There’s a carnal thirst twisting his belly. 

A frustrated ache in his drawn-tight balls. 

Drunk with the build, the kiss of his glans to Elio’s greedy rim sees Oliver’s heart expanding, and the other man strains as he arches from the rumpled sheets: a desperate plea spilling loose on a whimper when he exerts the scantest pressure; inching inside anew. 

“Non fermarti…” Elio slurs beside his ear; charcoal lashes fanning his burnished cheeks. “’m close…” 

The feeling’s entirely mutual, of course, yet Oliver’s resolved to fuck him senseless; watching Elio’s face contort in rapture as the pitch of his honeyed groans turns almost guttural.  

They’ve been at it a while, is the thing. Driving one another to the proverbial brink, then switching gears at the pivotal moment to eke out their release. It’s addictive - this self-imposed restraint after several months apart - but when bruising heels dig into his ass all bets are off, and Oliver surrenders to his baser urges as he dutifullyquickens the pace. 

“More…” Elio demands, blowing an errant curl from his dewy temple. “Please, mon chéri… need to come…”

Oliver leans in: lathing the salt-gleam hollow at his boyfriend’s throat. 

“You’re a provocateur, Elio Perlman…”

“Praw-vaw-ka-tœr,” comes the heavily-exaggerated reply; playtime ostensibly over as Elio chokes on a whine: nostrils flaring at each fervent jab to his tender prostate.

Caged between their sweat-slick bellies, his erection smears wet and sticky, and were the clasp of Elio’s palms not fused with such intensity he’d have happily reached down to double the stimulation.

In the end, however, it makes no difference. 

Success is a dance perfected through repetition, so no sooner have Elio’s legs hitched to encircle his waist does he cry out raggedly: Oliver’s world going blindingly white as he curses and shudders and grinds his teeth; spurring him on amidst motley sounds of contentment. 

One thrust.

Two.

An uncoordinated third.

Liquid pearls streak Elio’s sternum right up to his stubbly chin, and pressing his mouth to the spiderweb veins at his wrist, Oliver savours the perfect thrum of life: hips endeavouring to twitch in vain; jetlagged refractory period be damned.

How long they lie there he isn’t quite sure, but nature’s chorus is already stirring beyond the wooden shutters when he properly catches his breath, and the steady rise of Elio’s chest suggests he’s not too far from drifting off beneath him.

“Baise-moi…” the other man mumbles eventually, looking rather like the cat who got the cream. “That was -”

“Exceptional?” Oliver mutters, wheezing louder than Anchise’s old generator. “Spectacular?”

“Truly, I am Fortune’s favoured,” Elio drawls, chapped lips grazing the hinge of his jaw. “Humility is a virtue, professore.”

“So I’ve heard,” Oliver replies, snagging a pair of discarded boxers to clean up the mess. “But don’t let that keep you from stroking my ego.” 

Elio grunts. “Give me ten minutes and I’ll stroke your -”