Tread

June 25

Milan passes just as quickly as Brussels and Zurich. We happen across the World's Fair, take tours of castles and museums, go inside the Duomo, and eat our weight in gelato. The only thing we don't do is fuck, and 48 hours is apparently Leo's limit.

We arrive in Rome from Milan by train around noon, and thankfully the walk to the hostel is not nearly as far or complicated. We place our bags in an elevator that doesn't even look big enough to house a twin bed and climb the three flights of stairs to the top. After snagging our bags, we walk through an apartment door that I'm pretty sure can't house a hostel, but it does. The narrow door births a wide entrance with a triangular receptionist's desk set off in one corner. The decor is T.J. Maxx chique, the furniture they've chosen looking straight out of a catalogue. Check in breezes by quickly and efficiently with the receptionist speaking perfect English. Leo somehow manages to finagle a private room for the two of us and we climb another set of stairs to the third floor. The electronic key card pings as I turn the knob and enter the room, Leo close on my heels.

A real, honest-to-God, queen-sized bed winks at me from the center of the room set beneath open windows that stream in light. It's not a big room, but with a bed and a shower all to ourselves, it might as well be a palace.

"Living in the lap of luxury," I sigh, throwing my bags down and flopping back on the mattress. Magic.

"Get. Undressed." The words are guttural as the door bangs shut ominously.

Leaning up on my elbows, I watch as Leo yanks his shirt over his head and tosses it in a corner. His pants and briefs fall next, hitting the floor with an audible thud. He's rock hard and sweaty, cock flat against his stomach, balls strung up so tight I'm surprised they're not blue.

"Ask nicely, Mr. Bossy Pants."

"Rai." That's all the warning he gives. Maybe I'm just stupid or the heat melts my brain, but I don't move. Just eye him as he stalks toward the bed, grabs my ankles, and drags me to edge. Leo flips me over with the care of a chef flipping a pancake and pushes my leggings and panties down mid-thigh.

"I can't be gentle," he says and I hear the tear of foil and strained grunts as he rolls the condom down. I can't guess how long he's had that hidden, but I'd bet it's since we entered Rome.

"Am I complaining?"

"You never do." He aligns himself.

"You never give me anything to complain ab—"

He slams home, so sudden it knocks the wind out of me and makes the bed hit the edge of the windows with a squeal of metal against metal. My toes curl in my tennis shoes, thighs spasming in the leggings. He's completely naked and I'm still dressed. The thought turns me on.

Then I forget—to breathe, to think—as he rears back and thrusts hard, jackknifing into my pussy. I try to move but he pins me, kicking my legs apart as far as they'll go, forcing my bent knees into the side of the bed. I'm on my tip toes meeting his thrusts. He curls a fist around my hair and holds it so my back arches and my breasts press into the mattress.

I lose my shit.

The room fills with heavy breathing and the wet slap of flesh against flesh. I want to moan and scream and say the nastiest things, but I'm afraid it'll break the moment. Leo's fucking me like all the oxygen he needs is inside my body.

Thrust in. Inhale.

Pull out. Exhale.

The sun and clouds move, patterning shadows against our bodies as his movements become frenzied, breathing erratic.

Moments pass before the shrill sound of his ringtone pierces the air. I jump, startled, and tighten around him. He hisses and tugs my hair in warning. "Leo, your—"