“Yes. Detergent means wiping off dirt.”
“Wiping off dirt is romantic?”
“In my culture, yes,” he says, nodding empathetically.
I bite the inside of my cheek.
“Is your culture called making it up as you go along?” I ask, pulling him closer.
“This still counts as a date,” he says hurriedly. “Our washing machine at home hates towels, and Zio—Uncle—suggested we use this one. But I brought snacks.”
“Antonio, of course this counts as a date. Just being near you counts as a date.”
“Really? You’re not mocking me?”
“Sweetheart, I’d never mock you.” I kiss him, and I can feel him relaxing. “You mentioned snacks?”
“Biscotti. Mom made them.”
He produces a Tupperware box from his shoulder bag, opens it and offers me a cookie. We lean against the softly humming washer, nibbling biscotti.
Antonio retrieves two waters from his uncle’s small fridge at the back. For a moment we just stand in silence and drink.
The drum starts rumbling. The air shifts.
“Powerful machine,” I murmur.
“Industrial grade,” he whispers, throat bobbing.
I put the water away, grip his hips and lift him onto the washer. He gasps deliciously, wrapping his arms around me. Our mouths crash together. The urgent, slightly clumsy way Antonio kisses me drives me wild. It’s like he’s trying to do everything at once—slipping his tongue in my mouth, sucking my lip, almost biting me in the process.
The washer vibrates harder.
Slowing the pace, I deepen the kiss, and he melts against me, whispering my name into my mouth as I slide a thigh between his legs. His breath shatters against my mouth as he starts grinding against me, haltingly at first but then with more confidence. When he whispers something in Italian, my knees nearly give out.
I kiss along his jaw, his throat, the pulse beating beneath my lips. He clutches my shoulders, the rocking of his hips growing with urgency, broken sounds spilling from him that will haunt me for the rest of my days. My right hand steadies his back as he keeps riding my thigh, and the left hand slips under his shirt to tease his nipples. His moaning grows more frantic when I rub them between my thumb and forefinger. My cock throbs harder than ever as I drink in his every needy whimper. His hips roll almost desperately, his hands fisting my shirt, a tiny frown of concentration on his forehead.
I know he’s never done this before, and the raw vulnerability on his face is unraveling me. I feel so honored to be the one he gives this to.
“I need—” he’s almost sobbing, but it’s clear he doesn’t know what he needs.
“Look at me,” I say. He does, and the trust in his eyes is a goddamn gift. “I’ve got you. You can let go.”
He nods, licking his lips, but he’s almost panicking now, tears brimming in his eyes.
“Baby, it’s okay,” I whisper. “I’m right here. Do what feels good. Take what you need from me.”
He shifts slightly, changing the angle. He’s trying so hard.
“Just like that,” I say, brushing his lips with my thumb. His mouth opens,and I slip my thumb in. He closes his lips around it, sucking. I can see the exact moment he decides it’s safe.
He tenses, his eyes wide with surprise and pure, radiant relief.
“My good boy,” I say softly, pulling out my thumb and brushing his cheek.
“I’m going to—I’m going to come,” he gasps. And he does. He comes against me with the hottest sound I’ve ever heard, trembling and shivering and clinging to me.
“I’m so proud of you, baby.”
