Francesca buried her head in pillows as the sun rose above the skylights. They smelled like him, his subtle cologne, his sweat, his musk. She burrowed under the covers and felt him surround her, his legs wrapping around hers, his arms enveloping her torso. Somewhere downstairs, a phone rang a classical tune.
“What time is it?” she asked his forearm.
“Morning,” he answered.
She kissed the tattoo on his arm gently. “Who’s Lucia?” she said softly, tracing the heart around the letters with her lips.
He reached down to tousle her hair and kissed the top of her head. “My mama,” he answered.
“That’s sweet,” Francesca replied, twining her fingers in his.
“What happened to my tiger from last night?” he asked.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she answered. She stood, wrapping herself in the bedsheet. “May I use your shower?”
He gestured down the stairs.
Romaldo had a rain shower head, and as she stood under it, hot water streaming in rivulets down her body, Francesca reflected on how good it felt. The warm water pounding against her electric skin, the sweet soreness when she bent to pick up the soap. It had been a long time since she’d felt this good, thoroughly and deeply satisfied by a man intent on pleasing her. And what a man. Almost as soon as she had thought it, he appeared through the glass door and opened it, joining her in the shower. She looked at him coolly, feeling suddenly exposed and interrupted in her thoughts.
“I thought I’d join you,” he explained.
“I usually shower alone,” she said.
“I have to leave soon,” he murmured into her neck, reaching around her for the soap. She turned to face him, burying her hands in his wet hair, kissing him fully as the shower rained down on them. Barefoot and standing she was still nearly his height, and she pressed the fullness of her breasts against his strong chest, staying like that for a minute, maybe two, to feel his heart beating against her body. He reached around and grabbed her ass, pulling her closer to him still, as if to imprint the heft of his growing cock against her belly.
“How soon do you have to leave?” she asked.
“I have time to finish my shower,” he said, turning her and pressing her, face first, against the marble wall. He stood behind her and entered her slowly, but still she gasped, taking his thickness. Then he reached around to stroke her clit with his right hand, his fingers taking up the rhythm of his thrusts. He moved his fingers up from her pussy to the manicured hair leading from it.
“I like your racing stripe,” he said, his voice labored.
“Stop teasing–” she implored, grabbing his hand and pushing it back down. She was pressed flat against the wall now, bracing with her arms, grinding her pelvis down on his hand and dick, her head turned to the side, eyes closed and breath heavy. The shower kept raining, and Romaldo slammed into her rapidly, desperately, relentlessly, until he came and pulled back from her, kissing the back of her neck and reaching to cup her breasts in his hands.
She crumpled to the shower floor; she sat with her legs akimbo and he sat behind her, wrapping his legs around hers, reaching around her again and stroking her giant swollen clit. He moved his fingers in circles, first wide then spiraling in on the bullseye at the top of her slit. She took his left hand and inserted his fingers, he curled them to hit her g-spot, and she lay back against him, letting his hands work. In minutes she had come again, moaning and pushing her silky liquid over his hands.
“Now I can go,” he said. “I didn’t want to leave until you had come one more time.”
“Oh,” she said. “All right.”