Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 58353 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 233(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58353 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 233(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
"Crepes. That's what I want for breakfast." Smiling, I sway my hips as I head towards the bathroom. "You pick a place, I don't have a clue where to go around here. I'll freshen up quick."
After a speedy shower––no time to daydream about being interrupted by Marco this time––I leave the room in my clothes from yesterday,the ones he bought me, with my hair still dripping wet.
I'm happy, so happy. Last night was incredible, and I can tell Marco and I are growing closer. There’s so much I don’t know about him but I’m starting to learn. And I want to do anything I can to make him happy.
He's waiting for me on the sofa. The sunlight glows on his hard jaw, his eyes on his phone, one long leg crossed so his ankle rests on his knee. He looks up at the sound of my footsteps. His face burns with appreciation. "How do you look so effortlessly beautiful?"
I smile bashfully. "I hope the staff don't judge me for wearing dirty clothes."
Standing, he approaches me with a mild smile. He smells like brown sugar today. "I'll take you shopping after we eat."
"Marco––"
"Hush." He holds up a hand. "You know what I do for work now. Let me tell you what I like to do for pleasure.”
He walks toward me and takes my face between two fingers, running his thumb over the cleft of my chin. With his other hand he takes hold of my waist and pulls my hips against his.
“Bringing you joy, however I can, is what brings me pleasure.” His eyes darken, that hunger reappearing. “You want to bring me pleasure don’t you?”
I swallow the lump in my throat and nod.
“Then you’ll let me buy you all the clothes you want.”."
"Thank you," I whisper.
“I don’t want thanks,” he says softly, bending close to my ear. “I want crepes. Let’s go.”
I release a breath I didn’t know I was holding as he break the tension, laughing awkwardly. He offers his crooked arm for me to slip my arm though and he leads me from our suite.Marco takes me through the hotel––it’s big, but I’m not lost anymore in the wallpapered green halls. Out on the street the sun is burning bright. I’m still a little jet lagged, but after such a deep sleep, I feel refreshed and ready for a day of exploring.
Cabs are lined up, waiting for street-side passengers. Marco approaches the first one, and a short man wearing a red jacket and cap opens the door for us.
We slide into the cab and I smile at Marco. "Are we going somewhere too far to walk to?"
He grabs my hand and kisses it. "I was worried your legs might be…weak after last night.”
I must turn beet-red. He chuckles as I squirm, my stomach fluttering. His teasing is driving me wild and he knows it.
The driver shakes his head and grumbles something in Italian. I don't speak the language, but it doesn't take a genius to figure out he's giving us a disapproving look.
We drive through the streets that have been roughed up by age. Eventually we stop beside a skinny brown building with a black chalkboard on the sidewalk covered in Italian words. There are drawings of eggs and fruit and, importantly, crepes on it.
A bell tinkles above the door when we step inside. The awning is all yellow and red. A pretty girl is sitting behind a counter on the left side of the store, reading a magazine. Her eyes go wide when she sees us and she sets the magazine down and slides out of her chair.
"Ciao," Marco tells her.
She smiles and nods, giving me a curious look as she hops behind the counter. "What can I get you?" I expected her to speak Italian. It's a relief she can understand me because I'm still struggling to pick up the language. If this was a proper planned trip, I would have crammed Italian lessons. No one could prepare to be dropped here like I was, though.
My stomach growling, I look at the counter. There's a glass case full of sweet goodies, but I can't resist the savory. "I want a crepe, with eggs and cheese," I tell her.
"Nutella for me," Marco adds. "And coffee."
The girl nods and writes our order down on a slip of paper. We take a seat at one of the tiny tables in the store. I sink into the chair, peering around. There aren't any other customers.
The chair shimmies as Marco sits down beside me. "When did you learn Italian?"
"I've had a tutor since I was a kid." He shrugs. "Our mother wanted to prepare us for the world of international business. She was always afraid she wouldn't be around to coach us on the job herself."
I chew my lip uneasily. "Oh, did she..."