"So romantic," I tease, even as my breath catches at the way he's looking at me.
"I'm done being romantic." He slides off the lounger, kneeling between my legs. "Right now, I'm being honest. I want you. Again. I'll always want you. Everything else can wait."
"The room service we ordered an hour ago is probably sitting in the dining room getting cold," I manage.
"Let it get cold." His mouth traces up my inner thigh. "I'm busy. Besides, I’m hungry for a taste of something else."
The first slow lick is pure devotion—from entrance to clit, gathering my taste on his tongue. He moans, the sound vibrating through me, and does it again, slower, savoring. His tongue traces every contour, every sensitive ridge, like he’s memorizing a map he never wants to forget. When he circles my clit with the flat of his tongue, I cry out and grab his hair.
He slips one finger inside me, then two, curling gently, stroking that spot that makes my breath hitch. He moves his fingers in a slow, steady rhythm, tongue still fluttering over my clit, until pleasure coils tight and sweet in my belly.
“Come on my face,” he murmurs against me. “Let me feel you.”
The orgasm rolls through me like warm honey—long, languid waves that leave me gasping his name. He stays with me through every pulse, licking softly, fingers still moving until I’m limp and glowing.
Santino brushes damp hair from my face, eyes soft. “Roll over for me, love,” he murmurs, voice low and coaxing. “On your knees—I want to take you from behind, feel every inch of you.”
I turn willingly, settling onto hands and knees on the thick cushion. He kneels behind me, palms gliding down my sun-warmed back. The head of his cock nudges my entrance, slick and ready, and he enters me in one smooth glide, deeper from this angle, the stretch exquisite. I arch back, meeting him halfway, and he groans, hands tightening on my hips. “God, Liana… look at you.” His voice is hushed, reverent. “Sunlight on your skin, hair spilling everywhere. I could live in this moment.”
He starts to move—long, rolling thrusts that drag over every nerve, the lounger creaking softly beneath us. Water laps at the pool’s edge, a gentle counterpoint to the wet sounds of our bodies. His chest brushes my back with every stroke, warm and solid, and I feel the tremor in his thighs, the way he’s holding back.
One hand slides up my spine, gathering my long dark hair. He wraps it slowly around his fist—not yanking, just tugging gently until my head tilts back, throat exposed to the sun. The pull is delicious, grounding, and I moan, pushing back harder. “Like that?” he whispers, lips against my ear. “You feel so good… so open for me.”
“Yes,” I breathe, the word trembling out of me. He tugs a little firmer, arching my back, and the angle shifts—his cock dragging over that perfect spot inside. My fingers clutch the cushion. His other hand slips beneath me, fingers circling my clit in slow, lazy circles, matching the rhythm of his hips.
I can see our reflection in the dark glass of the house—two bodies moving as one, hair tangled in his fist, my back bowed in pleasure.Damn, that’s hot. “Santino,” I gasp, the pressure building again, sweet and relentless.
He releases my hair, smoothing it down my back, then grips my hips with both hands, guiding me back onto him in deep, steady strokes. His fingers return to my clit, pressing justright, and I shatter—quietly this time, a long, rolling wave that leaves me trembling, clenching around him.
He follows with a low, broken groan, burying himself deep and pulsing inside me, arms wrapping around my waist to hold me close. We collapse together, his weight a warm blanket over me, the lounger cradling us both.
After a moment, he kisses the nape of my neck, then rolls us so I’m tucked against his chest, legs tangled. “I love my wife,” he whispers into my hair, lips curving in a smile I can feel. “And this is just the beginning.”
I laugh softly, tracing the line of his jaw. “Good. Because I’m nowhere near done with you.”
The Italian sun beats down on us. The pool water sparkles. The Mediterranean stretches out endless and blue beyond the cliff edge.
And I stop caring about sightseeing or itineraries or anything except my husband's hands and mouth and the way he makes me feel like I'm the only woman in the entire world.
Later—much later—we're in the pool, the cool water a relief against our overheated skin. I'm wrapped around him, his back against the infinity edge, my legs around his waist.
"We should probably eat something eventually," I murmur against his neck. "Actual food. Not just each other."
"Probably," he agrees, but makes no move to leave the pool. "Though I'm perfectly satisfied with my current diet."
I laugh, biting gently at his earlobe. "You're insatiable."
"You're naked in my arms in a private pool in Italy. What did you expect?"
"Fair point."
"You know," I say casually, trailing my fingers through the pool water, "I packed a special suitcase for the honeymoon. Remember I told you about it?"
He goes very still. "A suitcase?"
"The one with all the special honeymoon toys." I keep my face completely innocent. "I figured now that we're married, we should finally use them."
"I thought you took all those back to the sex shop?" His voice is carefully neutral, like he's trying very hard to be supportive of his sexy, insatiable bride.
