Wild One

Forty-Five

Manon

He pants in my ear, moaning. The pleasure still runs in his veins. He has no idea what he said yet. But I do.

It keeps playing in my head.

“Ti amo. I love you. I love you. I love you.”

It was a chant. It was reverent. It was...so sexy.

He gathers me in his arms closer. Our legs seek one another's, intertwining.

I look at him.

“Can we just,” He starts huskily, clearing his throat. “Can we just say it was good s*x? Just for now?”

I nod. He wants to get himself together. Hell, he might not have even been talking to me.

“Stop.” He orders, his accent thick. It always is during and after s*x.

“Stop what?”

He pushes my hair behind my ear. “I can see your thoughts spiraling. Stop it.”

I smile softly. “Who do you see? When your with me?”

He looks down. “You. Always you.”

It's enough. For now. He changes the subject.

“I'm gonna fuckin kill that Dylan kid,” He informs me.

“No.”

He rolls his eyes childishly. “He's a fuckin narc. Which you neglected to mention.”

This is probably the best time to tell him this. “My father is an officer too. And my uncle.”

He squints. “You're fuckin joking?”

I shrug.

“Of course. This is just great. How much would you hate me if I killed them all?”

My stomach gets queasy because I'm sure he's joking. “Alot. So just don't.”

He scoffs. “I don't like the way that Wyatt kid looks at you.”

I palm his face. “His name is Dylan. You know that.”

“His name is f*****g Wyatt and I hate him.”

I kiss his lips quickly. “Do you hate him now?”

He shrugs. “Little less. I could use some more persuading.”

I smile, and peck him again. He shakes his head. “A little more.”

I pull him in, giving him a deep kiss.

“Mm. Who's Wyatt?"

I chuckle, brushing my fingers through his hair.

His brown eyes melt on my skin, like chocolate.

“Speak French to me,” He says.

“Um... J'aime poser ici avec vous.”

“What does that mean,” He rasps.

“I love laying here with you.”

He smiles slightly, but doesn't address it. “So is your first language French?”

I shake my head. “No. I was little when we moved so and my parents mostly spokes English. So, I took it in high school to be closer to my culture."

He snuggled into me.

“Is Italian your first language?”

He nods silently.

“Why don't you ever speak Italian then?”

He shrugs. “I dream in Italian. I think in Italian. I just don't speak it often. It's still the language of my heart.”

“Is there a reason?”

He looks away.

“Nevermind that then." We lay there in silence for a little while longer before I drift off to sleep.