For the first time since this ordeal had begun, a smile ghosted on my face. “Thank you,” I rasped, my throat parched. Well, at least, our babies were going to start their lives off in style. Chanel was my favorite designer.
My peace of mind was short-lived. Another fierce pain tore through me as I grunted and gave one more hard push. Tears leaked from my eyes. The officer looked again at Jaime.
“Sir, she really needs to relax,” he repeated, tension now thick in his voice and etched on his face.
My eyes searched Jaime’s. My poor baby looked so lost, so helpless, so desperate. And then suddenly his eyes lit up. I knew that look. It was the telltale sign of my creative genius coming up with a brilliant idea.
“Gloria, look at me.” His voice was virile, velvety, and deep. The yummy voice I fell in love with the minute I’d met him on the elevator of The Walden. “Let me help you” were his very first words.
Please help me now, baby!
Trying to breathe away the pain and still gripping his hand, I bore my eyes into his.
With his other hand, my beautiful husband lovingly brushed the sweat off my forehead and then dusted the tip of my now damp braid across my chin.
“Angel, I want you to think about our honeymoon. That afternoon…”
Leaning into my ear, he began to sing to me in Italian in his sexy, raspy voice…
“
Gloria, manchi tu nell’aria
Manchi ad una mano
Che lavora a piano
Manchi a questa bocca
Che piu no tocca…”
The original Italian version of my song, “Gloria.” As Jaime’s soft sexy voice drifted into my ears, I closed my eyes, half because of the pain, half because I needed to transport myself to that place, that time, that moment. Relive it.
We’re in Tuscany. I thought we were going back to Paris, but I should have known better. My creative genius would never do the same thing twice. He’s rented a private villa—stocked to the gills with the finest Italian gourmet foods and a full-time staff—that sits amongst the hills, overlooking endless green pastures, olive groves, and grapevines. When the sun rises and sets, it’s like God creating the world before my eyes. And a sex god is the divine man with whom I’m sharing this dream. This dream that is reality. Mine.
We haven’t stopped making love since our arrival last night. After sharing a delectable meal on the candlelit terrace, he swept me into his arms and carried me off to the bedroom where we fucked every way we could on the plush four-poster bed that’s fit for royalty—and Jaime’s royal cock.
“Come on, Mrs. Zander, let’s go for a drive in the countryside,” he breathes into my ear after a late breakfast. My heart thuds at the words, Mrs. Zander. It’s all so new to me yet it feels so right. He gives me a passionate, all-consuming kiss that warms my blood.
A short fifteen minutes later after one more quick fuck, we’re ready for our outing. The early September weather is mild, so we’ve dressed accordingly. I’m wearing a floral sundress that gently flows over my little baby bump and a pair of sparkly flip-flops. My hair cascades over my belly in a loose, long braid. Mr. Sexy is clad in one of his casual, panty-melting uniforms—a hip-hugging perfectly ripped pair of jeans, a soft white V-neck tee, and a pair of expensive Italian loafers. As usual, no socks. And, just as usual, a tingly rush of heat coils through me at the sight of his sexy bare feet. They always have that effect on me. Perhaps, because his sockless feet were the very first part of him I set my eyes on during our first fateful elevator encounter.
Three months pregnant with our twins, I pack a healthy basketful of assorted cheeses, a loaf of freshly baked bread, and a bucket of the biggest, most gorgeous strawberries I’ve ever seen. Clutching a plaid blanket, Jaime throws in a chilled bottle of Prosecco. Selfish, self-centered husband! He knows damn well I can’t have any of the Italian sparkling wine. But I love him anyway. More than life itself. Grinning fiendishly, he grabs my hand and whisks me away.
The car we’ve rented—a little sage green convertible Fiat—awaits us outside. Jaime helps me inside it and then hops into the driver’s seat. In a heartbeat, we’re off. Zipping down the seemingly endless winding road that leads from our hillside villa to the verdant valley below. Jaime loves speed, but he drives carefully and attentively. With my pregnancy, his fierce possessiveness has morphed into fierce protectiveness.
Wearing my favorite sunglasses, I soak in the scenery. The colorful Tuscan landscape with its rolling hills is spectacular, but nothing compares to the breathtaking view of my husband in his Ray-Bans. His gorgeous manly profile with its strong stubbled jaw and sexy little dimple…his mountainous biceps that flex when he turns the wheel…his muscled thighs that peek out from his shredded jeans…his large, long-fingered hand that curls over the stick shift. He belongs in a museum. A gallery in Florence. Sunglasses and all. The bumps along the road send little jolts to my buzzing core. His gaze focused ahead, Jaime lifts his right hand off the shift and slips it under the hem of my dress and slides it up my thigh. He shoves away the tiny lace thong I’m wearing, and his deft fingers find their way to my slick folds. He caresses them. Squirming, I face front.
“What are you doing?” I ask, secretly loving every minute.
“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m feeling you up.”
I laugh at his words, spoken like a teenager.
“Ah, my angel, you’re already so hot and wet. I can hardly wait for lunch.”
I crank my neck and look at him again. Wearing a delicious smirk, he knows my eyes are on him, but he deliberately doesn’t turn to face me. A sharp curve in the serpentine road forces his hand back on the shift. I place my left hand over his. When he changes gear, I gaze down. The two entwined heart-shaped diamonds of my
toi et moi
ring glimmer in the warm Tuscan sun. A simple platinum band now accompanies the magnificent ring. Inscribed inside are two words: Eternally yours. My heart hammers as if I’ve just met him for the first time. It’s still hard to believe I’m married to this man. Memories of our oceanfront Malibu wedding dance in my head. The crashing waves. Our forever vows. His lips crashing on mine. A once impossible fantasy is now my reality. Another tingly surge of wetness pools between my thighs. I’m excited about lunch.
His eyes stay focused on the twisting road. “Maybe, after we eat, we’ll hunt for white truffles. It’s the season for them.”
“That would be fun.” My voice is lackluster. Confession: I have another activity in mind. Truthfully, the last thing I want to do is go on a treasure hunt for some smelly fungus.
“Gloria, you could be a little more enthusiastic.”
“Mio amore,
I’m
so
excited.” I mentally roll my eyes.
He snickers. “You know, truffles are a natural aphrodisiac.”
My ears perk up. My husband is quite the expert when it comes to aphrodisiacs. My mind flashes back to our first dinner together at an Italian restaurant in New York and his lecture on the erotic powers of artichokes. Hard on the outside and soft on the inside, the thistled delicacy’s suckable leaves and thorny heart can make you horny, he said. Even bring you to orgasm. I didn’t believe a word until he sensuously fed me one and I came right in my seat. At the memory, my skin prickles.
“Tell me more, Mr. Know-It-All.”
“It’s true. Just say the word. It’s like saying fuck…Truffle,” he says breathlessly.
“Truffle,” I repeat.
Holy
fuck!
He’s right. It awakens erotic sensations deep in my belly. Flutters erupt between by legs.
“The musky scent replicates the male pheromone, androstenone. Napoleon ate truffles to increase his masculine potency.”
I glance down at the big bulge between his legs and laugh. “Well, darling, I don’t think that’s your problem.”
For a quick second, he takes his eyes off the road and gazes at me. His eyes pierce me through the dark lenses. That dazzling, devilish dimpled smile curls on his lips. Oh yes, lunch is going to be good.
Jaime returns his focus to the road and turns on the radio. Oh my goodness! The original version of “Gloria” sung in Italian—the inspiration for the Laura Branigan eighties hit—is blasting. It was even featured in the recent Scorcese movie,
The Wolf of
Wall Street
. We bought the fabulous soundtrack. My big, bad wolf has sung it again and again to our twins, convinced it’ll teach them Italian. Personally, I think it’s going to turn them both into raving disco maniacs. We madly sing along. My off-tune voice pales next to his. With his sinfully sexy looks and pitch-perfect raspy voice, he could be a rock star. Take that back. He
is
a rock star.
My
rock star.
An hour into the drive, he stops the car. We’re in the middle of nowhere. Verdant hills illuminated by the afternoon sun surround me, and in the distance, I can see scattered villas and vineyards. The late summer trees, whose leaves have begun to turn into jewels—topaz, garnets, and citrines—shade us. We’re parked on a slice of heaven on Earth.
No need for sunglasses, we store them in the glove box. Jaime jumps out of the car. “Come on, angel. It’s time to feast.” After opening the passenger door for me, he rounds the little sports car and retrieves our blanket and picnic basket from the trunk. He takes me by the hand and leads me to leafy patch under a majestic chestnut tree. He sets the picnic basket on the ground, and I help him spread the blanket. I’m ironing out the corners when his brawny arms clamp my belly.
“Come here, you.”
Those three words that make every part of me melt. I know what’s coming.
I straighten up and he spins me around. His denim blue eyes burn a hole in mine. He tickles my chin with the tip of my braid, and in a hot breath, he slithers my sundress down my body until it’s a crumpled cotton heap by my feet. I’m standing before him, clad only in my matching floral lace bra and thong from our Springtime is My Time collection.
Our time.
My breasts quiver in the pre-autumn breeze.
“Tear off my clothes, Gloria,” he commands.
Eagerly, I lift his soft tee over his head and then unbutton his jeans. I shove them down his long legs, not surprised to see he’s gone commando. His magnificent cock is already erect. He rubs the tip against my swollen belly. With a soft hiss, he kicks off his shoes and steps out of his jeans.
“Lie down.” Another one of his bossy orders. Something I’ve gotten used to. Something I’ve come to love. He needs to control me as much as I need to lose control.
I do as bid. My eyes gaze up at the sculpted masterpiece looming above me. He puts Michelangelo’s David to shame. His massive cock, as hard as marble, points at me.
“I’m starving, Gloria,” he growls as he lowers himself onto the blanket.
“But we just had breakfast.”
He rolls his eyes at me. “I can’t fucking get enough of
you.”
Squatting next to me, he rips off my bra and panties in a heated breath. My pulse is racing, my pussy pulsing. Goose bumps spread across my flesh.
“Now bend your knees and spread your legs.” I hear the leering chestnut tree ooh as I do as asked. Jaime repositions himself between them.
With a seductive smile and eyes hooded, he reaches into our picnic basket and withdraws the bucket of strawberries. Setting it beside him, he plucks out a large perfect red berry by its stem and then circles it slowly around my nipples, one after the other. My nipples pucker and I moan with pleasure.
His sultry voice drifts into my ears. “Did you know that strawberries are also a natural aphrodisiac?”
Whatever.
I’m too caught up in the sensual pleasure he’s giving me.
“In art and literature, they’re called ‘fruit nipples.’ And aptly, my beautiful pregnant wife, the many tiny seeds symbolize fertility.”
My
‘fruit nipples’ are getting me completely aroused. Now that I’m pregnant, they’re even more sensitive. Wet heat blossoms between my thighs. I moan again as Jaime trails the strawberry around the circumference of each breast, and then slowly down my torso over my swollen belly until it reaches the space between my legs. He rubs the tip up and down my slick folds and then draws circles with it around my clit. He presses harder. The wet skin of the berry mingles with mine, creating an out of this world erotic sensation. A groan escapes my throat.
“How does this feel, angel?”
“Berry, very good,” I moan. Oh does it! Our glazed eyes connect. He smiles wickedly. I so want him inside me. He’s made me so ripe for him. But to my dismay, he moves the berry away from my hungry pussy. I gasp.
“Eat!” he orders, dangling the monstrous, soaked strawberry above my mouth. He puts it to my lips and traces the outline with the tip. I close my eyes, savoring the sublime sensation. After one rotation, I part my lips and bite into the berry. My own sweet juices mix with the juices of the fruit and create an erotic cocktail. Moaning, I swallow, and with one more bite, I polish it off.
“Did you like that, Gloria?”
“Mmm.” Opening my eyes, I nod with a smile.
With a glint of satisfaction, he smiles back at me. “Good. Now, it’s my turn. I want to taste you.” I watch as he reaches into the bucket for another succulent strawberry. He repeats his actions. I repeat my reactions. Removing the glistening plump berry from my pussy, he lifts it to his mouth and languidly rolls his tongue around it. My eyes stay fixed on him as he inserts the whole berry into his mouth. Clamping his luscious lips on it, he bites down and swallows hard. It’s like a slow motion dream.
“Mmm. Mrs. Zander, you do taste so berry good. But I’m thirsting for more.” My feverish eyes stay glued on him as he pops open the bottle of Prosecco and glogs a mouthful. The excess drizzles from his mouth. Holy shit. So unbelievably sexy.
“Have some,” he breathes out.
“You know I can’t. I’m preg—”
Before I can finish my sentence, Jaime crashes his lips on mine and forces my mouth to open. His tongue, laced with the flavor of the chilled sparkling wine, dashes inside and then dances with mine. Swirling and twirling. It tastes so good. He tastes so good. I moan into his delicious mouth, cupping his face and deepening our passionate kiss. An electric current zaps every nerve of my body. And then, without warning, he pours the rest of the bubbly all over me. I jolt.