
A spike of panic shot through me.
“Is stuff in L.A. going to touch us?” I asked. Darkness and worry crept in at the edges of my perfect day. My perfect wedding.
“Nothing is going to touch you,” Jay declared, flipping me so I was flat on my back, naked and thirty thousand feet in the ear. “Except me.” Then he buried his head between my legs.
I learned a lot of things about Jay the first week of our honeymoon. He could speak fluent Italian, for example.
Which helped immensely considering we spent our honeymoon in Italy, one of the best countries in the world, in my humble opinion. I could do all the important things in Italian, order coffee, wine and ask where the nearest Prada store was, but I could not speak like Jay.
I was of the opinion that even the Italians could not speak like Jay. My husband. Every word flowed out of him like poetry, unhurried, lyrical and utterly sexual. And it was not just me who thought that. The woman who checked us in at our hotel in Lake Como was practically drooling despite the large diamond on my finger, attached to the arm that was wrapped around him. Despite the wedding ring on his finger and the fact that his lips were on my neck whenever he wasn’t speaking to her.
The green monster reared its ugly head for a hot minute. That was until we were spirited away to our suite in Villa d’Este, one of the most opulent and romantic hotels in Lake Como, perched on the water’s edge at Cernobbio.
The suite was sprawling with a huge sitting and living room, and a four-poster bed that could easily fit five people. Everything decorated in rich fabrics, chandeliers in every room, a balcony spanning along the entire suite with views of the lake. The lake had great views of us, too, since we got ample use out of the balcony. And the bed. And every other room in the suite, even though we were only there for two days.
I’m sure Lake Como was lovely, or it would’ve been if we’d left our room.
Venice was similar. Exquisite suite, stunning views, excellent food, more of Jay speaking Italian. We did leave the room, once, to have dinner on the canals, with music echoing across the water, tourists ambling past and wine flowing freely. As much as it was like something out of a movie, I was counting down the moments until we were back in our room. Jay’s eyes and his hand on my bare thigh told me he felt the same.
We did not make it to the room that night, we barely made it to the darkened corner of one of Venice’s many narrow alleys, Jay pushing me up against the wall, tearing at my underwear and taking me with people walking past mere feet away.
Then there was a short trip to Morocco.
Morocco.
To drink tea.
Because he was Jay. Because he remembered.
“I still have to see a sunset in Bali. Drink tea in Morocco. Climb a mountain in New Zealand. Do something for humanity that isn’t just helping keep ateliers in Paris in business.”
The first night we met. When I’d been sure he was going to kill me. When I’d blurted out all the things I’d wanted to do before I died. Tea in Morocco. The balmy breeze, the crowded alleys in the Medina. Street vendors calling out. Flaky Pastilla. My husband, sitting across from me, watching me in that way of his, sipping his tea lazily. It was tempting to ask to stay in the loud, colorful, hot and beautiful city of Marrakech for longer. To explore every corner of the Media. Buy rugs and lamps. But Jay promised we’d be back, in time. Time was what we had. Forever. So I let him spirit me back to Italy.