“I love this hotel room,” he says seriously, his eyes shining with mischief.
“Me too,” I agree. “Even though my feet are hanging off the end of the bed.”
Lips quirking upward, he glances down and makes a small, delighted sound. When his eyes come back to mine, I smile to let him know I don’t mind. He puts one hand on my jaw, gently brushing a thumb through my beard.
“I want whatever you want,” I tell him softly, acknowledging the conversation sitting between us. I’ve never been picky when it comes to what happens in the bedroom, just happy to have a partner and willing to adjust to their wants. Niilo cocks his head a degree to the right, damp hair a silver halo framing his face. I reach up to tuck the long strands behind his ear.
“Well, what I really want, you might not like,” he admits. I raise my brows, curious. He’s naked on top of me, and kisses like a dream—I’m almost certain there’s nothing he could suggest that I wouldn’t enjoy. Voice careful, Niilo adds, “I don’t like to bottom, which is sometimes an issue with bigger guys…”
He trails off, cheeks pinking with the first embarrassed blush I’ve seen on his face. I’ve never once seen him uncertain. He’s always so calm, tugging me along by the hand through Italy, competent and sure.
“I like bottoming,” I tell him honestly. “I don’t get to do it often, because most men look at me and think?—”
“—Viking?” he fills in helpfully.
“Gladiator. Lumberjack. Something else suitably macho.” I smile up at him as he snorts, and leans down to kiss me. “No, but seriously. I like to bottom, you won’t hear any complaints from me. However, I packed my walking shoes and a lot of breathable clothing. I did not pack for…this.”
“You came to Italy without condoms or lube?” he clarifies, looking delighted. My turn to blush. I nod. It’s entirely possible I’m the first gay man in history to plan a two-week vacation to Italy, and not come prepared for a hookup. He smiles, and softly says, “Oh, Roman, you are lovely, aren’t you?”
This is apparently a rhetorical question, as he presses his lips to mine and kisses the hell out of me. Cupping my hands around that deliciously narrow waist, I spread my fingers wide and pull him closer. Carefully, I use my grip on him to flip us over. It’s early, the night is young, and the man in my bed is beautiful. Foreplay has never looked so appealing as it does right now.
Tugging my boxers off and tossing them away, I fit myself against Niilo and kiss him. I kiss the graceful curve of his throat, and the hidden patch of skin behind his ear that I only see when his hair is up; I kiss the bend of his elbow, and nuzzle the soft hollow of his underarm, making him laugh softly. I don’t leave anything to the imagination, as I touch and taste him. I find every sensitive spot, and give them a little extra attention. I spend a long time, and not nearly long enough, painting my feelings across his skin.
“Roman,” he murmurs, when his breathing is uneven and his toes are curled into the mattress.
We swap positions, Niilo slipping off the bed to grab supplies from his bag, pale and wraithlike in the dark of the room. I reach a hand out for the lube, silently offering to handle the prep, but he kisses my palm before gently pushing me away. He talks as he touches me, long, thin fingers pressed inside. The words are in Finnish, so I don’t understand anything beyond the emotionthey’re spoken with—low and tender, breathed over my skin like a benediction.
Having surrendered control, I move where Niilo leads me, the way I’ve done since the moment we met. Chest against the bed, hips lifted and elbows braced, he enters me from behind. I turn my head so I can see him, but it’s hard to keep my eyes open when he begins to move.
Everything with Niilo is smooth and rhythmic, from the rock of his hips to the slide of his hands across the planes of my back. Heat crests and recedes, and his lips meet the sensitive skin at the base of my shoulder blades, cool and sweet against the building release. He slides a hand around to stroke me, and I almost tell him there’s no need—I can come without—but he already has the map to my body, and releases me after a few measured strokes. Fingers caress up my spine and into my hair. I shiver when they trail back down the line of my back, light and barely there.
He kisses the parts of me he can reach, until his movements stutter and everything becomes sloppy and breathless; I let myself relax fully into the bed. Niilo rests his forehead between my shoulder blades, whispers something in Finnish, and we come at the same time. Flat on my stomach, breathing choppy and body limp, I reach a hand back to find the first bit of Niilo I can find. Hand on his thigh, I make a silent request for him to stay where he is for a moment. To stay stretched out on top of me, skin slightly damp and heart beating against my back. We don’t need words—English or otherwise—so of course he understands. I feel the soft press of his cheek on my skin, and close my eyes.
I come awakeas the first tendrils of sun sneak through the window, gold fingers of light over the red stone roofs beyond. Bells toll, ringing in another morning in Rome. I lie silently, watching the window, listening to the music of a city coming awake and the soft breathing of Niilo in my arms. We’re tangled up the way only two sleeping individuals could manage, unconsciously trying to get closer until there is nowhere left to go.
Niilo is curled up so small, one would think he was the one between us too big for the bed. His hips are still cradled against mine, which is how we went to sleep—little spoon tucked into the big, but not initially in a manner that would smother him. Now, I’m bowed around him protectively, with a leg across his hips, torso curled, and arm possessively wrapped around him and resting on the pillow we’re sharing. My other arm, tingling with pins and needles, is slid underneath his chest and wrapped around his belly. We’re a pair of origami lovers, folded up together with edges all aligned.
Willing to sacrifice circulation in my arm, I tuck my face back down into his hair and stay still. We have plans to visit Vatican City today—something I’d been painfully excited for, until I woke up with Niilo in my arms and realized that there might be better ways to spend the day.
Soft sounds at the door to our room alert me to the hotel staff bringing by breakfast. They’d told us, when we’d checked in, that they would drop off fresh baked good each morning. Whomever is doing so now is quiet enough that Niilo remains asleep, snuffling and burrowing further into the cocoon of my arms. Obligingly, I tighten my hold on him.
I close my eyes and let myself drift, the cool touch of the air conditioner keeping us comfortable despite the warm space between our bodies. Niilo sleeps until the sun is fully visible through our small window, motes of dust floating in the shafts of sunlight peeking into the room. He comes awake slowly, pushing himself back into me and sighing. The first words he says aren’t in English, which makes me smile into his messy blond hair.
“Morning,” he tries again, voice scratchy with sleep. I loosen the grip I’ve got on him by a degree, just in case he’s not into being smothered first thing in the morning.
“Good morning,” I reply, and then, a touch sadly, start pulling my now-dead arm out from underneath him. He rolls over as I do, scooting back just far enough for us to be face to face without crossing our eyes. Pushing his hair out of the way, he looks at me and smiles.
“Why did we waste a weeknotwaking up this way?” he asks.
“Idiocy. Madness. Possibly heatstroke, or too much wine,” I reply, making him laugh. Resting my hand on the soft curve of skin above his hip, I circle my thumb idly. “Breakfast was delivered.”
“I didn’t mean to sleep in so late,” he says sheepishly. “I don’t think I’ve ever been as content as I was last night, though.”
Factually speaking, my heart probably doesn’t grow two sizes. It feels like it did, though, hearing those words and watching the pale swoop of his eyelashes as he blinks sleepily at me. It feels like the beauty and magic of Italy is concentrated right here, cozy in bed between us.
“What?” he asks, reaching a hand up and brushing at his face, as though searching for any imperfections sleep might have given him.
“Nothing. I was just…admiring you,” I tell him, biting back the urge to admit I might be falling in love with him. As thoughit’s not bad enough to love someone you met on vacation, I can’tadmitto it the morning after we have sex the first time.
