Page 13 of Sex, Love & Lingerie

The car we’ve rented—a little sage green Fiat convertible—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 a French 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 featured in the Scorcese movie The Wolf of Wall Street. We loved it so much we downloaded 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.

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