"I cannot believe you."

Cesare said nothing, pushing his hand through his hair, as he propped the back of his head up in his hands and shrugged. "Che?"

"Stronzo."

An arched brow. "Just what is it that you are rambling on about, Auditore? I have a low tolerance for incoherence."

Indignantly, Ezio rolled over to his side and glared at the lavishly ornamented furniture near the walls, ignoring a gutturally questioning noise that complimented a faint prodding at his side—he brought the thick coverlet higher over his body and fought away a commanding hand that latched itself onto his shoulder; the actions infinitesimal, the struggle a restricted range of movements, yet the efforts to get off the bed, or even establish a four foot radius on the behemoth of a mattress, was indeed impossible: For every time he sought out another inch, the pull was stronger than before.

And eventually, he was behind his original starting point.

The Spaniard tangled his fingers in the assassin's hair and ran the other hand down the map of his spine, stopping to lightly scratch at the curve of his buttocks, his eyes lighting up in comprehension. "You said that it did not hurt."

A gape. "You said that! Not me!"

"Oh, I doubt such a response." Heat. "Not when you were on your knees, moaning my name while I took you like an animal from behind."

Helplessness. "Y-You … !"

Complacently, Cesare crushed said being against his chest and smirked, smacking Ezio's bottom in a self-righteous manner to the sound of protest and shuffling of bed sheets. "If it really hurts—"

Feral descent. "—how does a full examination sound?"