Monster A Dark Arranged Marriage Romance - Vanessa Waltz Page 0,50
The elevator doors opened into the penthouse. We stepped out, his palm at the small of my back.
My face tingled with heat.
“I mean, sure. I’d love that, but I thought it was a trigger for you.”
“Nah. I’ll be fine.”
Tony rifled through the cupboards and wrestled a giant, stainless steel machine out, his biceps bulging as he heaved it over the counter.
“Geez, that thing makes coffee? It looks like a spaceship.”
His grinned as he grabbed a microfiber towel and polished its surface. Then he seized a bag of beans and grinder from the shelf I couldn’t reach.
I gasped, scandalized. “You had it up there the entire time?”
“Yeah. Couldn’t get rid of it.”
I swelled like a bullfrog. “Mangiare un cazzeruole!”
Translation: Eat dick.
I’d been waiting all day to use it on him, but Google Translate must’ve fucked me over. Surprise flickered across Tony’s olive-skinned face.
“Sorry, what?”
Crap.
I butchered it. Was my accent that bad?
“Mangiare una cazzarola!” I growled, as Tony began to smirk.
“Cazzarola! Shit. I’m not saying it right, am I?”
A wide grin shattered his grim expression. Then he broke into full-hearted laughter. It was marvelous, transformative. He was like a completely different person, decades younger.
“Eat a casserole?” he choked out. “What the fuck. What are you trying to say?”
Heat stole into my cheeks. “Eat a dick?”
“That’s not how you say it,” he snorted, recovering slightly. “Like not even close. Dick is cazzo, not casseroula.”
“Mangia un cazzo?”
“No. God, no. That’s still not—” His voice boomed to the ceiling as he lost it. “Jesus. Stop before you kill me.”
His levity shivered through my body, the sound so joyful and light I couldn’t help but join him. He bit his lip, grinning hard. His eyes sparkled. There was a depth to his smile that had been missing for way too long.
I had to hear him laugh again.
“Well, I thought I was telling you off! Christian told me what cazzo meant, so I thought figuring it out on my own would be easy.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“I prefer talented and witty.”
He scooped me into his arms and kissed my head. “You want to learn Italian? Why?”
“I don’t know.” My heart hammered foolishly. “It’s kind of beautiful, but mostly I just can’t stand not understanding what Christian says when he’s on the phone. He tells me things sometimes.”
“My dad would’ve liked you.”
Tony brushed hair from my cheek. I tried to ignore the strange aching in my limbs, struck dumb by his words.
“Look at me,” he commanded.
I swallowed my anxiety and obeyed. It wasn’t easy. Tony was the sort of man who could hold someone’s gaze without flinching or looking away.
“Screw Christian. I’ll teach you Italian.”
My face flushed under his stare. “How do you say ‘fuck off’?”
“Vaffanculo.”
“Vaffagool.”
“Close enough.” His gorgeous smile reappeared, and a knot rose in my throat. “And if you hate someone and want them to tell them off real fucking good, you say this: Resta con me per sempre.”
“I sense a lie.”
His devilish smirk widened.
“How did you learn Italian?”
“My parents spoke it at home. I learned English outside and took language classes every Sunday until I was seventeen. That and Bible study.” He rolled his eyes hard. “I hated it so much.”
“I can’t imagine a less Godly person.”
He made an amused sound. “You and me both, babe.”
I couldn’t believe all the things he’d told me tonight. Rare was the man who talked about his flaws so openly. His raw honesty made me want to give something back, but Tony’s soft voice yanked me out of my jumbled thoughts.
“It does something to me. Right here.” He tapped his chest. “When you look at me with those innocent eyes and speak in broken Italian.”
The pit of my stomach churned. Then he kissed my cheek, heat flaring across my skin. Somehow, this chaste peck was more intense than anything he’d done at Sanctum. The sparkling conversation and raging sexual tension had fired me up and the night could only end one way—in the bedroom. He still hadn’t taken my virginity.
Now was the perfect time.
Tony rubbed my back and returned to the machine. He packed it with coffee grinds and flipped a switch.
“Why is the cup so tiny?”
“That’s how it’s served.”
“Huh. Can you do a cappuccino instead?”
“Sure.” As the dark liquid poured from the spout, he grabbed a carton from the fridge. He steamed the milk, slowly adding it into the cup. He pushed the drink into my hands.
I smiled at the floating heart pattern in my mug. I fought an impulse to take a photo, to guard the proof that Tony could