And he does.
He shows me with his hands gripping me like I might disappear. With his mouth devouring mine like I’m the air he needs to survive. With his body pressing me into the tile so hard I’ll have bruises tomorrow.
And I want them. I want to see the evidence of this.
When he finally lines himself up and pushes inside, it’s torturously slow. He feeds me his cock inch by inch, and I feel myself stretch around him. My mouth falls open but no sound comes out. His forehead drops to mine, and I can see what this is costing him, the restraint written in every tense line of his body.
“Still with me?”
“Yes.” I dig my heels into his lower back, urging him deeper. “God, yes. Move. Please.”
He pulls back and drives in deep, and we both cry out. Then he starts to move, thrusting in a slow rhythm that quicklybecomes frantic pounding. The water pours over us, hot and relentless, and I lose myself in the feel of him filling me, surrounding me, his breath harsh against my ear as he whispers words in Italian that sound like prayers and curses all at once.
My head falls back against the tile, pleasure building to something unbearable, each thrust pushing me higher.
“Close,” I choke out. “Enzo, I’m so fucking close—”
“I know.” His hand snakes between us, wrapping around my cock, stroking fast and tight in rhythm with his hips. “Come for me, baby.”
And I do.
My whole body locks up, clenching around him, and I’m crying out, his name ripping from my throat, raw and broken. The pleasure is so intense it borders on pain, whiting out my vision.
Enzo follows seconds later. He swells inside me, and I feel the moment he loses control, his hips slamming into me one last time as he comes with a groan that sounds like it’s being ripped from somewhere deep in his chest. My name. He’s saying my name like it’s the only word he knows.
We stay like that for a long moment, pinned together against the tile, chests heaving, hearts pounding so hard I can’t tell whose is whose.
Eventually, he lowers me. My legs are useless, trembling, and he keeps his hands on my waist until he’s sure I won’t collapse.
“Okay?”
I nod, not quite trusting my voice yet.
He cleans me out and then takes my hand, threading his fingers through mine.
“Come on.”
“I’m exhausted.” It comes out slurred, fucked-out.
“Food,” he says, already guiding me out of the shower and grabbing a towel. “You haven’t eaten since this afternoon.”
I want to argue, but my stomach chooses that moment to growl.
Enzo’s mouth curves into a smirk. “See? Your body can’t lie.”
We make it to the kitchen eventually. I’m in one of his shirts, soft and worn and smelling like him. He’s in low-slung sweats and nothing else. He guides me onto one of the barstools, and I watch through heavy-lidded eyes as he moves around the space with surprising ease for a man who probably has people to do this for him.
“You cook?” I ask.
“When I need to.” He pulls eggs, cheese, and bread from the fridge. “My nonna insisted all her grandsons know how to feed themselves. Said we’d never make it in life if we couldn’t manage a basic meal.”
“Your nonna sounds like a wise woman.”
“Was.” He cracks eggs into a bowl and reaches for a whisk. “She passed when I was seventeen.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” His mouth curves into something genuine and warm. “All I have of her are good memories and her recipe forcarbonara. Which, according to her dying words, I still make wrong.”
