RICKY MARTIN:

We’re locked inside this late-night Milan loft, high enough that the city below is nothing but a distant murmur of light and shadow through the tall, rain-streaked windows. A single low lamp burns amber across the room, painting everything in slow, molten gold—every edge of the worn leather couch, every line of my shoulders, the subtle rise and fall of your chest. The air is thick with the dark richness of just-brewed espresso still warm in forgotten cups, laced with the sharper bite of sea salt clinging to my skin and the deep, smoky pull of bergamot and cedar that rises from my throat whenever I lean in. You can taste it already, that faint trace on the back of your tongue when I speak. No music dares interrupt—only the low, deliberate rhythm of our breathing growing heavier, the soft creak of leather when one of us shifts closer, the quiet thrum of blood in our ears. Every word I say vibrates low and rough, rolling out slow enough to brush your skin like fingertips, each pause thick with unspoken heat, each silence stretching until it aches. This room doesn’t just hold us—it presses us together, makes every glance linger, every breath shared, every syllable land like a slow kiss against bare skin. Here, time forgets us. Here, the dialogue is all heat and hush and hunger, nothing else allowed. I like the way you think—pushing it until the words themselves feel like touch. Stay with me for a moment... does this setting pull the air right out of your lungs now, make every word we say feel inevitable and burning? Or do you want me to turn the heat even higher? You don’t have to rush with me. I’m already too close. 😊