I snort, nipping the hinge of his jaw. “Some designer with more money than taste. Stop stalling.”
“Stalling?” He looks back down at me, eyebrows up. “I thought I was providing critical commentary on interior design.”
“Critical commentary can wait.” I skim both hands under the water, fingers spreading across his lower back, finding the long slope of scar tissue that runs diagonally from spine to hip. I rub my thumbs along it with firm pressure, the way he likes when the tension gets locked there. “Right now, your job is to breathe. My job is to make sure you remember how.”
His eyes flutter shut as I knead down the scar, loosening the knot that always forms where muscle meets history. A sigh slips out; the first honest sign of release I’ve heard from him all evening. “Fuck, Nikolaj… don’t stop.”
I don’t. I work my fingers lower, digging into tight bands of muscle, smoothing them out. The water sloshes, surface rippling around his chest. I watch his shoulders drop another notch, see the lines around his mouth ease.
I lift my head, catch his mouth again, a longer kiss this time, slow enough we can taste all the half-melted ice from the whiskey.
His fingers find my hair, tug just the way I like, and the kiss deepens until I feel him stir, cock nudging mine, heat swelling almost in spite of us.
I pull back a fraction. “We can fuck later. Right now, I want you loose.” I drag my hand down his side, stopping at his hip. “Turn around.”
His brows knit. “Why?”
“Because I’m going to rub your back until that knot is gone, and you’re going to let me. Then we’ll get out, dry off, maybe eat something that isn’t liquid, and if you still want my cock in you after that, I’ll give it to you all night.”
He opens his mouth—probably a smartass comment—then closes it. He swivels carefully, presenting his back to me, armsdraping over the rim. I pull him flush, chest to spine, legs hooking outside his, my knees bracing his.
I reach for the bottle of that ridiculous sea-salt bath oil on the ledge, squeeze a slick line into my palm, warm it, then start massaging from the base of his neck downward. The oil mixes with water, slides easily under my hands, letting me trace every aching muscle.
He groans when my thumbs dig next to his spine. “If you did this more often,” he mutters, “I might actually trust the concept of vacations.”
“Note taken.” I knead around his scapula and feel the muscle shed its tension under my thumbs. “Vacations, baths, and ugly chandeliers.”
“And no fucking timers.”
“Exactly.” I work down to his lower back, circling the old scar. Beneath the oil, my thumbs catch small ridges of memory, each a place where a blade or bullet once tried to write its own story. I press a kiss to the back of his shoulder. He sighs, melting.
Ten minutes pass like that—water cooling around us, steam fading, his breathing turning heavy and even. When I slide my arms around his waist and pull him back to rest against my chest, he doesn’t protest. He sags, head dropping to my shoulder, eyes half-closed. I rest my chin on his damp hair, holding him.
“Better?” I ask.
He hums. “Might survive.”
“High praise from a Vieri.”
A soft laugh vibrates through him. He turns his head, nuzzles my jaw, kisses once beneath my ear. “Thank you,” he says, so quietly I almost miss it.
“For what?”
“For making quiet feel safe.” He pauses, breath ghosting. “For treating silence like something we can keep instead of something waiting to kill us.”
The words shred what’s left of my composure in the best fucking way. I kiss his temple and hold him tighter. “You’re welcome. Now finish relaxing before I reconsider that whole slow-down plan.”
He chuckles, settling deeper against me. We stay until the water is lukewarm and our fingers prune, and when we finally climb out, we towel each other dry like idiots.
The villa still holds that strange stillness, but it no longer feels like suspicion. It feels like space we might grow into if we’re stubborn enough.
I feel at peace that neither of us has to sneak out when morning comes.
thirty-two
Vincenzo
IwakeupbeforeNikolaj,which feels so unnatural. I lie there for a second, convinced I’m still dreaming.
