“Say something in your language,” he says quietly. “Something I don’t know.”
So I give it to him in Czech, slowly, the thing I won’t say in any language he reads. “Jedenáct tisíc kilometru.”Eleven thousand kilometers.“A jediná cesta, které lituju, je ta poslední domu.”And the only drive I regret is the last one home.His facechanges anyway. You don’t need the vocabulary when the voice is doing that.
“Come here,” he says and pulls me toward the bedroom.
This time is slow from the first touch, and the slowness is the point of it. No rush anywhere. Not tonight.
He undresses me as if there’s no match this week. Shirt. Belt. Everything. His mouth follows his hands, unhurried. I return every favor at the same speed, relearning what a year tried to file away. The scar on his hip from the Coppa final. The exact spot under his jaw that makes him swear. The way his skin heats under my palm before the rest of him admits anything. The longer hair at his temple that catches between my fingers when he stops pretending to be patient.
Then I do the thing I have never done for anyone, in any city, in any version of the boxes.
I go down on my knees.
He goes very still above me. The midnight versions never allowed this posture. A man on his knees is a man who has decided to stay awhile, and we both know it, and I look up at him the way he has always looked up at me and my hand goes around his cock and then in my mouth.
“Marek.” My name comes out of him with the architecture knocked loose.
He’s heavy on my tongue, hot, salt and skin, and I take him slow and deep and learn it the way I learn anything that matters. Thoroughly. With attention. His hand lands in my hair, not steering, just holding on.
“Look at you,” he says, wrecked and quiet, two languages fighting in his throat. “Dio. Look at you. I imagined this exact thing and you never once let me.”
I pull off long enough to answer. “I’ve wanted the taste of you for years. File that.”
“If I’d known this was in you, I’d have priced the noon higher.”
I go back down and hum something that isn’t language, and his hips stutter and he swears in Neapolitan, at length, with feeling.
“Stop. Stop.” He pulls me up by the jaw, kisses me hard, his taste in both our mouths now. “Not like that. Not the first time you kneel. I want to be looking at you.”
He walks me backward to the bed and follows me down onto it. For once we are face to face, his weight along the whole length of me.
I open him slowly, two fingers slick from the drawer that is still stocked. I work him until his breath goes ragged and his forehead drops to my shoulder and his cock leaks against my hip.
“Slower,” he says, and I did not know slower existed.
I find it. I add a third finger and curl them right, and he arches off the bed, swearing softly, riding my hand with his eyes shut and his mouth open. I watch every second.
“Marek.” He drags his eyes open. “Now. Before I finish embarrassing myself on your fingers.”
He lets me set the pace, all of it, which he has never done once. That undoes me more than the heat of him does.
“Ješte?” I ask, once, checking.
“Ješte. Always ješte.”
“Look at me,” I say, when I finally push into him.
He does. Face to face. His legs around me, his hands gripping my back. I push in slow, all the way, the stretch and the heat of him taking me apart centimeter by centimeter. I watch everything that crosses his face. I hide nothing that crosses mine. Fully seated, I stop because I have to. Months of want ending, arriving loud, and I need one breath to survive the sound of it. His body grips me everywhere. Something in my chest hands over its last set of keys.
“Still with me?” he says, barely a voice at all.
“Nowhere else. That’s the whole problem.”
“Then move, my problem.”
I move. Long and deep and unhurried, his cock trapped slick between us, his heel driving into the back of my thigh on every stroke. The quiet we owe the sleeping building turns every sound we can’t make into something that travels through skin instead. Sweat builds where we’re joined and everywhere else. He meets every stroke with his hips and takes me deeper than I decide to go, greedy about it, both hands spread on my back like he’s holding a match ball he refuses to concede.
He talks the way he talks, both languages, filthy and tender in the wrong order on purpose.
