The thick, suffocating silence that followed the final, violent tremor of Marcus’s climax was broken only by the ragged, synchronised gasps of the three men and the distant, rhythmic chirping of the Tuscan crickets. Marcus remained buried deep within Simon’s ravaged core for a long, possessive minute, his heavy chest heaving against the sweat-slicked navy silk of Simon’s shirt, his fingers still dug into the lad’s thick pectorals with a bruising, territorial grip. When he finally withdrew, the sound was a wet, heavy suction that seemed to echo off the stone balustrade, leaving Simon’s entrance gaping and crimson-stained, a thick, viscous mixture of both R. men’s legacies beginning to sluggishly overflow and drip onto the dark olive-wood table.
Simon collapsed forward, his forehead thudding against the hard timber, his powerful rugby-player’s arms splayed out among the scattered silver cutlery and spilled Sassicaia. His legs, usually so steady and explosive on the pitch, were now nothing more than trembling, leaden weights, his inner thighs matted with a cooling, pearlescent sheen that caught the flickering amber light of the dying beeswax candles. He felt hollowed out, physically and mentally, his mind a white-hot haze of raw, expensive debauchery that had stripped away every vestige of the man who had left London only hours before.
"Look at the state of him, Matteo," Marcus murmured, his voice regaining its cool, aristocratic lilt as he adjusted his trousers with a terrifyingly calm precision. He reached out and tangled his fingers in Simon’s damp blonde hair, yanking the lad’s head back to force him to look at the two titans who stood over him. "He’s a saturated sponge. I don't think there’s a single square inch of his internal architecture that hasn't been battered by our family tonight. He’s a credit to his training."
Matteo leaned against the edge of the table, his massive, hairy chest still glistening with sweat, his dark eyes raking over Simon’s flushed, broken form with a look of predatory satisfaction. He reached out and traced the line of a fresh bruise on Simon’s hip with a calloused thumb. "He is a masterpiece of endurance, Papa. But he is also a mess. I do not think the houseboys will appreciate having to scrub the scent of our triumph out of the woodwork in the morning."
Marcus let out a short, dark chuckle and released Simon’s hair, letting the lad’s head drop back onto the table with a soft thud. "Quite right. Simon, find your feet. I want you to head back to your room. The young lad from earlier—Luca—will be waiting for you with a fresh basin of warm water and a silk robe. I suggest you let him clean you; your coordination seems to have deserted you entirely."
Simon nodded dizzily, his fingers slipping on the polished wood as he pushed himself upright. The lack of any underwear beneath his white linen trousers was now a source of exquisite, throbbing discomfort; as he pulled the fabric up over his ravaged hips, the cool linen immediately soaked through with the heavy, viscous remnants of the night’s work, the damp material clinging to his raw skin and reminding him with every agonizing step of exactly how much he had taken. He didn't even attempt to fasten his shirt, the navy silk hanging open and stained with his own spent seed as he began the slow, precarious trek back toward the vaulted stone corridors.
As he reached the French doors, he risked one final look back at the terrace. Marcus and Matteo were already seated again, calmly pouring the last of the wine as if they hadn't just spent the last hour systematically breaking a man in two under the Italian moon. Simon felt a surge of something dark and addictive deep in his marrow—a realization that for all the pain and the stretching, he was already craving the moment they would call for him again. He turned and disappeared into the shadows of the villa, the rhythmic clack-slap of his leather sandals the only sound in the ancient, blood-warm night.
The heavy oak door to the bedroom swung open with a soft, agonised creak, and Simon practically fell into the opulent sanctuary, his breath still coming in shallow, ragged hitches. Standing by the massive four-poster bed was Luca, the young houseboy from earlier. He had changed into a simple, sleeveless white tunic that clung to his lean, lithe torso, his tanned arms bare and his dark eyes wide with a mixture of professional detachment and a simmering, youthful curiosity as they raked over Simon’s decimated form.
On a low marble plinth in the centre of the room sat a massive, ornate silver basin steaming with water infused with the sharp, clean scent of rosemary and crushed mint. Beside it lay a stack of thick, cream-coloured silk towels and a heavy, floor-length robe of midnight-blue velvet. Luca stepped forward, his leather sandals silent on the terracotta tiles, his presence a calm, cooling contrast to the raw, masculine heat that still radiated from Simon’s bruised skin.
"Strip, sir," Luca murmured, his Tuscan lilt hushed and musical in the quiet of the room. He reached out with a steady hand to steady Simon’s swaying frame, his fingers cool against the feverish heat of Simon's bicep. "I am to bathe you. Mr R was very specific; he said you were to be returned to a state of absolute cleanliness before you are permitted to sleep."
Simon’s fingers were trembling so violently he could barely find the fastenings of his navy silk shirt. Luca moved in closer, his small, nimble hands taking over the task with a practiced efficiency. He peeled the ruined, seed-stained silk from Simon's broad, heavy shoulders, letting the expensive fabric fall to the floor in a heap of dark, wet shadows. When Luca’s gaze dropped to the white linen trousers, which were now heavily translucent and clinging to Simon’s inner thighs with the cooling, viscous weight of both Marcus and Matteo’s climaxes, the boy’s breath hitched almost imperceptibly.
"The Master and the Young Master have been... very thorough with you tonight, sir," Luca whispered, his voice trembling slightly as he unfastened the button and eased the linen down.
As the trousers fell away, leaving Simon entirely naked and exposed in the flickering lamplight, the sheer, devastating scale of the night's work was laid bare. Simon’s powerful rugby-honed legs were matted with a thick, pearlescent sheen, and his entrance was a dark, pulsing rose of over-stretched muscle that seemed to weep the R. family legacy with every stuttering heartbeat. Luca knelt before him, his face inches from Simon’s heavy, salt-slicked thighs, and reached for a soft sponge.
"Please, sir, step into the light," Luca commanded softly, his hands trembling as he began the clinical, intimate task of washing away the evidence of the terrace.
He worked with a terrifyingly gentle precision, the warm, herb-infused water stinging pleasantly against Simon’s raw skin. Luca’s fingers moved over Simon’s heavy glutes and between his aching thighs, coaxing the thick, viscous deposits out of the lad’s core and into the silver basin. The water quickly turned cloudy and grey, a visceral testament to the volume of the assault Simon had endured. Simon leaned his head back against the bedpost, his eyes closed, the sensation of the boy’s soft hands and the warm water making him feel like a prized stallion being groomed after a brutal race. He was being purged, scrubbed clean of the men who owned him, only so that he would be a fresh, unblemished canvas for them to claim all over again when the sun rose over the olive groves.
