Page 69 of Ghost Ribbon

He looked almost lost.

He snapped out of it suddenly.

“W-why…” he stammered, voice small. “What are we going to do?”

I stepped closer, closing the distance until I was looming over him the way I liked. My hand came up to brush a stray curl behind his ear.

“Study, of course,” I said smoothly. “Or did you forget your job?”

He blinked up at me, still flustered.

I tilted my head. “You have to teach me some more Italian, little star. That was the arrangement, wasn’t it?”

Marco nodded quickly. “Y-yeah… right. The job.”

I took his hand again and led him deeper into the apartment. Past the living area, down a short hallway, and into the open study space that connected to the dining room.

I pulled out a chair for him.

“Sit.”

I watched him settle in, pleased by how naturally he fit into the scene.

I took the seat beside him instead of across.

He cleared his throat as he began.

“Buonasera,” he started. “That means good evening.”

I hummed, watching the way his lips formed the words. “Again.”

He repeated it, a little more confident this time. I let him go on for a while - useful phrases, ones that could actually be used in conversation. He taught me how to ask for directions, how to order food, how to say thank you properly. His voice was gentle, a little nervous, but he was trying.

After about twenty minutes of actual teaching, I leaned in closer.

“How do you say ‘I want to fuck you’?”

Marco’s pen froze. His entire face went scarlet in an instant. He shook his head quickly, curls bouncing.

“I… I… um, not saying that,” he stammered. “That isn’t…that isn’t useful Italian. That isn’t what we’re supposed to be doing.”

I watched him for a long moment, eyes tracing the way he refused to meet my gaze. Then I hummed.

He looked wary after that, shoulders tense, but he eventually went back to the notebook.

He stood up after a few minutes, apparently deciding he needed to move while he recited. Notebook in hand, he began pacing slowly back and forth in front of the table. The space was large enough that he had room.

I stopped listening.

My eyes followed him instead.

The way his hips swayed slightly with each step. The way his shirt pulled across his back when he gestured with one hand. The way his curls fell into his eyes and he had to brush them back. My control thinned with every pass he made in front of me.

He was still talking, something about verb conjugations or polite requests. I didn’t care anymore. His voice was soft and focused, but all I could see was the way his body moved.

I lost it.

I crossed the space between us, grabbed him by the waist, and spun him around. He made a startled sound as I bent him forward over the table, his notebook and pens scattering across the surface. One of my hands pressed between his shoulder blades, keeping him down. The other gripped his hip, fingers digging in possessively.