Ramin licked his lips. Those sinful lips. That perfect, talented tongue.
Noah’s penis twitched in his singlet. He swallowed a groan at the memory. He needed to keep it in his pants until they got back to the hotel and could check in properly.
And then…
Then he could finally have his way with Ramin.
thirty-three
Noah
They headed east through the old town, following the boardwalk before cutting north a bit. They passed little convenience stores and cafés, shops and restaurants, and even a store selling nothing but typewriters.
Sometimes, as they walked, their hands would brush, and Noah would ache with the desire to link them together, but what Ramin had said about safety made sense. He’d never thought much about that before. He was going to learn, but until he did, he was going to let Ramin take the lead.
He also let Ramin take the lead on finding them lunch, following him to a small piazza—Piazza di Fossatello—lined with dark gray stones and full of metal tables clustered beneath large umbrellas. The smell of hot bread and olive oil filled the square.
Noah’s mouth watered.
“Uh-oh.” Ramin pointed to the bakery. The line was out the door and down the block.
“It smells amazing, though,” Noah said. “I’m good to wait if you are.”
The line moved quickly—thank goodness for small blessings—and it was absolutely worth the wait. The golden slabs of focaccia were crisp on the outside but soft and toothsome on the inside. They were practically oozing olive oil, salty and spicy and fruity.
Noah couldn’t help it. He moaned. “This is so good.”
Ramin sighed. “It really is.”
Noah polished off both his slices way too quickly, but good gravy, they were delicious. Ramin took longer, picking at his single slice, as they basked in the crowds, in the flow of life around them.
It was a slower life, like Maria had said. No one was in a hurry. They could take their time, enjoy their focaccia. Ramin leaned over and thumbed a crumb away from the corner of Noah’s mouth. Noah took that as encouragement, leaned in and gave Ramin a quick kiss on the lips.
Ramin smiled at him, eyes twinkling.
Noah could get used to this.
This life—long walks, leisurely lunches, fresh baked bread dripping with oil and coated in flake salt—but this man, too.
Sitting next to Ramin felt as natural as breathing. Maybe it was some distant sense memory of being desk neighbors back in school. Maybe it was pheromones, Ramin’s intoxicating scent gripping Noah’s senses in a vise. Maybe it was the magic of Italy.
Or maybe, just maybe, it was something simpler.
Something exhilarating and frightening, something totally impossible yet utterly inevitable.
“What?” Ramin asked.
“Nothing.” Noah reached across the table for Ramin’s hand. Ramin let him rub it. “Being with you makes me happy.”
Ramin shook his head, blushing hard.
“It makes me happy too.”
They visited the Doge’s Palace, and the Cathedral of San Lorenzo, and the fountain in the Piazza de Ferrari, its water sparkling in the sun, trying to rival Ramin’s earrings. Noah and Ramin stuck to the porticos for some shade.
They lost themselves in the little side streets and alleyways of the city center. They found an old medieval gate, a bronze statue of Elvis on a bench, a gelateria—of course, they stopped in for some.
“There’s one other thing they recommended at the hotel,” Ramin said. “It’s a bit of a walk, though.”
