His hands find my waist. Pull me under the water. It's hot. The spray hits my shoulders, my back, runs down my spine. His mouth finds mine. We kiss under the water, steam rising around us, the taste of his mouth mixed with the heat.
He turns me around. My palms flat against the marble tile. The water running down my back. His chest against me, the ink and the muscle and the weight of him pressing me forward. His mouth on the back of my neck. His hand sliding down my stomach, between my thighs.
"Sei già bagnata,"he says against my ear. (You're already wet.)
"È la doccia."
"Non è la doccia."
He's right. It's not the shower.
His fingers work me from behind while the water runs over both of us. I press my forehead against the cool marble. His other hand is on my hip, holding me steady, his mouth onmy shoulder, my neck, the spot below my ear. I push back against him. Feel him hard against me.
"Ti voglio così,"I say. (I want you like this.)
He enters me from behind. Slow. The angle is different standing. Deeper. I brace against the tile. His hand stays between my thighs, his fingers circling while he moves inside me. The water makes everything slick. The steam makes the air thick. The sounds we make bounce off marble walls, amplified, returned to us.
He sets a rhythm that builds without rushing. His hips against me. His breath on my neck. His fingers precise, relentless. I come with the water hitting my back, both hands flat against the wall, a sound that the marble gives back to me louder than I intended. He follows, his forehead dropping to my shoulder, his arms wrapping around me from behind, holding me upright when my legs decide they're done supporting weight.
We stand under the water. His arms around me. My back against his chest. The steam thick enough to taste.
"Good morning," he says again.
I laugh. The sound fills the marble bathroom.
We dry off. He wraps me in a towel that's too big for me, the hem dragging on the floor. I don't get dressed. He pulls on sweatpants. Nothing else. We walk to the kitchen barefoot and half-clothed, our hair wet, the penthouse warm with morning light.
He makes coffee in his mother's moka pot. I sit on the kitchen counter in his towel, legs dangling, watching him perform the ritual. Fill the base. Pack the grounds. Set it on the flame. The same sequence his mother performed, the same pot, the same careful attention to a task he considers sacred.
He pours two cups. Brings one to me. I take it. Our fingers touch on the ceramic. He stays standing between my knees, leaning against the counter edge, drinking his coffee while looking at me with an expression that has no agenda behind it. Just attention. Just presence.
"I should cook you breakfast," he says.
"I'm not dressed."
"I've noticed."
"You're not dressed either."
"I have pants on."
"Barely."
He sets his cup down. His hands go to my knees, parting them slightly, stepping closer between my legs. The towel falls open across my thighs. His thumbs trace circles on the inside of my knees. Slow. Unhurried. The same hands that poured my coffee ten seconds ago.
"Eggs?" he asks. His thumbs moving higher.
"Sure."
"Toast?"
"Sure." My breathing has changed. He notices. His thumbs notice.
"Anything else?"
His hands are at the top of my thighs now. His mouth is close to mine. The coffee steam rises between us.
"Surprise me," I say.