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Traveling between Kostantiniyye and Roma, 1512
Ezio lets himself into their room in the inn, quiet as can be. The door swings without a creak, and he eases it closed so it doesn't make a noise. It's dim, the setting sun out the window beaming orange light around the room and falling short of all the corners of the room. There are already candles set up for the evening, but they aren't lit yet. He'd planned to be back later than this.
Sofia is out of her dress and in a lace-trimmed white shift, and is sitting in the middle of the bed, the covers already tussled up around her. There's a book laid out over the covers, and she's bent over it to read, even as she's got her hands up and buried in her hair, working out endless little pins and ribbons. Red curls fall from black netting bit by bit. There's a funny smile on her lips, and doesn't seem to have noticed him standing there, so he stays quiet and watches her for a moment. He wonders what she's thinking about, watching her face light up as she reads over some passage or another.
He's smiling, too.
"Is it good?"
She looks up at him.
"Oh," she gasps, surprised. "Done already? I didn't expect you back so soon."
His eyes take a very temporary rove up her outfit as he approaches to sit on the edge of the bed. "And I didn't expect you to be retiring so early. What book are you lost in now?"
Sofia looks almost a little embarrassed, a woman caught in the act of something he wasn't supposed to see quite yet. She leans her shoulder against his, eyes meeting his.
"If you'd taken another hour, I would have had a surprise for you."
Ezio looks at her dubiously, until it hits him.
Oh.
"I can go out again, if you'd like," he offers, a smile curling on his mouth. He starts to stand but her hands move to his arm and he pauses to look at her.
"You're already here," Sofia replies, reaching to close her book. Ezio shifts his body to better face her, and she leans back on one arm. He moves with her, smiling already.
"That's true."
Pulled loose, her red curls frame her face wildly, and there's a particular intenseness between them when their eyes meet. He searches her face for a moment, eyes settling on her lips for a moment. She gives a smile, small but genuine, and their faces draw close for a moment, the pull to each other almost magnetic. After a heartbeat, she closes the gap completely.
Ezio can't remember the last time he'd been intimate with a woman he loved as deeply as he does this one. He's kissed many women –– a thought he loathes to have cross his mind in a moment like this –– but there's never been anything quite like this. It's slow, purposeful; a sweet sort of ardor that slowly picks up steam, going from that awkward moment of trying to find where one's hands should be to that moment where fingers are fumbling to undo the buckles and buttons of Ezio's clothing. Her hands on his bared chest make him tense slightly, breathing in sharply, fingers curling around her sides a little tighter.
The connection between them is electric. When they break off for a moment, she stays close, their noses bumping. He just breathes for a moment, still searching her face, looking for answers. Why had he held back for long, again, when he had this beautiful woman at arm's reach the whole time? How did such a perfect woman exist, and how had she managed to break down every emotional wall he had built over the decades? He has always given his body and mind so freely, but his heart is another matter entirely.
This feels right, and pure, just two Italians irrevocably in love and lost on the road from Constantinople to Venice.
Ezio lets himself into their room in the inn, quiet as can be. The door swings without a creak, and he eases it closed so it doesn't make a noise. It's dim, the setting sun out the window beaming orange light around the room and falling short of all the corners of the room. There are already candles set up for the evening, but they aren't lit yet. He'd planned to be back later than this.
Sofia is out of her dress and in a lace-trimmed white shift, and is sitting in the middle of the bed, the covers already tussled up around her. There's a book laid out over the covers, and she's bent over it to read, even as she's got her hands up and buried in her hair, working out endless little pins and ribbons. Red curls fall from black netting bit by bit. There's a funny smile on her lips, and doesn't seem to have noticed him standing there, so he stays quiet and watches her for a moment. He wonders what she's thinking about, watching her face light up as she reads over some passage or another.
He's smiling, too.
"Is it good?"
She looks up at him.
"Oh," she gasps, surprised. "Done already? I didn't expect you back so soon."
His eyes take a very temporary rove up her outfit as he approaches to sit on the edge of the bed. "And I didn't expect you to be retiring so early. What book are you lost in now?"
Sofia looks almost a little embarrassed, a woman caught in the act of something he wasn't supposed to see quite yet. She leans her shoulder against his, eyes meeting his.
"If you'd taken another hour, I would have had a surprise for you."
Ezio looks at her dubiously, until it hits him.
Oh.
"I can go out again, if you'd like," he offers, a smile curling on his mouth. He starts to stand but her hands move to his arm and he pauses to look at her.
"You're already here," Sofia replies, reaching to close her book. Ezio shifts his body to better face her, and she leans back on one arm. He moves with her, smiling already.
"That's true."
Pulled loose, her red curls frame her face wildly, and there's a particular intenseness between them when their eyes meet. He searches her face for a moment, eyes settling on her lips for a moment. She gives a smile, small but genuine, and their faces draw close for a moment, the pull to each other almost magnetic. After a heartbeat, she closes the gap completely.
Ezio can't remember the last time he'd been intimate with a woman he loved as deeply as he does this one. He's kissed many women –– a thought he loathes to have cross his mind in a moment like this –– but there's never been anything quite like this. It's slow, purposeful; a sweet sort of ardor that slowly picks up steam, going from that awkward moment of trying to find where one's hands should be to that moment where fingers are fumbling to undo the buckles and buttons of Ezio's clothing. Her hands on his bared chest make him tense slightly, breathing in sharply, fingers curling around her sides a little tighter.
The connection between them is electric. When they break off for a moment, she stays close, their noses bumping. He just breathes for a moment, still searching her face, looking for answers. Why had he held back for long, again, when he had this beautiful woman at arm's reach the whole time? How did such a perfect woman exist, and how had she managed to break down every emotional wall he had built over the decades? He has always given his body and mind so freely, but his heart is another matter entirely.
This feels right, and pure, just two Italians irrevocably in love and lost on the road from Constantinople to Venice.