Chapter Seven
Roman
N iilo 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 looks smaller, 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 of stars 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 from me. 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.
Having surrendered control, I move where Niilo leads me, the way I’ve done since the moment we met. Chest against the bed, hips lifted and elbows braced, he enters me from behind. I turn my head so I can see him, but it’s hard to keep my eyes open when he begins to move.
Everything with Niilo is smooth and rhythmic, from the rock of his hips to the slide of his hands across the planes of my back. Heat crests and recedes, and his lips meet the sensitive skin at the base of my neck, cool and sweet against the building release. He slides a hand around to stroke me, and I almost tell him there’s no need—I can come hands-free—but he already has the map to my body, and releases me after a few measured strokes. Fingers stroke up my spine and into my hair.
He kisses the parts of me he can reach, until his movements stutter and everything becomes sloppy and breathless; I let myself relax fully into the bed. Niilo rests his forehead between my shoulder blades, whispers something in Finnish, and we come at the same time. Flat on my stomach, breathing choppy and body limp, I reach a hand back to find the first bit of Niilo I can find. Hand on his thigh, I make a silent request for him to stay where he is for a moment. To stay stretched out on top of me, skin slightly damp and heart beating against my back. We don’t need words—English or otherwise—so of course he understands. I feel the soft skin of his cheek on my back, and close my eyes.
I come awake as the first tendrils of sun sneak through the window, gold fingers of light over the red stone roofs beyond. Bells toll, ringing in another morning in Rome. I lie silently, watching the window, listening to the music of a city coming awake and the soft breathing of Niilo in my arms. We’re tangled up the way only two sleeping individuals could manage, unconsciously trying to get closer until there is nowhere left to go.
Niilo is curled up so small, one would think he was the one between us too big for the bed. His hips are still cradled against mine, which is how we went to sleep—little spoon tucked into the big, but not initially in a manner that would smother him. Now, I’m bowed around him protectively, with a leg across his hips, torso curled, and arm possessively wrapped around him and resting on the pillow we’re sharing. My other arm, tingling with pins and needles, is slid underneath his chest and wrapped around his belly. We’re a pair of origami lovers, folded up together with edges all aligned.
Willing to sacrifice circulation in my arm, I tuck my face back down into his hair and stay still. We have plans to visit Vatican City today—something I’d been painfully excited for, until I woke up with Niilo in my arms and realized that there might be better ways to spend the day.
Soft sounds at the door to our room alert me to the hotel staff bringing by breakfast. They’d told us, when we’d checked in, that they would drop off fresh baked good each morning. Whomever is doing so now is quiet enough that Niilo remains asleep, snuffling and burrowing further into the cocoon of my arms. Obligingly, I tighten my hold on him.
I close my eyes and let myself drift, the cool touch of the air conditioner keeping us comfortable despite the warm press of our bodies. Niilo sleeps until the sun is fully visible through our small window, motes of dust floating in the shafts of sunlight peeking into the room. He comes awake slowly, pushing himself back into me and sighing. The first words he says aren’t in English, which makes me smile into his messy blond hair.
“Morning,” he tries again, voice scratchy with sleep. I loosen the grip I’ve got on him by a degree, just in case he’s not into being smothered first thing in the morning.
“Good morning,” I reply, and then, a touch sadly, set about pulling my now-dead arm out from underneath him. He rolls over as I do, scooting back just far enough for us to be face to face without crossing our eyes. Pushing his hair out of the way, he looks at me and smiles.
“Why did we waste a week not waking up this way?” he asks.
“Idiocy. Madness. Possibly heatstroke, or too much wine,” I reply, making him laugh. Resting my hand on the soft curve of skin above his hip, I circle my thumb idly. “Breakfast was delivered.”
“I didn’t mean to sleep in so late,” he says sheepishly. “I don’t think I’ve ever been as content as I was last night, though.”
Factually speaking, my heart probably doesn’t grow two sizes. It feels like it did, though, hearing those words and watching the pale swoop of his eyelashes as he blinks sleepily at me. It feels like the beauty and magic of Italy is concentrated right here, cozy in bed between us.
“What?” he asks, reaching a hand up and brushing at his face, as though searching for any imperfections sleep might have given him.
“Nothing. I was just…admiring you,” I tell him, biting back the urge to admit I might be falling in love with him. My god, as though it’s not bad enough to love someone you met on vacation, I can’t admit to it the morning after we have sex the first time.
“Oh. Well”—he brushes his fingers across his face again, trying to push his hair back—“I can’t imagine the bed head and drool are doing me any favors.”
“Says the man who looks stunning on a daily basis.” I scoff, sliding my hand up his back and back down again, loving how soft his skin is. “The bed head is doing me a favor—proof you’re human and not a hallucination.”
Yawning, he arches his back and shuffles close enough to kiss my chin before sitting up. The blanket slides down his chest, pooling at his waist in a spill of white. Rolling onto my back, I flatten my hand on his lower back and stroke up as far as I can reach, unwilling to lose all skin-to-skin contact just yet. He peeks over one pale shoulder.
“Vatican City today?” he asks.
“Vatican City half the day,” I counter. “Second half of the day, hotel room?”
Laughing, he spins around and plants a hard kiss on my mouth. I let out a startled umph , before putting a hand on the back of his head and enjoying myself. I coax him down until he’s lying on top of me, free hand sliding down to cup his ass.
“Vatican,” he says, words caught between a gasp and a laugh when I lick behind his earlobe. “We have to get…we need to get ready!”
He playfully bites my shoulder. Groaning, I let him go and turn my head to the side to watch him stroll naked to the bathroom. Stretching my limbs out, I rotate my feet, which are dangling off the end of the bed. I’ll wait for Niilo to finish in the bathroom, brush my teeth, comb my hair, and call it a day. Propping myself up on our pillows, I rest my hands on my abdomen and enjoy watching Niilo go through the motions of his morning routine.
“Probably don’t need to get dressed quite yet, right?” I comment mildly, when he reaches for his bag. Mouth pinched in humor, his eyes flick to mine, knowing and fond. I give him what I hope is a convincing smile.
“Silly man,” he notes, but doesn’t get dressed until minutes before we’re walking out the door.