Radiant, beautiful Copia standing at the bedside on strong legs, bearing down between her thighs, backlit by the yellow morning glow. His hair is loose, falling around his face in streaks of auburn and silver, and he is so stunningly flushed from forehead to chest in a way that highlights his freckles. 

She is so lucky, so incredibly fortunate to have him in these vulnerable moments; when the soft part of his belly jiggles with every thrust, and she can tangle her fingers in the thatch of dark hair dusting his chest. She loves his body more than she does her own. She is all dew-soft skin slick with want and sweat, shivering at the rasp of his thighs against the back of hers and the grind of his pubis against her own. It is bliss with him. 

She slides her hand over his body, touching, worshipping, scratching nails lightly over the places that make him draw a sharper breath and twitch both inside her and out. She rakes her nails down that incredible sternum, through the trail of hair that leads to the curls at the root of his cock, over his squeezable hips and then back up, all the way to his handsome face. 

“Love—“ she whispers, breathless, and there are tears in her eyes. 

It’s always too much. Too much and never enough, this love that blooms through her and aches. She feels it inside her, hot, heavy and pulsing, driving her wilder with each roll of their hips. She cups his cheeks and leads him closer, down, wanting him atop her and panting against his plush mouth that she paints with kisses. His mouth, which has felt on so much of her. She kisses his cheek, the corners of his mouth, his pencil moustache tickling as she follows his lovely age lines with her mouth. He’s so beautiful, a living angel. 

Copia swallows her moan of pleasure when he finds her mouth and kisses deeply, his tongue pressing past her lips. He cradles her face, her crimson hair fanning like a shining pool of red haloing her head, and twists his hand into the covers by her head. He stays close, always, covering her, admiring her and reminding her that she is safe. It’s safe. It’s ok to let go with him, to cry and be laid bare. It is a precious gift to be let so close to this creature that is often so distant and terrified. He knows her so intimately. 

So rare is it that this beauty is comfortable enough to want so openly, to ask for his hand, a kiss or his company. When she does, he bows at her feet, gives her everything she wants, and loves her with lion ferocity. This being that looks at him with watery blue eyes, begging and pleading to be kept and adored with all the fragile trust he knows she fights to keep. 

“C-Copia,” she hiccups, and he moans her name, gazing down at her slack, blissful expression. 

He always slurs when he’s getting close, and she feels him pressing his thumb into the places he knows she flinches from, but that he adores all the same. Strong hands sweep over the swell of small breasts and lower. He kneads the meat of pale thighs, caresses over the cellulite and down her stomach and the curve of her hips, fingers seeking between her thighs to her bare cunt. Copia has already given her an orgasm with the same digits buried deep and curling, but now he wants another, so selfishly does he want to feel her squeeze around him. 

“Let go for me, amore. It’s okay. Let go,” he whispers hotly, pressing a tender kiss to skin beneath her ear, and she does so. 

She pulls him against her chest to chest, arms slung over his shoulder, back and grasps his hair, mouth open. She whimpers quietly, always softly, into his neck as the wet sounds grow louder and her body squeezes like a coiled spring. 

His skilled fingers rub circles over her throbbing clit and she loves him. She loves him. Her Copia. Her Papa, always. Forever. 

Her body clenches around his thick cock and she trembles, whimpering her pleasure, moaning his name and it’s the catalyst of what makes his body seize up and follow her over the edge. 

In the aftermath, he touches her when she desires the touch, when the stimulation is not too much for this precious vessel that feels like a live wire exposed at its root. He checks her, touches her face and gets her to look at him when she is able. She kisses his palm and nods, a tear sliding free. 

Carefully rolling to lie beside her, Copia curls his fingers beneath her knee and pulls her leg over his waist. He kisses her forehead and whispers to her, low, comforting words in Italian and English. Always low, never raising his voice above a pin-drop whisper. She preens a little when he pushes her hair back from her face, wipes her eyes and oh, how she loves him so. 

Stretching her limbs over his torso, she tucks into his chest and lets out a final, calming sigh as their breathing returns to normal. The room smells of sex, sweat and heat. 

Eventually, she groans, the sticky wet cooling between her thighs. Copia’s eyes are closed when she cranes her head against his shoulder, but they open when she kisses his jaw. His mismatched irises shine in the low light, full of bliss and adoration. When he smiles, it’s with the brightness of the sun. She flushes, dropping her head into his neck and huffs. 

“I’m gonna need another shower,” she mumbles and they laugh together about it, shifting and settling again. 

Copia strokes a palm up and down her thigh over his waist, his other hand tracing her spine. 

She closes her eyes. 

She’ll drink him in just a little longer, and they can shower again after.

After all, they don’t have anything to do on Sundays.