Florence stirs before we do. Somewhere below, a milk cart rattles, and swifts sew pale threads across the paling sky. I wake to a pressure: Zoe’s thigh wedged between mine, her palm cupping my breast, thumb already drawing slow circles as though she had traced them all night in her dreams.

She kisses the nape she claimed hours ago and whispers—voice still husked by sleep, soft as a storm subdued:

“Stay quiet, my cloud. Breathe for me—nothing else.”

A tremor answers where her thigh nudges heat. I exhale. She counts it—one, two—then slides her hand down, last night’s oil now silkier from body warmth. Her fingertips skim lower belly, pause in soft curls, wait. My breath hitches; I force the air out evenly.

Satisfied, she lets a single finger slip through folds—no search, only mapping humidity. Her pleased hum vibrates against my spine.

Without lifting that teasing finger, she reaches toward the night-stand. Instead of the folded towel, she takes a length of dove-grey silk cord I keep for decorative harnesses. Overnight it absorbed fig-orange perfume; the lamp’s low heat has warmed it.

She winds it around my wrists—crossed at my navel—binding with gentle figure-eights, the knot loose enough for circulation, firm enough to remind me who sculpts my morning. She slides my bound hands overhead to the pillow; her palm covers them, light yet unignorable.

“Colour?” she breathes.
“Green,” I whisper, mouth dry with anticipation.

The morning light through the shutters stripes her copper hair in molten bronze; she looks like an old-world icon, all softness framed in command.

That lone finger dips, gathers slick, circles the hood with patience bordering on kindness. Each slow orbit feels like a secret written into my nerves. She matches her strokes to my lungs: in on touch, out on touch. Any stutter and she stops.

When a sharp inhale betrays me, she stills, mouth to my ear.
“Even breaths, nuvola. Let the air cradle you.”

Cheeks blazing, I obey. She rewards me: a single finger inside, then a second after a reverent pause. The stretch is measured; every knuckle earned. My hips twitch—her free hand presses my pelvic bone, anchoring me.

She speaks in low balconies of French: lavender harvests, the first corset I laced for her, tears she once called “diamonds distilled from sky.” Between phrases she curls her fingers against that hidden patch; my toes curl, silk tugs. Still I keep silent but for a mewl neither counts as speech.

Sunlight turns to pure gold. Her pace quickens—tender, sure. My belly tenses; legs tremble. She senses the gather, stills—edge bright as a struck match.

“Ask,” she murmurs, lips grazing my earlobe.
“Please… let me come,” I manage.

She kisses the plea off my mouth, then grants consent:
“Come, little cloud. Rain for me.”

Pressure resumes—five strokes, maybe six—then release pours through me in a steady downpour. She holds me until tremors ebb, fingers easing to languid swirls. Silk cuffs slacken; my heartbeat stutters and smooths.

She unties the knot, lifts my hands, kisses each palm—a sweet inversion of power. I roll into her arms. Her own thighs press together, arousal bright on inner skin. I could offer now, but she cups my cheek.

“Another morning,” she promises, eyes luminous. “Today, rest.”

We lie tangled while sunlight walks across terracotta roofs. A bell down-river tolls eight; our private mass ends in a hush of gratitude.

---o0o---

Coffee brews; we drink it naked on the terrace, still smelling of rosemary and orange. She leans her head on my shoulder, sub pulse humming gently.

“Your cloud is content?”
“Floating,” I affirm.

Below, the Arno glints, carrying reflections downstream—evidence of a dawn born of oil, silence, and silk, unfolding into rainfall made of breath.

Late-morning light stripes the penthouse in gold. Zoe stands at the railing, robe loose, hair in a careless knot. Watching her neck curve as she sips espresso rekindles warmth low in my belly. I cross the room and lift the dove-grey rope she used on me. Today its allegiance changes.

“Zoe,” I call softly.
She turns, smile curious.
“Your turn to drift.”

Surprise flickers, replaced by eager trust. She sets down the cup and walks to me without question.

I guide her to stand before an ornate full-length mirror, its gilded Florentine frame holding flawless glass. The robe slips from her shoulders, puddling like spilled moonlight. She inhales to speak; I place a single finger over her parted lips.

“Silence for now. Let the rope talk.”

Her lashes flutter, closing around consent.

I begin at her wrists, crossing them low on her abdomen. The rope slithers, catching the motes of sun. One loop, snug; a second, decorative. The knots are small and flat—made for beauty, not escape. I lead the free tails up between her breasts, over her collarbones, around the back of her neck—halter-style—then down her spine in a spiral so slow it feels like penmanship on her skin.

Each pass tightens the faint sway of her breathing. When the pattern anchors just above her hips, I pause. My palms settle on the rope lattice, fingernails stroking her waist; a tremor ripples outward, visible in the mirror.

She opens her eyes. The glass reflects her image trussed in pale silk, nipples flushed a deeper rose where the rope frames them. I stand behind, meeting her gaze through the reflection. With deliberate calm, I draw her wrists slightly upward: the posture opens her chest, exposes her throat. Her head tilts; her copper hair spills forward, haloed by sunlight.

My voice is velvet-steel. “Look at what you give me.”

She does—her mouth soft, reverent. The power shift hums electric in the quiet room, echoed by distant Florence traffic like a lullaby of wheels.

I retrieve the cruet of rosemary-orange oil, now warmed by the day. A slow ribbon pours over her shoulder; a golden rivulet slides between rope diamonds, down to her sternum, where it forks toward her belly. My hands follow—spreading, kneading, mapping every inch as though reclaiming territory ceded at dawn.

At the first sweep across her nipple she hisses—half pleasure, half restraint. My thumbs circle, then pinch with just enough bite to draw a gasp. I lean in, lips to her ear.

“Colour?”

“Green… lucid green.”

I kneel, my hands wandering lower. Rope marks guide my fingertips along her ribs, around to her rump. I cup her, thumbs parting the slick folds, feeling the warmth pulse. She rocks, but I still her with a subtle tug of rope.

A low chaise longue waits near the bed. I lead her by the rope’s tail and seat her at its edge. Her ankles part, her knees bend, exposing her to the mirror—and to me, kneeling again between her thighs.

Oil now coats my fingers. I trace slow circles over her clit—slower, slower, then not at all. She whimpers softly, her hips canting; I shake my head. The rope at her wrists lifts just enough to remind her that stillness is part of surrender.

“Count your breaths,” I say.

She exhales, voice trembling. “One…”

With each breath I trail a fingertip lower—never entering—then retreat. By ten, her thighs quiver, slick glossing the marble floor.

I lean in, tongue replacing finger for one languid lick that ends with a plush kiss to her inner thigh. She releases a moan so hushed it could be breeze; restraint clenches her knuckles white.

One finger slides inside—heat clamps instantly. Curl, withdraw, curl again. Her eyes flutter closed; the rope at her neck tightens faintly with the arch. My thumb presses her clit, a firm swirl, the surge already rising.

“Hold,” I warn.

My finger stills; thumb hovers. She trembles, muscles fluttering, yet she obeys—orgasm suspended on a cliff-edge. A tiny keening catches in her throat, clipped by sheer discipline.

For reward I brush the lightest kiss over her swollen bud—softer than breath. Her whimper threads between clenched teeth.

Her pulse hammers beneath rope; mercy will taste even sweeter.
“Your next release is yours,” I whisper. “Take it from the mirror when it commands.”

Rhythm resumes—tongue firm, finger stroking the front wall. In the glass I watch her jaw slacken, breasts rise, rope deepen its indentations—body turned to script.

“Now,” I breathe against her.

She shatters—back arching, heels skimming parquet. A cry breaks free, half Italian prayer, half animal. Rope holds her in luminous tension until convulsions fade.

I soften every lick, kissing her outer lips, thighs, each knot—gratitude in every press. Untying her wrists, I caress rope marks blooming peach-gold. She pulls me up, mouth claiming mine—orange-rosemary and surrender. We sink onto the chaise, limbs tangled, no Domme or sub in the afterglow—only lovers pulsing with mirrored light.

“Colour?” I murmur.
“Emerald,” she answers, voice low, satisfied.

Outside, church bells mark noon; Florence blazes terracotta and sky. Silk rope lies coiled like a dormant serpent, waiting for the next exchange of storms and stillness.

---o0o---

Zoe’s last quiver settles beneath my palms, but heat between us refuses to cool. The rope lies abandoned; candles flicker applause, shadows licking tile and skin. The bells of Santo Spirito fade, leaving only wind and distant motorini.

She cups my neck, and the kiss that follows is no after-care peck; it is a flaring match. Her lips taste of citrus oil and something darker—need uncaged. We shift, urgent, until our torsos press, nipples grazing in a shock of texture that draws twin gasps.

The chaise is too narrow. We tumble to the plush rug, laughter melting into moans as thighs tangle. Her copper hair fans across ivory pile; moonlight paints it molten. I hover, knee between her legs, watching pupils swallow hazel.

“Closer,” she whispers—more order than plea.

I obey, lowering until the slick heat of her centre meets mine. The first kiss of flesh to flesh is lightning. Our hips jolt, wetness mingles, velvet friction sending electricity through my spine. We pause—barely breathing—savouring the shock.

Movement begins—small exploratory rolls. Her pelvic bone nudges my clit, retreats; I answer with a mirrored glide. A rhythm older than language emerges: press, slide, retreat; press, slide, retreat. Moisture slicks our inner thighs, easing each glide. Rug piles bunch beneath my knees as leverage turns urgent.

Our hands roam. My palm cups the slope of her breast, thumb stroking the hard peak. Her nails rake feather-light down my ribs, gooseflesh blooming. Our mouths meet between thrusts—sometimes lips, sometimes panting against cheekbones, anything to sip breath before the next roll.

Friction intensifies—clit against clit, swollen and slick, wrapped in an invisible ember. Each rub sparks, each spark a gasp. She hooks a leg high over my hip, tilting for deeper contact; the new angle drags my hood against hers in a creamy, desperate slide. We cry out together; sound echoes off the high ceiling.

Sweat beads; my hair sticks to my forehead. Candlelight turns droplets into constellations on skin. Our bellies create a soft percussion at every thrust, syncing with ragged breathing. Her heartbeat under my palm drums yes-yes-yes.

Suddenly she flips me, power blooming in her thigh and core. I land on my back—rug prickling shoulders—her weight a heated blanket. Our hips never lose contact; the grind continues, wetter, firmer. Copper hair curtains our faces, trapping breath and scent—orange peel, rosemary, salt.

Braced on one arm, she slides her free hand between us, thumb finding both clits, adding exquisite pressure. I arch, cry her name—half plea, half warning. She silences me with a kiss, then watches my face as she accelerates.

“Come with me,” she pants—her voice gravel-soft.

“Soon,” I manage, my hips answering faster than words.

We ride the crest together, our thrusts turning erratic. I feel her muscles flutter; my own climax spirals tight behind the pubic bone. The moment our moans mesh into a single rising note, her thumb circles just right—once, twice—then presses. Pleasure detonates. My body clamps around nothing and everything, hips bucking into hers; she cries out, shuddering, slick flooding the slick we already share.

We do not stop. Aftershocks pulse through wet friction; mini-climaxes ripple each time her clit drags across mine. When sensitivity bends toward pain, she slows, her hips rocking gentle consolation. We collapse side by side, legs still tangled, cores still pulsing in afterglow.

Silence, except for the staccato of our recovering breaths. Florence’s night air flows cool over our overheated skin; candle-flames tremble, mirroring our internal flutter.

I turn to her, brushing damp hair from her flushed cheek.
“Colour?” I tease—an old habit softened by tenderness.
A languid grin. “Aurora green.”

She answers the question with a kiss full of embers, and I know dawn will find us melted into sleep, the rug imprinting filigree on our thighs, the Duomo watching like a silent conspirator in romance and ruin.

---o0o---

Morning filters into the penthouse as a soft, pearl-grey hush. The city is still stretching its joints when Zoe and I pad barefoot to the en-suite bath: a vaulted alcove of travertine, the ceiling frescoed with pale cranes in flight. The walk-in shower is a grotto of ivory tile, fitted with a rainfall head as wide as a parasol.

I twist the tap. First a metallic groan, then a rush of water fogs the glass in seconds. Steam unfurls around Zoe’s naked silhouette, collecting in beads along her collarbones. I watch rivulets trace the slopes of her breasts as though searching instinctively for my mouth.

She steps under the cascade. Her copper hair darkens to bronze rope, plastering her spine. A hiss leaves her throat—half pleasure, half relief. She extends a hand without turning; I lace our fingers and follow.

Hot droplets drum our shoulders, then melt into a shimmering river down our fronts. A cake of orange-blossom-and-sandalwood soap waits in a ceramic dish. I lather it between my palms and glide satin foam across her arms, up the gentle curve where shoulder yields to neck. The scent mingles with wet skin, becoming something entirely hers.

My slick fingers explore—around the soft undersides of her breasts, my thumb circling nipples until they pebble, then sliding lower to her waist. Zoe’s breath quickens; tiny clouds puff past parted lips.

She captures my wrist, guiding my soapy hand between her thighs. The silk heat there greets me, thicker than the water still sluicing over us. I stroke once, slow, testing the boundary. Her eyes half-close.

“Back—against the wall,” I murmur.

She obeys, spine meeting tile cooled by the cascade. Water ribbons over her collarbones, around the curves of her breasts, and down along my forearm. I kneel, knees cushioned by a teak slat, letting the rainfall beat a tattoo across my shoulders.

Her thighs part, guided by my hands. Steam blurs the room into a soft vignette around the centre of her. I start with a kiss just above the dark satin triangle, feeling the tremor ripple outward. Another kiss, lower, tasting water mingled with the soap’s citrus echo.

The first sweep of my tongue is languid, exploring the softness, mapping the folds. She exhales a soft oh that drowns beneath the rush of water. My hands slide up to cup her hips, thumbs brushing the sharp angles of bone, anchoring her to the marble.

The tongue flickers, then presses flat, coaxing a hum from her chest. Water runs off her abdomen, dripping from the underside of her breasts onto my cheeks; its warmth merges with the heat blossoming where my mouth works. I find the tight bud, circle slowly—once, twice—then suckle gently.

Her fingers lace into my wet hair, but the grip stays a caress, not command. She tips her head back—water splashes over closed eyes, down her throat, across the arch of her torso. Against my lips, her body pulses, every heartbeat a silent plea for more.

I slide two fingers inside—the angle easy from kneeling, the glide eased by water and her own slickness. She clenches, hips rolling forward until her shoulders press harder to the tile for leverage. One hand leaves my hair, slapping at the wall to steady the quake.

I set a rhythm: tongue flick, suck, fingers curl—repeat. Each cycle draws a higher pitch from her throat. Steam muffles the sound yet seems to amplify her body’s response—thighs trembling, knees threatening collapse. I hook an arm behind one leg, spreading her wider, letting her ride my mouth while rainfall drums across my back.

“Lu—please—yes—”
Her words fragment, steam-warped, but permission rings clear.

I flatten my tongue and press my fingers into that silken patch inside. Her thigh muscles lock, then ripple. She comes with a sharp gasp that steams against the ceiling, body arching off the tile, water splashing from both of us in broken rhythms.

I soften my strokes, let aftershocks fade, then withdraw, tasting citrus-salt and triumph. Rising, I claim her mouth; she tastes herself on my lips and makes a satisfied sound—half growl, half purr.

We let the water rinse sweat, foam, and climax from our skin until pulses quiet. I turn her, gently soap her back, tracing every vertebra as if sealing what we found. She returns the favour—her palms sliding glistening paths across my breasts, then lower. But when her hand reaches the swell of my heat, I still it.

“Next time,” I promise, kissing her soapy shoulder. “I want to feel your mouth against these tiles.”

A wicked smile curves her lips—advance payment on future sin.

We shut the tap. Air cools instantly, raising gooseflesh. Towels warmed on the radiator cradle us; we pat dry, silent but giddy. Outside the shower, the mirrored wall is fogged except for two blurry silhouettes—twin storms settling into calm.

Zoe threads her fingers through mine as we step into the bedroom light. In her eyes glints a promise: the next scene will start where the steam left off—only hotter than any water could dare.

---o0o---

A single oval clears on the mirror where our warmth lingers, proof that heat insists on returning. Zoe’s smile blooms bolder in the soft noon light. I towel the last beads from her collarbone; she catches the fabric, drops it, and steps close enough that her fresh-bathed skin fogs my breath.

“Your turn against stone, nuvola,” she murmurs, voice velvet after rainfall.

The shower tiles are still warm; steam ghosts coil lazily above the drain. My pulse answers in liquid staccato.

She guides me back with two fingertips at my hipbones—the gentlest bit and bridle. Cool tile greets my shoulder blades; the contrast with the lingering bath heat sparks along my spine. Zoe spreads my arms, palms flat, inviting the wall to claim fingerprints. A teasing hover of her thigh nudges mine apart.

She sinks to her knees on the teak slats, damp copper curls brushing my belly. Steam rises again—now from us, not the pipes.

Her breath bathes my curls in humid warmth before her mouth even touches me. Then a single, deliberate kiss—closed lips, savouring. I exhale a note, half vowel, half sigh. She licks once, slow, gathering taste, humming approval that vibrates into my bones.

Her tongue draws an upward stroke, then a languid circle around the hood—never quite direct. My hips search for friction; her hands pin them gently to the tile, fingers splayed over my glutes, heat brand-new and proprietary.

“Let me savour,” she whispers, lips shaping syllables across sensitive skin.

Zoe reaches up, turning the overhead shower to a tepid drizzle angled so water cascades only along my left flank. Droplets stripe me in alternating bands of cool and warmth where her mouth works. The counterpoint unravels my composure; my knees soften. She slides one arm beneath my thigh, hitching it over her shoulder, deepening the angle.

Her tongue flutters—small, ruthless taps on the aching bud. Between each she draws the flat length down my folds, tasting, building pressure like a violinist tuning string by string.

One finger slides in—slick ease, curling forward. She waits until the inner muscle greets the intrusion, then a second finger nests beside, stretching just shy of too much. The dual rhythm begins: tongue quick, fingers measured. My moan echoes off wet tile, mingling with the hiss of water.

My hips strain for more friction, but her arm anchors my thigh, locking the angle. I surrender my palms to the cool wall, my breath to her tempo.

“Hold,” she commands softly, breaking suction but not retreating. Her fingers stay buried; my climax balances on a knife-edge.

She lifts her gaze—hazel ringed in eclipse-dark desire—and smiles. Power flips in a single look.

She resumes her tongue, but slower, a tortoise teasing dawn. Each pass dips pressure, builds, retreats. My sounds turn to pleading hums that vibrate the walls. She pulls back, her breath stroking my wetness.

“Ask.”

“Please, Zoe… let me… break.”

The tip of her tongue taps once.

“Again.”

Need shreds language; I try, “Please—may I come—amore—need—”

Her grip tightens; her teeth graze my swollen flesh; her fingers curl exactly on that textured patch inside. The combined jolt rips the held breath from my chest; pleasure detonates, a white flash behind my eyelids. My cry ricochets in the marble chamber; my thigh trembles across her shoulder. She drinks the crest, lapping through the flood, gentling when the pulses turn into hypersensitive flutters.

She lowers my leg and stands, water still drizzling between us. Our bodies, slick with rinse and climax, meet in a deep kiss—saline-sweet from my own release. I taste myself on her lips; she hums, her chest vibrating against mine.

I shut off the water; sudden silence magnifies heartbeat drums. We stay in the hush, foreheads pressed, breaths mingling steam.

Back in the bedroom’s gentler air, we collapse on the rug we abandoned earlier, limbs twined. She threads her fingers through mine, stroking the salt-damp hair at my temple.

“Colour?” she asks, her grin tender.

“Celadon green,” I laugh, drowsy and bright.

“Same,” she replies, shifting to cradle me.

Outside, the church bells choose silence, as if Florence itself keeps our secret. Inside, two vixens—one rain-cloud, one wildfire—curl into the sweet ash of satisfied hunger, knowing the next spark always waits just beyond the pulse. Steam yields to slow breath; marble cools, desire glows, and the city, unknowing, turns another page.

---o0o---

The canopy bed waits like a soft citadel in the dusky bedroom—four carved walnut posts rising to a crown draped in ivory voile. Candlelight filters through the gauze, tinting everything boneshell gold. Crisp cotton sheets invite, freshly smoothed, carrying a faint hint of rosemary from the earlier massage oil.

Zoe leads me beneath the curtain; it sighs closed, cocooning us from the world. Outside the voile, Florence hums with Saturday laughter, but inside only the whisper of linen and our mingled breathing exists.

We kneel facing each other. Her hazel eyes, rimmed darker by candle-light, search mine, asking nothing, confirming everything. I cup her cheek; she kisses my wrist, pulse to pulse.

I trace feather-light strokes up the insides of her arms, fingers so gentle they barely crease her skin. Goose-bumps chase my path. She mirrors me: her fingertips at my waist, tracing an inward spiral until they rest beneath my breasts. Every brush feels amplified, as though the voile shores all sensation back onto our nerves.

My thumbs sweep her nipples—buds tightening, darkening. She gasps, soft and close to my lips. Her mouth captures mine; the kiss is unhurried, wet heat mingling with peppermint from earlier tea. Our tongues meet in slow exploration—nothing ravenous, everything savoring.

She sighs my name between kisses; the sound vibrates inside me, settling low and deep.

We ease down onto the pillows, me on my back, she half-draped beside me. Her copper hair fans over one shoulder as she bends to my breast. The first lick is languid, tracing the curve to my nipple, then circling without pressure. I feel the cool air she exhales, a tease before warmth. When her lips finally close around the stiff peak, a tremor threads the length of my spine.

She suckles gently, her tongue flicking, drawing moans that flutter like moths in candle-light. My hands roam her back, nails lightly mapping muscles, then drift to cup her own breast—my thumb stroking her nipple until it beads against my palm. We trade breathy laughter at how perfectly mirrored the sensations are: my sigh for hers, her shiver for mine.

Zoe’s hand glides south, over the plane of my belly where a faint massage-oil sheen still lingers. Her fingers comb through soft curls and pause; she lifts her head, seeking permission in my gaze. I part my thighs in silent answer, knees bending. Candlelight slices my thigh, illuminating the flush already blooming between my folds.

Her fingertips trace along my outer lips first, gentle sweeps that slick easily with gathered arousal. She does not rush. Each stroke is a paragraph of devotion. When she slips two fingers inward, the glide is seamless, filling without pain—only fullness blooming.

I exhale a humming “mmm,” hips rising a fraction. Her thumb settles to coax slow circles around the hood—steady, gentle. Stroke inside, circle outside: a tide breathing me.

I tug her down for a kiss, tasting my own slick on her lips—metallic, sweet. Then I roll us; now she lies on her back, copper hair haloing the pillow. I nestle between her thighs, sliding my palms along the soft inner planes. She is wet already, warmth grazing my skin.

I kiss the crease where thigh meets hip-bone, then the other side, inhaling almond oil mingled with musk. My tongue parts her gently, savoring the first lick—salty-sweet, addictive. Her breath stutters; her fingers thread my hair but remain loose, offering guidance rather than command.

I lap slowly, mapping every fold: outer petals, then inner, then a firm sweep up the centre. When I reach the glistening bud, I flatten my tongue, circle once, twice, then close my lips around it, nursing lightly. Her hips arch; a quiet “oh” escapes—quick breath that shakes the voile overhead.

My free hand glides upward, sliding two fingers inside her—tight heat, velvet walls pulsing. We set a mutual rhythm: my fingers stroke forward while her thumb still lavishes my clit. We move together in a silent metronome of shared pleasure.

I feel her inner muscles flutter—an early tremor of release. She feels mine, too—her thumb circling faster, fingers curling deeper. Candlelight flickers, casting wild shadows through the gauze, as if the bed is a lantern and we its fuel.

Our sounds mingle: her soft catches of breath, my lower moans muffled against her slickness. Sweat beads at our temples, cools in the voile breeze, then reheats beneath our contact.

“Together,” she whispers, her voice trembling.

I hum assent, the vibration sending her hips upward. I quicken—my tongue firmer, my fingers steady. She mirrors me—her thumb pressing and her fingers finding that front inner ridge that sparks.

Pressure builds, spiral-tight. I taste her heartbeat accelerate; my own clit thrums electric beneath her thumb, pleasure winding hot in my belly.

Release arrives in the same breath: her cry and my moan, overlapping. Our bodies arch—hers against my mouth, mine against her hand—waves crashing inside a gauze-wrapped shoreline. Pulse after pulse rolls through us until the intensity blurs into soft shivers.

When the tremors fade, I crawl up to settle beside her. She pulls me into a gentle kiss flavoured with our mingled flesh. The pillow cools beneath damp hair; the voile curtains stir, carrying the scent of our bodies into candlelit air.

She strokes my cheek with her thumb, tracing the lips she just kissed. I draw slow circles over her sternum, feeling her heartbeat ease.

Outside, a single Vespa whines somewhere along the river. Inside, two hearts beat slower, softer. The canopy bed has become a chamber of calm where desire rests—not extinguished, but glowing like banked coals ready for the next dawn.

We drift into a light doze, limbs twined, candle shadows dancing lazily across the ceiling—love painted in a low tempo, bright as the Florentine sunrise waiting just beyond the voile.

---o0o---