13. The Authentication #2
He peels my dress from my body with unhurried hands, letting it pool at my feet.
His shirt, then his trousers are discarded with the same unhurried care.
Then I crouch down while I slide his boxers down, I grab and stroke him while I run my tongue around his shaft, enjoying the musky scent of his body.
He groans with pleasure. I take him in my mouth.
All of him but he pulls me up and lays me down on the bed.
His mouth traces a slow, deliberate path from my collarbone down to my breasts. When his tongue circles one nipple, then draws it deep into the heat of his mouth, I arch off the bed with a sharp gasp. He takes his time, savoring, licking, teasing, until I’m trembling beneath him.
He continues lower, pressing open-mouthed kisses down my stomach.
When he settles between my thighs, I instinctively open for him.
The first slow stroke of his tongue against my core pulls a broken moan from my throat.
He explores me with devastating patience — licking, sucking, learning exactly what makes my hips lift off the bed.
One thick finger slides inside me, curling gently, and my breath catches. I’m already soaked for him.
“I want you now,” I whisper, voice ragged.
“Not yet,” he murmurs against my slick skin, the vibration of his words sending another shiver through me.
Then his tongue presses deeper, flicking and stroking with perfect rhythm while his finger moves in time.
Pleasure coils tighter and tighter until I come hard against his mouth, thighs trembling around his shoulders.
He doesn’t stop until the last wave fades. Only then does he kiss his way back up my body. When his mouth finds mine, I taste myself on his tongue and moan into the kiss. I reach between us, wrap my hand around his hardness, and squeezing, I guide him to my entrance.
He pushes inside me slowly, inch by inch, stretching and filling me completely in one smooth, deep thrust. We both groan at the sensation. For a moment he stays still, buried deep, letting us feel every pulse and flutter.
Then we begin to move together, strong, rhythmic strokes that build with focused intensity. Every deep thrust draws another moan from me, every roll of my hips pulls a low, guttural sound from his throat. We move like we remember each other perfectly… because we do.
I open my legs and wrap them around his hips, pulling him deeper as he drives into me with controlled power.
Every thrust feels possessive, claiming.
I meet him stroke for stroke, my hands gripping his shoulders, nails pressing into his skin as pleasure coils tighter and tighter, him deep inside me. His pounding is relentless.
I reach down between us and grab his balls and squeeze them gently, as he enters me with such driving rhythm.
That’s when I crest. And it rolls through me in deep, shuddering waves.
I gasp his name, tightening around him as the pleasure crests, my hand still on him.
Max follows moments later. I feel his final thrust burying himself deeply in me with a low, guttural groan, and feel his pulsing hot and deep inside me, as he spills.
We stay joined, breathing hard in the dim light. Max rolls us onto our sides so we face each other, his legs still between mine, keeping him nestled deep within me. The connection is still electric: warm, thick, and intimately alive.
For a long while, neither of us move apart.
I can feel every subtle detail: the slow, lazy twitches of him inside me as he softens, each small pulse sending fresh ripples of warmth through my core.
Our skin is slick where we press together; my breasts against his chest, my thigh draped over his hip, the faint dampness of sweat cooling between us.
Every tiny shift creates delicious friction, a gentle slide where our bodies remain joined.
Max’s hand traces slow, sensual paths along my back, his fingertips gliding over the curve of my spine, then lower, cupping my ass and pulling me even tighter against him. The pressure is exquisite; a constant, intimate fullness that makes my inner walls flutter softly around him in response.
I let my fingers drift over his chest, feeling the soft fuzzy over his muscles, steady beat of his heart beneath warm, damp skin.
The faint musk of our lovemaking lingers in the air, heightening every sensation.
My nipples, still sensitive, brush against him with every breath, sending tiny sparks straight down to where we are connected.
Gradually, something changes. I feel him begin to thicken again inside me; slow at first, then unmistakably.
The subtle twitches turn into a steady, growing hardness, stretching me once more with that delicious fullness.
A low, involuntary sound escapes my throat as the sensation intensifies, my body responding instantly with fresh heat and wetness.
Max’s breathing deepens. His hand stays on my hip for a moment, then grips me more firmly as he feels himself harden fully inside me again. His voice comes out low and rough, dark with renewed desire.
“Alex.” He rocks his hips once, very slowly, pressing deeper.
The slow grind sends a fresh wave of pleasure through me.
I clench around his now fully erect cock, savoring the way he fills me so completely a second time.
My hand slides down between us and I feel his hardness and my wetness.
My nail grazes his skin as I hold him, my fingers spread wide, not quite meeting around his thickness.
Max’s eyes darken with intense hunger. He rolls his hips again, this time with more purpose, a slow, deliberate thrust that makes us both groan. The movement is unhurried but unmistakably greedy, the afterglow already turning into the beginning of another round.
The dim evening light wraps around us as he begins to move again; deep, sensual strokes that build on the lingering sensitivity from our first time. My body welcomes him eagerly, already slick and ready, the pleasure rising once more with quiet intensity.
We have only just finished, yet the night is far from over.
Later, the villa is quiet around us. The city below the walls has gone dark and the only light is the faint amber from the lamp we did not turn off. Max is asleep. One hand still on my hip, the weight of it deliberate even in sleep, as if the decision was made before he went under and held.
I lie still and let the room come back. The ceiling. The open doors to the veranda. The Florentine night outside, cool now, carrying the smell of stone and cypress.
The practical mind arrives eventually, the way it always does, uninvited and precise.
The archivist call is at nine. The 1963 arrangement.
The institutional family on Via dei Bardi whose name we do not yet have.
The problem has a shape and a next step and it is Max's shape to carry, which means tomorrow it will be handled.
Tonight it is somewhere in the villa, in a folder on the kitchen table, waiting.
The folder stays on the table. Some things can wait until nine o'clock.