The Italian

He grabs a handful of my hair at the nape of my neck, and he drags my head back, granting himself access. His teeth begin to nip and bite my skin as his animal instincts take over. He nudges my opening, and then in one sharp movement, he lifts me and pins me to the wall as he slides in deep.

Our mouths fall open as we stare at each other. No matter how many times we have sex, that first moment of entry is always out of this world.

Perfection.

I grab his face in my hands. “Give it to me,” I moan. “Fuck me.”

He pulls out and slams back in hard. While his eyes are focused on my lips, I watch as his body takes over. Clicking into another gear, a higher level.

Enrico Ferrara was born to fuck.

The harder the better.

Virile and athletic, his body is a well-oiled machine built for female satisfaction.

I bounce as he holds me up against the tiles, and he hits me hard. The air is knocked from my lungs, and his hips are working at speed. The sound of our skin slapping echoes through the bathroom.

His eyes are focused on where our bodies meet. “Fuck me, Olivia,” he growls. “Take it all. My cock is yours. It will only ever be yours.”

Hearing his words tips me over the edge, and my body convulses. I clench and shudder as an orgasm rips through me, making me cry out in pleasure.

He grips my shoulders for leverage and really lets me have it, slamming my body down onto his with such force, I don’t know how I’m not breaking in two.

His mouth hangs slack as he lets out a deep guttural moan. His head tips back, and he holds himself deep. I feel the heat as he fills me full of semen.

He grabs my hair and drags my face to his to kiss me.

Deep, slow, and tender.

“I love you,” he whispers.

My eyes fill with tears, because I really do love him. After the week we have just had, I really needed this connection.

“Ti amo di più,” I murmur against his lips.

I put my head down on his shoulder—his body still deep inside mine. His lips are resting against my temple.

And I know that I’m home.

* * *

It’s 7:30 a.m. when I walk into the gym. I came into to Milan early this morning so that I could come before work. I want to try and make this my new routine. That way, my workout is done and dusted before the day begins. It feels like months since I was last here, and so much has happened since then, but it’s good to be back. I know I could use the gym at home, but I really want to keep my independence as much as I can.

“Hello,” the girl on reception says as I walk past her.

“Hi.” I smile.

I put my things into the locker and make my way over to the treadmill. I start it up and it begins to slowly roll. I walk to warm up, and I glance over as Michael and Rocco arrive and head over to the weight section—close enough to watch me but far enough away that I won’t feel crowded. I hate that I have to have them with me, but then I feel safe that they are here, too.

It’s a fine line between the two, and I’m not sure which is the lesser evil.

For ten minutes, I walk as I listen to my Italian audio lesson. I’m determined to master this language. I need to know what the hell is going on around me.

“Ciao... hello. Goodbye… addio. Good morning… buongiorno. Good night… buonanotte.”

In my peripheral vision, I see a girl get onto the treadmill beside me. I give her a smile and keep walking. She has light brown hair that’s up in a high ponytail, and olive skin. She doesn’t look Italian. She fluffs around beside me for a while, pushing the wrong buttons.

I take my earplugs out to help her. “You need to push the workout button,” I say.