Neither Sancha in her greediness nor Fiammetta in her refinement, not his sister nor Caterina nor Dorotea nor his wife - none had been like... this. Lithe, acrobatic, joyful. So, so vibrant. He bites her neck, careful not to leave a mark but... hungrily enough.
Her hair is a gentle fall of silk where it brushes his face for a moment. She smells lovely. Fresh, milky, soapy girl-scent. The fragrance alone could make him come now, with her clinging to him like one of Lucrezia's sweet capuchin monkeys. "I am not-" he draws a breath "-not holding back. How," a bite to her earlobe, "could I, when madonna teases me so," he says hoarsely. His hands cup her taut little arse cheeks.