Her Savior: His Obsession
“Ne pleure pas, mon amour. Je t’aime.”
“What does that mean?”
“Don’t cry, my love,” he translates for me. “I love you.”
My breath hitches. “I love you, too.”
Our lips slot into place, fitting each other perfectly. His hands roam down, helping me slip out of my pants, my underwear, my bra. I’m just as quick to undress him, raking my fingers over the hard edges of his muscles. I know his tattoos like the back of my hand, every line and shape and color mapped out perfectly in my memory.
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