I know he’s into trying new things, but on the next stroke, the pinch I feel is a little too adventurous. I can’t even bring myself to bleach that part of my body, much less have a little sexy pain introduced there.

“Dec, honey, that hurts.” I hate interrupting the mood, but suddenly a cloud covers the sun, an ominous sign.

“Mmmph. Sorry.” He shifts, thighs spreading my legs a little, but the burning pinch just increases. I twitch as it happens, over and over, with increasing frequency.

“I think we’re, um, tweezing something. Like you’re catching my—” I let out a gasp of pain, a moan that sounds erotic but isn’t.

“Is that—ooh.” He grunts. “Uh, Shannon, you’re pulling my—hey, let’s...” Declan thrusts one more time, the feeling gravelly, like there’s sand being pushed inside me.

“Are we on sand? Something feels weird inside me.” Pinch. Pinchpinchpinch.

His eyes fly wide open and he pulls out, looking down.

I’ve never heard Declan scream. Really scream. You learn something new about your husband on your honeymoon. He has multiple octaves, and while he’s normally an Easter Island statue emotionally, he’s anything but right now.

His panic triggers mine. In triplicate.

Even though he’s out of me, the pinching continues, turning into a wave of fire that won’t stop. I look down.

“What is all over me?” I scream. I look like someone did a very, very poor job of applying a spray tan to my thighs.

“SHANNON!” he bellows, batting at his equipment, which is filled with a weird cinnamon color. Dec’s a naturally dark guy, without any auburn highlights. This doesn’t make sense.

Pinch. Pinchpinchpinch.

Burn.

And then I scream again, no words, a high, hollow sound, as something deep inside me twists, like a tiny corkscrew being embedded in a place where sharp implements don’t belong.

“Get up!” He shouts. “We’re on a fire ant hill! That’s not sand you’re feeling!”

I look down, between my legs, as I sit up on my elbows.

It’s like a tiny re-creation of that Prestonpans charging scene from Outlander, only with fire ants instead of redcoats, and my mons is the English camp.

Jamie Fraser charging up between my legs? No problem.

Fire ants?

PROBLEM.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” I stand and brush down, down, down, struggling to stop the pinching and burning, the biting and the tearing, knowing hundreds of these tiny torture devices are on me.

In me.

“They’re in my hoo haw!!!!!” I shout, Declan jumping and twisting like he’s starring in the next Goofy movie.

“The water! We need to get to the ocean!” he screams, grabbing my hand. Dec’s pulled his shorts up, but he hasn’t fastened them, and I see why.

Ants cover his thighs.

We sprint down the trail, my water bottle falling on my foot, sandals flying off our feet, bare tree roots digging into my soles.

“This was supposed to be romantic!” I call out, beginning to tremble, nerves overcome by the sheer enormity of so many hundreds of bites. “We were supposed to commune with nature!”

We get to the beach, Declan running straight for the water.

I let go of his hand.

He keeps running.

And then he bellows bloody murder, because fresh bite marks + salt water = agony.

Pinch. Burn.

Twitch.

Another pinprick inside me and I waver. Brushing furiously, I try to get them off me.

“Shannon! Just get in the water.”

“I can’t! Salt!” I’m in full-blown freak-out mode, nerves shot, rational thought a nice, distant memory.

“GET IN.”

“No!”

Zap. Now they feel like little electric zings inside me. The only electric zing I want in there is from Edward Cullen.

Ah, God.

In the distance, I see fellow resort guests—all five of them—on phones, and a siren floats through the air. The resort’s version of medical services appears to be on the way. It’s a sand dune buggy with a red cross sign on it.

Dec’s next to me on the beach, soaking wet, screaming at me. I can’t understand a word he’s saying, but in seconds I’m in his arms, pressed against his soaking chest, the button of his open shorts digging into my hip.

And then I’m dumped, unceremoniously, into the ocean.

If this is his version of carrying me across the threshold, the man needs to up his game.

* * *

There is not enough lidocaine cream in the world for more than two hundred fire ant bites on your private parts.

Even a billionaire can’t buy enough.

We are back in our hut. Declan and I are wearing hula skirts, but mind you, this is no sensual or entertaining scene. He has his sterile blanket, I have mine. Medical services came to our aid, kindly avoiding eye contact and administering immediate attention to the, ah...affected parts.

Strict doctor’s orders: no sex for two weeks.

I half expected Dr. Porter from the emergency room back in Boston to show up.

Declan’s scrotum looks like one of those Christmas orange clove ornaments kids make, only instead of shoving the cloves into the orange, the ants took tiny bites out of it.

I have parts of me so swollen they could double as biosphere domes.

And the best part?

Aunt Flo just visited. That’s right. Get it?

Aunt? Ant?

Oh, never mind.

I’m sitting—gingerly—on a lidocaine-slathered donut pillow, reading on an eBook device, while Declan plays chess.

Against himself.

Because that’s what you do on your honeymoon.

Right?

He looks up and winces, standing. Walking like a sumo wrestler with a hundred-pound weight on his balls, he reaches me in five minutes.

“Shannon? I’m so sorry.” I look up. He remains standing. I remain sitting.

“I know.” This is the thousandth time he’s said it.

“I thought—we just—it was so—”

“I know.”

“You keep saying that.”

“It’s better than calling you names.”

He shakes his head. “It’s really not. Go ahead. Do your worst. I can take it.” The corners of his mouth turn down as he stares at his sac. It looks like a big fireball of red, the size of a Texas Homecoming mum and about as useful. “You wanted to stay in bed and I pushed to go outside.”