Chapter Seven
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—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 cool 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, and the navel I’ve seen peeking out of his shirts a hundred times, but somehow looks different sitting above that towel. He lookssmaller, 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, fresh scent 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, and gently guides 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 unbroken, smooth skin. 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, thank God, because any more of that and I’d have come far too soon. The city outside our little room is dark, only a handful ofstars 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.
“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 like. 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 fromme. 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; 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 emotion they’re spoken with—low and tender, breathed over my skin like a benediction.
