Lauren Henderson

Violetta,” he whispers into my mouth. “Violetta, cosa mi fai?
I open my eyes just a fraction, to peep, and see his are still closed, his lashes trembling long and black on his cheeks, silky as his hair. There’s something thrilling about seeing him like this, so carried away, when he doesn’t know I’m looking; it feels illicit, almost like spying on him.
And I’m obviously not a very good spy, because I linger too long, watching his closed eyelids, a vein pulsing in his forehead, the color in his cheeks, like a wash of pink under the smooth pale skin, like blood seen through fine china. Luca senses something, perhaps that my attention has drifted from kissing him to watching him kiss me; he pulls back, his eyes flutter open, their blue shocking against his white skin and black lashes.
“Oh!” he exclaims crossly, the sound that Italians make a lot, and is actually more like saying “O!” because there isn’t an h in it, and their mouths round perfectly when they’re saying it. “Non è giusto! You look at me! Cattiva!
“What does ‘cattiva’ mean?” I ask.
“Bad,” he says instantly, shaking his head in disapproval. “You are bad.”


Lauren Henderson, Flirting in Italian
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Flirting in Italian (Flirting in Italian #1) Flirting in Italian by Lauren Henderson
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