Chapter 9: Stolen Moments
The market had woken before they had. By the time they crossed the footbridge into Trastevere, stalls were already unfolding like bright origami—tarps flapping, crates thudding onto cobblestones, the air stitched together with espresso steam and the earthy perfume of late-season tomatoes. A busker tuned a guitar by the fountain; a kid zipped past with a bouquet of eucalyptus, brushing Rina’s jeans with the silvery leaves. She smiled, tightening her scarf with one hand, the other tucked into Pedro’s jacket pocket along with his.
“Reminder,” she said as they slipped into the first aisle of vendors, “we are not buying a dining table, a vintage espresso machine, a medieval bell, or a puppy.”
He glanced down at her, mock-wounded. “When have I ever tried to buy a medieval bell?”
“Dubrovnik, 2017. You said it was ‘historically resonant.’”
“It was historically resonant,” he protested, already distracted by a crate of glossy eggplants lit like jewels.
“And enormous,” she said, bumping him hip to hip. “You wanted to hang it over the bed.”
He coughed back a laugh that turned into a grin he couldn’t hide. “Okay, yes. Terrible idea. But look—” He plucked up an eggplant, turning it in his palm. “Tell me that sheen isn’t erotic.”
“Everything is erotic to you,” she said dryly, then tipped her head, conceding the point. “Fine. That one is gorgeous.”
A woman at the stall smiled at them, said something lyrical and fast in Italian about the color, the shape, the season. Rina answered easily, bartering with that gentle warmth she had in markets and bookstores, the kind that said I’m listening, I’m not in a hurry. Pedro stood slightly behind her, hands sliding to her waist like a magnet had told them to. He wasn’t trying to be public—he just always wanted a point of contact. She passed the eggplant back to the vendor, bought two figs by weight, and as soon as they stepped aside she pushed one into his hand.
“For science,” she said.
He bit into it. The skin gave with a soft snap; the inside was sunset and sugar. He made a sound he would have denied later. She laughed, reached up on her toes, and thumbed away a smear of juice at the corner of his mouth. He caught her wrist and kissed the place where her pulse lived.
“Stop,” she whispered, eyes crinkling. “We’ll never make it to the end of the row.”
“Maybe that’s the point.”
They kept walking, but at a market pace—two steps, pause; two steps, pause; get pulled by scent, color, curiosity. Rina fingered linen tea towels dyed with walnut hulls, asked a ceramicist about his glazes, compared anchovies like a sommelier. Pedro let her run point, content to be the shadow that kept her shaded, the hands that carried what she chose. He had a habit he wasn’t aware of: whenever the crowd pressed too close, his thumb swept one absent-minded circle at her back, just above her belt. After a decade, the gesture had evolved from instinct to code: I’m here. I’ve got you. Take your time.
He started slipping small things into her tote when she wasn’t looking: a paper bag of roasted hazelnuts, a sprig of laurel, the tiny carved wooden cat shaped like a comma. By the third aisle, the bag was heavier than it should have been.
“Pedro.”
He had already arranged his face into innocence. “Yes, mi marea?”
She held out the tote and peered inside. “Are we accumulating a forest?”
“Just… seasonal joy.” He plucked out the laurel and stuck it in her jacket pocket like a boutonnière. “There. Olive you.”
She groaned, delighted against her will. “You can’t keep getting away with that.”
“File a complaint.”
“I’m filing it with HR,” she said, taking his wrist and drawing him toward a stall piled with books. “HR will be hearing about your pun abuse.”
“HR is you,” he said, amused.
“Exactly.”
At the bookstall, she became quiet the way she always did, a stillness that hummed rather than hushed. She trailed her fingers along spines, pausing to read an inscription here, an old plate there. Pedro stood beside her, mirroring her posture, his sunglasses pushing his hair back. The vendor, delighted to be consulted, pulled out a tattered bilingual edition of Montale. Rina held it tenderly, as if it were skittish.
She opened to the middle, translating under her breath. “I went down, giving you my arm, at least a million stairs…” She glanced up, eyes shining. “I love that line.”
“Read more,” Pedro said.
She did, voice soft, not performing for anyone, just letting the words ride the market noise. When she finished, she lowered the book but didn’t close it. He took her free hand and squeezed once—no commentary, no joke—just that.
They bought the book. The vendor wrapped it in brown paper and tied it with string. Pedro tucked it under his arm like something precious, which it was.
Near the fountain, a man sold thin slices of porchetta on torn bread. The line snaked around the stall, but they were in no rush. Rina leaned into Pedro’s side, her head finding that exact place under his collarbone like the pillow it had memorized. He rested his chin on her hair, the sun warming the crown of her head through his scarf.
“What’s your favorite thing here?” she asked without looking up.
“You,” he said. Then added, because she always demanded a second answer: “The way you talk to strangers as if they already belong to you.”
She tilted her head, smiling. “That’s not an answer about the market.”
“It’s all market if you’re in it,” he said. “Also the figs.”
“That’s what I thought.” She reached into the tote and found another fig, pressed it into his palm with a smug flourish. “Prepared wife.”
“Excessively,” he said, taking a bite and closing his eyes like a man who had discovered religion and it tasted like fruit.
When they reached the counter, the vendor asked where they were from and then, recognizing them, asked if they’d take a photo for his daughter who loved Barbie and The Last of Us. Rina didn’t flinch; she never did when it was kind and ordinary like this. They smiled, took the picture, exchanged thanks that felt like real gratitude. The vendor added a second sandwich “for love” and waved them away with a blessing.
They ate on the edge of the fountain, the stone warming their legs, knees touching. Rina picked out a bit of rogue rosemary and tucked it behind Pedro’s ear. He left it there just to make her laugh. When a ripple of wind licked the square and lifted her hair, he gathered the loose strands and smoothed them lightly, fingers grazing the curve of her neck.
“Cold?” he asked.
“Not with you,” she said, and it was cheesy, and it was true, and he loved that she said it anyway.
They wandered toward the end of the market where a musician played a soft, old bolero. Rina slowed, eyes sharpening in that particular way they did when she was about to make a choice. She put her coffee cup down on a crate and turned to Pedro, stepping into his space until the world blurred behind his shoulder.
“Dance with me,” she said.
“In a market?” He glanced at the guitarist and then back at her, already smiling. “Yes.”
He slid one hand to her waist, took her right hand with his left, and they moved—nothing showy, just close and easy, a sway that fit the music and the moment. Rina rested her forehead near his jaw so she could breathe him in: warm wool, coffee, a ghost of the cologne she always stole. He traced the seam of her jacket with his thumb, then let his hand settle at the small of her back, heat through denim. The guitarist smiled like he’d been waiting for this to happen all day.
A couple passed and whispered, Che belli. Rina didn’t lift her head; she just smiled against his throat. “They think we’re beautiful.”
“We are,” he said, simple as gravity.
She snorted softly, then looked up at him. “You’re getting away with that because you mean us, not me.”
“I always mean us,” he said. His voice went gentler. “Always.”
They stopped when the song did, both a little flushed in that not-about-the-dance way. Pedro kissed her temple, lingering. “You have market eyes,” he said.
“What are market eyes?”
“Hungry and happy,” he said. “And slightly feral.”
“Flattering.” She bumped his hip. “Come on, relentless. We need greens for dinner or you’ll try to feed me bread and compliments.”
“Bread and compliments built our marriage,” he said solemnly, and she laughed all the way to the herb stall.
He reached for a bunch of basil; she swatted his hand and chose a more fragrant one, then added parsley and a fistful of peppery arugula. He tucked a small jar of local honey into the tote like a thief and looked away quickly when she caught him.
“What did we say about forests?”
“It’s… honey,” he said, softening the word like it excused everything. “For your tea later.”
She opened her mouth, closed it again because she was in love with him and because sometimes letting him win was a form of affection. “Okay,” she said, and kissed him quick. “For my tea later.”
By noon the sun had risen into that cool, bright plateau of an autumn day. They walked the perimeter once more in a lazy loop, saying goodbye to vendors like they’d known them for years. On the far side, near a stand selling handmade brooms and woven baskets, an old woman called Rina over, pressed a sprig of rosemary into her hand, and said something rapid about fortuna and casa. Rina listened, nodding, then tucked the spring into her tote like a talisman.
“What did she say?” Pedro asked when they were back in the flow of the street.
“She said this is for a house that feels loved,” Rina answered, voice soft. “And then she told me to feed you.”
“Excellent advice,” he said, earnest. “Wise woman.”
“Come on,” she said, lacing their fingers. “Let’s take the long way home. I want to keep you outside.”
“You always do,” he teased.
“Yes, but today I want to look at you walking.” She gestured to his sweater, his easy stride, the way his smile seemed to belong to the weather. “Fall suits you. You look like the human version of a good sweater.”
He pretended to preen. “So I’m cozy?”
“You’re devastating,” she corrected. “But also cozy.”
He leaned in as they walked and stole a kiss, brief and perfectly placed. “You’re describing yourself and projecting.”
“Therapy has taught you too much,” she said, trying not to smile.
“Therapy taught me to accept the truth,” he said, and squeezed her hand.
They reached the footbridge again and paused halfway over the Tiber. The water moved slow and pewter under the pale sky; a flock of birds scripted a moving sentence across the horizon. Rina slid the wooden cat out of the tote and set it on the bridge rail, its tiny tail curved into a question mark.
“You smuggled a pet into my bag,” she said.
“Consider him an ambassador.”
“Of what?”
“Of us buying the medieval bell,” he deadpanned.
She laughed, the sound bright enough to bounce back from the stone. Then she tucked the cat back with the basil, slipped her hand into the pocket of his jeans, and leaned into him.
“What are we making tonight?” he asked, chin tipping toward the tote. “Besides excuses.”
“Pasta with everything we didn’t need,” she said. “Salad with too much lemon. Bread with olive oil. Honey for my tea.”
“And dessert?”
She looked up at him through her lashes, the Roman light making a cathedral out of her eyes. “I’m sure we’ll think of something.”
He kissed her there on the bridge, nothing dramatic, just a seal on the day. When they broke apart, he rested his forehead against hers for a beat and then nodded toward home—their temporary one and their permanent one, both bound up in the way their hands fit.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Always,” she said.
The rhythmic crunch of their footsteps on gravel shifted to the hollow echo of cobblestones as they left the bridge behind. Trastevere’s vibrant chaos thinned into quieter residential streets, ancient palazzos leaning close, their ochre and terracotta facades scarred by time. Vines clung stubbornly to stone, leaves turning gold and rust in the late afternoon light. The air cooled, carrying the scent of damp earth and woodsmoke from unseen hearths. Rina’s hand tightened in Pedro’s pocket.
Her pace slowed subtly, her gaze drifting from the worn stones underfoot to the shadowed gaps between buildings. One alley, narrower than most, yawned darkly, its entrance choked with ivy and the smell of cool stone and centuries. The sounds of the city – distant scooters, a child’s shout – felt muffled here.
Rina stopped walking. Pedro took one more step before halting, turning back to her with a questioning lift of his brow. She didn’t speak. Her gaze locked onto his, a sudden, fierce intensity replacing the market-day softness. Sapphire blue burned into deep brown. She released his hand from her pocket and instead grabbed a fistful of his sweater, just above his belt buckle. Her knuckles pressed hard against the muscle of his abdomen.
"Now," she breathed, the single word sharp and low, stripping away any pretense of leisure. Her other hand jerked towards the dark mouth of the alley. "Right fucking now, Pedro."
No hesitation. A low growl rumbled in his chest, part amusement, part instant, answering hunger. He let her pull him, stumbling a half-step as she backed into the gloom, her grip on his sweater unyielding. The alley swallowed them whole, plunging them into near-darkness. Sunlight barely penetrated the narrow channel, illuminating motes of dust dancing in a single dusty shaft near the entrance. The air was thick, cool, smelling of moss and old secrets. Rough-hewn stone pressed against Rina’s back as Pedro crowded her into the wall, his body blocking the faint light, turning the world into the heat of him and the chill of the stone.
"Someone might see," he murmured, his voice rough gravel. He wasn’t stopping. His hands were already at her waistband, fingers working the button of her jeans, the zipper rasping down violently.
"Let them," she hissed, arching her back off the cold stone to give him access. Her hands flew to his belt, tugging the leather free, fumbling with the stiff buckle. "Fuck, hurry." Her impatience was a live wire. She got the belt open, shoved at the waistband of his jeans and boxer-briefs, her fingers finding the thick, hardening heat of him. A groan tore from his throat as her cool fingers wrapped around his cock, already straining, the skin velvet over iron. "Need you inside me. Right. Now."
He kicked his own jeans and briefs down just far enough, freeing himself fully. His large hands hooked under her thighs, lifting her effortlessly, her back scraping slightly against the uneven wall. She wrapped her legs around his hips, locking her ankles at the small of his back, the denim of her jeans rough against his skin. He pinned her there, one hand braced flat on the stone beside her head, the other guiding himself. The blunt, slick head of his cock pressed against her entrance. She was already wet, the evidence soaking through the thin cotton of her panties now shoved aside, her need undeniable.
"Christ, you're ready," he gritted out, his breath hot against her temple, his body trembling with the effort of holding back for just a second.
"Stop talking," she demanded, her voice a ragged whisper. She bucked her hips against him, trying to force him in. "Fuck me, Pedro. Fucking claim me here." The word 'claim' echoed their bathroom intimacy, twisting it raw and public.
He needed no further urging. With a powerful thrust of his hips, he buried himself inside her to the hilt in one deep, searing stroke. A choked cry escaped Rina’s lips, more gasp than scream, her head thudding back against the stone. He filled her completely, stretching her, the sudden invasion sharp and perfect. He held himself deep, buried, grinding against her clit, letting her feel every ridge and pulse of him inside her tight, clenching heat.
"Fuck... so fucking tight," he groaned, his voice thick with lust, his forehead pressed to hers. "Always so fucking good for me."
"Move," she pleaded, her voice cracking. "Please, move." Her fingers clawed at the back of his sweater, nails digging in.
He obeyed, pulling back almost entirely before slamming home again. Hard. Deep. The impact jarred her against the wall, a delicious friction on her back, a surge of perfect pressure inside. He set a brutal pace immediately, no slow build, just raw, urgent fucking. The wet slap of skin on skin, the sharp rasp of their breathing, the low grunts tearing from Pedro’s throat – these were the only sounds in the ancient alley. His thrusts were powerful, piston-like, driving into her with a focused intensity that stole her breath. Each plunge sent shockwaves through her core, coiling the tension tighter, hotter.
His hand slid from the wall to grip her ass, fingers digging into the curve, helping him lift her slightly, changing the angle. The next thrust hit something deep, something that made her vision whiten at the edges. "Oh fuck! There!" she cried out, her voice echoing slightly off the stone. "Right fucking there, Pedro!"
"Feel it, mi preciosa?" he grunted, his hips snapping forward relentlessly. Sweat beaded at his temples, dampening his dark hair. "Feel how deep I am?" He shifted again, grinding the base of his cock against her clit with every inward stroke.
The dual assault – deep penetration and direct friction – was overwhelming. Her inner muscles clenched hard around him, milking his length, pulling him deeper still.
"Gonna make you come right here against this wall," he promised, his voice ragged. "Like the desperate, beautiful fucking thing you are."
"Yesss," she hissed, her body tightening like a bowstring. The coil snapped. Pleasure detonated, radiating out from her core in a white-hot wave. Her back arched violently off the stone, her cunt clamping down on him in rhythmic, fluttering spasms. "Fuck! Pedro! Fuck!" Her cry was guttural, swallowed by the alley’s shadows. She buried her face against his neck, muffling her moans against his skin, biting down lightly on the muscle of his shoulder as the intense waves rolled through her.
Feeling her come around him, so hard and sudden, tore his control to shreds. His rhythm stuttered, faltered. "Rina... fuck... I'm gonna—" he warned, his voice strained to breaking.
But she was still clenching, still pulsing around him, dragging him over the edge with her. With a final, deep, grinding thrust, he buried himself as deep as physically possible and came. A guttural groan, more a vibration in his chest than a sound, escaped him as he pulsed hot jets inside her, each thick spurt triggering another aftershock in her own trembling body. He held her pinned, shuddering, his breath coming in harsh gasps against her hair.
Time stretched, suspended in the cooling alley air. Their harsh breaths mingled, the only sound besides the distant hum of the city. Pedro’s arms trembled slightly, still holding her weight against the wall.
Slowly, reality seeped back in – the grit of the stone against Rina’s back, the uncomfortable angle, the damp chill seeping through their clothes. Pedro eased her down gently, her legs unsteady as her feet found the uneven cobbles. He stayed pressed close, keeping her upright, his softening cock slipping wetly from her. A tremor ran through him as he quickly tucked himself back into his jeans, fumbling with the button and zipper with trembling fingers.
Rina leaned heavily against him, her cheek pressed to his chest, listening to the frantic hammering of his heart gradually slow. She yanked her own jeans up, wincing slightly at the tenderness between her legs, the wetness cooling on her inner thighs.
He smoothed a hand down her wild, tangled hair, his touch gentling. "Relentless," he murmured against her temple, the word thick with affection and spent passion.
She let out a shaky, almost hysterical laugh, muffled against his sweater. "You started it. With the fucking eggplant."
A low chuckle vibrated in his chest. "Blame the produce." He tilted her chin up, his thumb brushing a smudge of dirt from her cheekbone where it had pressed against the wall. He kissed her softly, lingeringly, a stark contrast to the raw urgency moments before. It tasted of salt and shared exertion, of profound familiarity. "You alright? Wall too rough?"
"Perfectly serviceable," she sighed, her limbs still loose and heavy with satisfaction. She leaned back, adjusting her own sweater, her gaze scanning the quiet alley entrance. "Think anyone saw?"
Pedro glanced towards the sunlit street beyond the gloom. "Only the ghosts. And they’ve seen worse." He bent to retrieve the woven tote that had fallen near their feet during the frantic undressing. The sprig of rosemary the old woman had given Rina lay beside it. He picked it up, inhaling its sharp, clean scent, then tucked it carefully back inside the bag with the basil and the wooden cat. "Fortune favors the bold, apparently."
Rina took the bag from him, her fingers brushing his. A deep contentment settled over her, warm and languid. "Fortune favors the insatiable," she corrected, looping her arm through his. She rested her head against his shoulder as they stepped back out into the late afternoon light of the Roman street.
The city noise rushed back in – scooters, distant church bells, the murmur of voices. The alley’s shadows receded, becoming just another seam in the ancient city’s fabric. Pedro pressed a kiss to her hair, his arm tightening around her. They walked on, the shared secret a warm ember between them, heading towards the fading sun and the promise of honey-sweetened tea.