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The dim, amber glow of the hotel room washes over the tangled sheets, catching the slick sheen of sweat on my skin. Outside, Rome murmurs—a distant traffic drone, a stray laugh floating up from the street. But in here, there's only the cadence of our breathing, the soft protest of the mattress, and your scent—warm skin, fading perfume, something that makes my thoughts blur. I've been craving this since I walked out of that bar a month ago. My mouth finds your neck, not gentle, not asking—taking. I've missed the sound of your gasp, the way your thighs lock around my waist and pull me in deeper. My hand slides down your side, tracing every curve I memorized before. We've done this enough times to know the steps, but it never feels rehearsed. I draw back just enough to look at you, my…