Chapter 20
LORENZO
“Abigail,” I call out as I enter our suite.
Tonight has been exhausting. Rewarding, but exhausting.
The wedding service went off with only a few minor hiccups.
Well, minor if you can call Gilberto getting his sleeve caught in the pasta maker and it taking three of us to set him free.
Oh, and then there was the cake designer coming into the kitchen like he was the freshly crowned prince of Weddingtopia and demanding a central workstation for his masterpiece.
“You won’t believe the story I have to tell you, mia rosa!”
Oh, Esmar had thrown me a side-eye, told the cake guru ‘right this way’, and set him up to make delicate sugar flowers .
. . right by the hot cooktop. He hadn’t lasted thirty minutes before declaring that he could not work in such hostile conditions, and we’d openly laughed as we shuffled him off to the back where he could create in relative comfort.
There’s no answer in the suite. No outrageous stories from Abigail or bawdy stories from Janey. It’s quiet.
I suppose they’re still cleaning up downstairs. I consider going to help but reject the idea because I don’t think it would serve Abigail to have Meredith see me playing the role of helper boy. I’m worried about the fallout of Meredith’s veiled threats for Abigail when we get home.
Home.
The word has never seemed so loaded before. I’ve always considered Positano my true home, the place I grew up. But wherever I lay my head is home too—the sense of comfort and belonging one I cultivate everywhere I go on my adventures.
And spending time with Abigail . . . it’s home too.
But could Aruba be home? In Esmar’s kitchen or one of my own, here on the island?
It’s a big decision. One I can’t make tonight with my head fuzzy with exhaustion.
I decide a shower is in order as a way to refresh my body and mind, not to mention wash off the smells of sweat and food, before Abigail returns. The hot water is heaven, relaxing muscles I didn’t even know were tense.
By the time I get out, I feel like scotta pasta, overcooked and mushy. Nude, I lay out on the bed with the lamp on to wait for Abigail. I can’t wait to hear about her day.
Sometime in the early morning hours, I startle awake. I don’t know what I heard or why my eyes pop open, and I settle slightly. Then I remember . . . I’m waiting for Abigail.
In the corner of my vision, I see a dark shape in the bed with me. My heart leaps automatically, and then I smile at my own ridiculousness. It’s her.
My bleary eyes focus, tracing the outline of her black clothes against the white of the bed sheets in the dim light. Poor thing must’ve fallen into bed straight from finishing for the night.
I get up, carefully pulling her sensible flats off her cute little feet, noting how red her toes look. I consider removing her clothes so she is more comfortable, but don’t want to risk waking her if she’s as exhausted as I am.
At least we have tomorrow morning to enjoy the island before our flights out.
I pick up my phone, pulling up the resort’s website to see if there might be a particular way to make the most of our last morning in Aruba.
Reservation made, I set my alarm so we don’t sleep too late. We need rest, obviously. But we need something else even more.
I turn the lamp off and curl up behind Abigail, making her the little spoon to my big, and cover us over with a blanket.
Sleep overtakes me quickly once again, more restful with Abigail in my arms.
“Where are you taking me?” Abigail asks as I lead her down the hallway.
She was a little suspicious when I asked her to put on a blindfold in the elevator, accusing me of having a few Fifty Shades fantasies, but she’s been a good sport so far.
Especially considering the blindfold is less silken luxury and more linen napkin from the suite.
I’m working with what I’ve got here.
“Don’t worry, just a few more seconds,” I assure her, guiding her around the final curve.
There are two women there to meet us, but I raise a finger to my lips to tell them to be quiet and they smile as they nod. One of them holds open the door and silently mimes what they want me and Abigail to do.
They close the door behind them to give us a few moments of privacy, and I stand behind Abigail with my hands on her shoulders. I can feel the tension there, from the week’s stress I’m sure, but is there something else too? Maybe she’s sad to see this fake honeymoon end the way I am?
“Abigail, you give so much to so many, making nature’s beauty into something even more magical.
So I want to give something to you.” A shiver works its way down her spine at my heated words delivered directly into the delicate shell of her ear.
“You deserve the sun and moon and stars. And more. Unfortunately, though I wish I could, I could not capture them for you, so instead, I offer you something less, but hopefully, it will be enough.”
I untie the knot of the napkin, letting it fall away from her eyes. I watch as she blinks before looking around. The light is dim in the room, though there is one full wall of tinted glass. In the middle of the small space sit two white sheet-covered tables.
“You got us massages?” she asks on a gasp.
“I did. You worked so hard yesterday. We both did. We need this.”
We need many things, but this will have to be enough for now. I’m too uncertain to begin the dangerous conversation burning in my throat. Unsure of myself and even more of Abigail.
But I won’t let that mar this one last pristine, beautiful day in paradise.
“The massage therapists will be in momentarily. They said to strip and lie under the sheet.”
Abigail nods but looks carefully at the window. It’s wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling gray glass. “The beach looks awesome out there, but I’m not sure naked beach time massages are on my bucket list,” she says shyly.
I laugh, feeling the same way. I’m a risk taker, but that might be a bit much. “It’s one-way glass. We get all the beauty of the sand, sea, and sky, but no one can see in. I confirmed it with Esmar, and if anyone would know, it’s him.”
Abigail takes Esmar’s word, though she doesn’t even know him, and starts to undress.
I’m supposed to be disrobing as well, but all I can do is watch her, enjoying every inch of flesh as she bares it to my eyes. Her tits pearl up under my scrutiny and goosebumps break out along her skin.
“What?” she whispers.
“You, mia rosa. You’re beautiful. A vision I want to study, memorize.”
Her soft smile seems sad, but she recovers quickly. I wonder if she’s feeling the loss of Aruba’s magic too. “Your turn.”
I have to cup my thickness, which is growing under her hungry gaze. Laughing lightly, I spin her, pushing her toward one of the beds. “I can’t get a massage with an erection, and it’s never going down if you keep looking at me like that. Lie down and cover up.”
She goes slowly, and I reach out to smack her ass, enjoying the way the flesh jiggles. I groan, getting no relief, and she giggles. But she does lie face down on the table under the sheet.
I close my eyes, thinking of my family’s recipe for lasagna, repeating the layers until I get to a thirty-layer dish. That’s deep dish, I think with a chuckle, noting that ricotta is a definite turn-off.
I climb under my own sheet just in time as a knock sounds out on the door. “Come in,” I call out.
The massage therapists take their place beside each bed and slowly start to rub oil all over our bodies. I should be relaxing into the firm touch, my muscles turning to jelly, but all I can do is watch Abigail turn to liquid from her own massage.
Her skin gleams, supple and slick, and I want it to be my hands slipping along her curves, drawing the soft moans and groans from her throat.
Tucking the sheet around her hip, the massage therapist bares one cheek of Abigail’s firm ass and my hips shift of their own volition, looking for some friction on my rock-hard cock. The table isn’t nearly enough.
“Turn over,” I hear above me.
“Uhm, that’s not a good idea,” I say sheepishly. All three women look to me, two with poker straight faces and one, my Abigail, with a big grin.
“What’s wrong, Lorenzo? You got a half-chub from having her hands all over you?” Abigail teases. She thinks she’s playing a game, throwing me under the bus to embarrass me. Little minx having her fun, but she doesn’t know who she’s tormenting.
“No. I’m painfully hard . . . for you, mia rosa. You look so sexy and soft, I want to lick that oil from your skin, feast on your flesh, and drink you down.”
“Oh.” Her voice hitches, unexpectedly high.
Not exaggerating in the slightest, I boldly turn over beneath the sheet. My cock bobs against my belly from the movement and then I pitch an obscene tent in the white sheet.
“Oh!” Abigail repeats, this time sounding more aroused herself. A circle of wetness appears on the sheet where it absorbs my precum.
The massage therapists, probably used to seeing and hearing much worse, maintain absolute and utter professionalism, simply moving to do their jobs on the front sides of our bodies, massaging our arms, legs, and across our chests.
The shadows of Abigail’s nipples are visible beneath the thin sheet, tantalizingly hard, and I wonder if she’s getting wet too, if her lush lips are coated with slickness, her own juices mixing with the oil on her thighs.
At the prescribed time, the massage therapists end on a synchronized note.
“Thank you for visiting the spa during your stay. There is complimentary lemon water on the table for your refreshment, and you may wear the robes on the hooks back to your suite when you are ready. This beach view room is yours for one hour of additional relaxation.”
She points to the clock on the wall above the door as they exit, leaving Abigail and me alone, nude, slick, and aroused.