Names used: Monaco (Camille Bonnefoy), Seborga (Giordano Vargas)

Author's note: Confession: I ship Monaco/Seborga so hard because Camille needs an Italian man in her life who can devout time and energy to her while taking her loving abuse (though I like her with Romano to tbqh). And we all know Monaco is my favorite country in the world (regardless of what my professor tried to convince me of, crazy Belgian) so I enjoy writing about it and her. Plus Seborga doesn't get the love he should; he's a suave Italian too you know!

Monte-Carlu

The thing about Camille Bonnefoy was that when she got riled, she got riled up. And Giordano kind of secretly loved it.

Today it's over her haul at the Monte-Carlo Casino. The micronation, beyond being convinced that the only reason she wasn't banned from the gambling establishment was because she was Monaco and thus they legally couldn't, is also convinced that Camille saw gambling as some sort of foreplay that went beyond anything her boyfriend could do to her.

Not that he's complaining as she shoves him against the wall just inside her house's front door, humping his leg and whispering hotly, "I want you inside me right now so badly."

No no, Giordano would never complain about something like that as the Monegasque pulls him from the wall, practically dragging him to her couch they had made love on yesterday afternoon as well. She throws him hard so that his back slams against the bottom cushions, still in his jacket with his tie tied and shoes on. Camille in one of her silky red dresses, her eyes consumed by passion, takes him in eagerly.

"Want you so, so badly."

"Then come and take me," Giordano whispers and Camille climbs over him, their lips finally meeting in a kiss that is so much more than their countries could ever be. There is a life to their kisses, a passion and a desire there, that few others saw in Camille or noticed in Giordano if they even knew what Seborga was. His hands free her hair deftly of its braid, hers pulling apart the front of his shirt to push up the undershirt beneath. The Italian continues massaging her scalp as her thin fingers tease him, going straight for his nipples to pinch and roll and flick. Giordano's moan is so wanton he wants to be ashamed but simply doesn't care enough, her lips leaving his to suck one nipple before moving on to the other.

Pushing the hair from her back aside he unzips her dress, freeing her chest as Camille kisses lower, lower. She mouthes his clothed erection before sitting up, glasses slightly askew, to smirk at him. And in that moment between the glasses and messed up hair and half-undone dress and that damn sexy French smirk, Giordano thinks there has never been a more beautiful woman in all the world.

She shimmies out of the top of the dress, throwing her bra aside with it. Her hands massage her own breasts as the micronation manages to sit up, stealing her lips for his own before taking over with her chest. The small, sovereign nation with her now unoccupied hands finds something to do in undoing the Italian's belt, unzipping his pants, and freeing his growing erection. The touch of her fingers against his sensitive flesh alone makes Giordano gasp, Camille shifting to kneel on the couch so that her boyfriend could pull her dress off over her head before pushing her panties aside and fingering her.

His head his held to her chest, his lips moving across a breast to find a nipple to tease. She strokes him in time with his gentle caresses to her center, one finger, then two, slipping in to stretch and tease until Camille is bucking hard against his chest and he knows she's ready.

And Camille does too, judging from the way she shoves him back onto the couch. In amazement that this beautiful, incredible woman had ever picked him he watches as she positions herself above him. Their eyes meet for just a moment before Camille smirks and slams down on him.

There is nothing dignified to how quickly they go at it, not even bothering to try and make this last or to savor it. They could do that tonight after dinner, under the sheets of their bed watching the moon move over the Mediterranean Sea. What this was was pure animal instincts, Camille leaning forward to steal the Italian's lips as he does his best to thrust up into her, her groans and grunts so unladylike but still so feminine.

"Fuck," she swears before swearing again. "Fuck, so good."

Giordano knows that that is a high compliment, coming from a Bonnefoy in the middle of sex.

He comes first (inevitably; he somehow always does when they're frenzied like this) but Camille doesn't last much longer today, collapsing on Giordano's tan chest. His lips kiss at her hair, his arms feeling like jelly but with just enough strength left in them to wrap around her bare, pale back.

The open window of the living room lets in a welcomed breeze off the sea, water lapping against the coastline just audible.

"I love you," Giordano whispers. Not in Italian, not in French, but in Monegasque.

"Stop it," Camille sighs, smiling before her expression turns smug like her brother's. Throwing her long hair over a shoulder she adds, "If you keep speaking to me in my language I may have to throw you on the floor too."

"I love you," he immediately repeats again in that all-but-forgotten tongue and Camille laughs. "I love you, I love you, I love you." She just laughs and laughs and laughs, and her smiles is so beautiful, her self-certainty so attractive, that Giordano can do nothing more than mean each word each time he says it, falling in love with this woman again.

"Oh Giordano," she sighs, sitting and holding his head to her chest. "My handsome, sweet Giordano."