Nico's fingers slide along my jaw. He tips my face up, thumb light against my chin, and looks at me for a long moment before he says anything at all.
"You're still here," he says.
"I am."
He kisses me slow, unhurried, his mouth patient tonight, gentler than I've ever felt from him. His mouth tastes like the wine we didn't finish. He walks us both under the water without breaking the kiss. It soaks through my clothes before he peels them off mepiece by piece, his hands unhurried even as the hot water turns the whole small room into something thick and breathless.
I unbutton his shirt with wet fingers, one button at a time, and the fabric clings to him as it falls away. My knuckles brush the warm skin of his chest, the ink at his collarbone, the old ridge of muscle he's carried since long before I knew him. The scar along his jaw catches the light, that thin pale line running from his ear to his chin, and I trace it with my thumb, water running down both our faces.
I've done this a hundred times before, but tonight it doesn't feel like memorizing a wound. It feels like memorizing him, all of him, on purpose.
The shower wall is cool against my back. I think about our very first night, his body pinning mine to the tile before either of us had a single reason to trust the other. The wall feels the same, but everything else is different.
Warm water runs down between us, and he lifts me by the backs of my thighs until I'm upside down and my back is flush against the wet wall. One leg hooks high over his shoulder. I lean forward from there, bracing myself with one hand against his hip, and take his cock into my mouth just as his mouth closes between my legs.
For a long, dizzy minute, neither of us is doing anything but drinking in the other, while water runs down both our bodies. His groan vibrates against me straight up through my spine.
Together, he'd said, and this is what he means. Both of us tangled in each other's want, nothing rushed about it. His tongue pressing slow, wet, and warm against my clit. My mouth swallowing him deep until he's buried completely in my throat.
I come first, shuddering against the tile with his mouth still on me, and he doesn't stop until every wave of it has passed through me.
Then he sets me upright, and puts my legs down. Before I can catch my breath, he's lifting me again, both hands under my thighs this time. My legs loop around his waist, my back leaving the wall entirely while I embrace him against my body.
He holds all of my weight like I weigh nothing, and when he pushes inside me--suspended in his arms with nothing but him holding me up--my eyes roll into the back of my head.
"Nico." I whimper.
"I've got you." His voice is strained too. "I'm not letting go."
Then he starts to thrust, fucking me in mid-air with my legs around him and his large hands on my ass. Every thrust drives another sound out of me I barely recognize as my own voice. He keeps his pace slow at first.
But with every deep, long thrust, his pace grows faster and faster until his hips are working furiously against mine, and the room is filled with the wet sound of skin against skin.
"Do you remember Italy?" I tell him as he pulls back to my entrance, leaving me breathless and aching for him to fill me completely. "When all of this meant something?"
"I remember every fucking second,piccola." He shifts his grip, buries himself to the hilt with one smooth stroke, and I cry out against his throat. "But this means more."
His lips crash against mine, and my lungs empty themselves to his insistent kiss. My nipples scrape his broad chest, sending bursts of pleasure flowing through my body. The cool tiles kissmy back while his cock spears me over and over again until neither of us can hold back any longer.
Then I come again, and it drags him over the edge with me. A surge of wet heat pulses inside of me. My pussy flutters and clenches against his twitching cock to greedily hold in every drop of his semen.
His forehead drops to my shoulder, feathering the sensitive skin with kisses while the water runs cold around us.
We stumble out of the shower still dripping wet, my hair soaked through and plastered to my back, his cum dripping out of me with every step.
We don't make it far before he's dragging me down into bed, wet sheets and wet skin and neither of us willing to wait for dry.
I don't get long to settle against the pillows before he turns me over.
There's a mirror on the far wall, tall and old, and he angles me toward it, his chest against my back, as he reaches between my legs to guide himself back inside of me.
"Look,piccola," he tells me, nodding at the glass as he grabs a fistful of my hair. "Look at yourself when I fuck you like this."
I do, and I catch his eyes on mine in the reflection instead of over my shoulder. Something about seeing us both like that--my spine curved back into him and his fist holding my head up so I can't look away--makes me wetter than I ever thought was possible.
He pushes his massive cock inside me, inch by deliciously aching inch, and watches my face in the glass the whole time.
"Fuck, you feel incredible," he tells me, mouth against my ear, our reflection rocking together in the old silver-backed glass as he starts to move. "So wet. So perfect. And all mine."
