“Whoa,” he says on a heavy exhale, when we reach the balcony overlooking the Roman Forum. I smile, ignoring the ruins in favor of drinking in his expression. There’s nothing quite like introducing something magnificent to someone else, and getting to watch the magic light up their eyes.
“Welcome to downtown ancient Rome.” I gesture toward the ruins, enjoying the way he’s smiling and snapping photos like his life depends on it.
Indulgently, I let him steer me around and take pictures of me with the forum below, and even snag us a pair of tourists to take some of us together. Roman, fully unconcerned with the pool of sweat that has made its home on my lower back, drapes his arm around my waist and pulls me in. I put a steadying hand on his stomach and wrap my free arm around his hips, which makes our photographer coo happily.
“So cute!” she declares, handing the phone off to Roman, who bravely asks her to take a few more from a different angle.
“Wow. This is so cool.Socool,” he repeats, once we finally make it down into the ruins.
“It is,” I agree. The Roman Forum is one of my favorite attractions in the city, and although it is nice to visit on a guided tour, I feel a case could be made for enjoying it like this.
We stroll through leisurely, stepping back in time and seeing an ancient Roman market; hearing the echoes of prayers in the temples, and treading the same paths that were walked hundreds of years ago. The going is slow, as we stop and admire each half-crumbled building, carving, and stone pillar.
“This one is my favorite,” he declares, as we stop in front of the Temple of Antoninus and Faustina. I bite back the urge to drag his face down and kiss the hell out of him.
“Mine too,” I whisper, squeezing his hand and staring at the church.
Silently, we stand at the foot of the ancient stairs and crane our necks, heads tipped backward as we take in the columns of stone. I wait for him to look his fill, before we continue on our meandering way. Somehow, we’ve managed to time our visit with some sort of celestial miracle that kept the rest of Rome away—the paths are relatively clear and only a handful of visitors pass us. I haven’t seen a guided tour in thirty minutes, which might mean it’s time for us to leave. They’re probably hurrying over here as we speak.
“Niilo?”
“Mm?” I look up at him, squinting, fighting with the sun that’s currently nestled in the crook of Roman’s shoulder.
“Hungry?”
“Starving,” I agree, as my stomach gives a helpful little gurgle.
CHAPTER 7
Roman
Niilo is in the shower,and I’m sitting on the bed, wondering what sort of cosmic injustice I’ve incurred to be staying in a hotel with a shower stall built for children. I shift, leg bouncing restlessly. After a day spent in the unforgivable Italian sun, and strolling through clouds of cigarette smoke, I stink. And of course—because Niilo is taking the first shower, and this room was built for dolls—now the entire space reeks of me.
The water shuts off as I’m desperately trying to clear the air by waving one of my shirts toward the open window. Nightfall doesn’t seem to have cooled the city down any, and the open window is fast sucking the cold air out. Deciding that temperature is probably more important than air quality, I close it with resignation and flick the air-conditioner unit on. It grumbles back to life, clicking ominously.
Niilo opens the bathroom door, stepping into view wearing nothing but a skimpy little towel around his trim waist, and I say goodbye to at least three years of my life. Manners abandon me as I look my fill of him—the slim line of clavicle, andthe navel I’ve seen peeking out of his shirts a hundred times, but somehow looks different sitting above that towel. He looks smaller, undressed like that, with his face clean and loose hair tickling the tops of his shoulders.
Bringing my tongue back up my throat from where I’d swallowed it, my gaze catches on his face to find his eyes already on mine.
“Your turn,” he murmurs softly, cheeks flushed. Judging by the lack of steam coming from the open doorway of the bathroom, I don’t think hot water is to blame. Feeling brave, I drop a kiss to the top of one pale shoulder on my way past, closing the door on his sharp inhale.
It takes me three times as long as Niilo in the bathroom, simply because I’m fighting for my life in the smallest shower known to man. I make it through with everything important intact, although my elbow is probably going to be black and blue by tomorrow. Rubbing it with the second of the tiny towels, I tug on the clean boxers I’d laid over the sink. There’s no way I’m going to be able to tie this towel around my waist. Maybe if I had a string, I could make a loincloth out of it, but barring that, I’ll just put on underwear and call it a day.
Still drying my hair, I push open the bathroom door and burst out laughing. Niilo is sitting in the bed with a paperback cracked open, back against the wall; legs stretched out in front of him, tucked safely away beneath the blanket. The towel is pooled at the end of the bed, taunting me with everything it’s no longer covering up. Niilo cocks one slim, sculpted eyebrow at me, mouth pinched as he tries not to join in laughing.
“Good book?” I ask idly, scratching an itch on my stomach that doesn’t exist, and smirking when Niilo’s eyes track the movement. He tosses the paperback onto the skinny bedside table, making me chuckle. I walk over and sit on the edge of the mattress, close enough to him that I can smell the clean, freshscent of his skin. No Rome, just Niilo. He slides his leg over until it’s pressed against me.
When I don’t say anything, he lifts a hand and traces his fingertips over my back. Soft, featherlight touches down my spine and over the curves of my shoulders, catching stray water drops with the pads of his fingers. Warmth, completely separate from the heat of the day, chases after those fingertips and sets my skin on fire.
I turn just enough to see Niilo’s fresh face, blue eyes bright against the paleness of his hair and skin. He smiles at me, and adjusts his hand so he can trace down the line of my arm instead. I lean forward and he meets me halfway, still smiling as we kiss. He tastes as fresh as he smells, and when I cup my hands around his face, my fingers slide through that silky hair with no resistance.
“Come here,” he requests softly, breaking our mouths apart to kiss my cheek.
I slide into bed next to him, keeping my boxers on for now, because, well, best not to make assumptions. Niilo huffs in amusement as though I uttered the thought out loud, gently guiding me to lie on my back. He puts a hand on my chest, and leans down to pick up where we left off. It’s a gentle sort of kissing, unhurried and languid. Kissing that allows for roaming hands and endless opportunities.
Where I’m big, Niilo is delicate; dark hair where he’s silvery blond. When he rests his weight on top of me, I steady him with hands on a waist slim enough that my fingers wrap all the way around, meeting at the base of his spine. I groan, and he makes a small, needful noise in his throat that has me kissing him a little harder. He moves his hips—two slow, careful thrusts against me, and I hate myself a little bit for not stripping naked before climbing in this bed.
Niilo lifts up, one hand on the bed above my shoulder and the other flat on the center of my chest. His hips have stilled, thankfully, because any more of that and I’d have come far too soon. The city outside our little room is dark, only a handful of stars visible through the window, fighting against the lights of Rome. A single lamp brightens our room just enough for me to see what’s important. To see Niilo.
