My first instinct is to say it’s too expensive. But I made a deal with my husband: whenever he wanted to give me something, I would take it. Whether I thought I deserved it or not.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “This is huge.”
“It’s what you deserve.”
I still don’t know if that’s true. But I’ve learned it doesn’t matter. If Riccardo thinks I deserve something, he’ll find a way to give it to me. Might as well make his life easier.
Still, one thought nags at me. “Who runs the restaurant while I’m gone?”
“You have a staff,” he says. “Trust them.”
“The kids?” I ask, concern masking my face.
“They’ve got Valerio, your Mom and their nannies.”
I laugh because it suddenly hits me: he planned this. He planned all of it. Like a real supervillain, only way sweeter.
The beach, the night alone, the vacation. He wanted me to rest. To breathe. To have a moment that wasn’t work or stress or motherhood. Just us.
I lean into him and press my face to his neck. “Thank you.”
He kisses the top of my head. “Anything for you.”
The sun dips lower. The breeze gets warmer. I look at him, really look, and a wave of love hits me so hard it steals the air from my lungs.
Five years. Two kids. A whole life I never dared dream about. And he still watches me like he’s falling in love for the first time.
Something tight and full swells in my chest, and before I can second-guess myself, I swing one leg over his lap and straddle him. His hands go instantly to my hips, steadying me, like they’ve been waiting there all night.
He raises an eyebrow. “What are you doing?”
“Thanking you,” I say, leaning in to kiss him, slow and deep. “Properly.”
A low sound comes from his throat, the kind he makes when he’s trying not to lose control too quickly. His hands slide up my sides, warm and sure, until they rest beneath my ribs, holding me close.
“You’re going to kill me,” he mutters against my mouth.
“No,” I whisper, brushing my nose against his. “I’m going to make your life harder. Starting now.”
He laughs once, quiet and dark, before kissing me harder. His grip tightens; the shift of his body beneath mine makes heat curl low in my stomach. I can feel him through the thin layers between us, feel exactly what I’m doing to him.
The entire beach is empty except for us. The waves cover our voices. The sun is halfway gone. I don’t think. I don’t need to.
I reach for the hem of his shirt.
He catches my wrist gently. “Here?”
“Here,” I confirm. My voice barely comes out.
He’s done checking after that—he just moves. His mouth trails down my throat, my collarbone, then lower, slow enough to make me tremble. Every touch is deliberate, savoring, like he’s mapping me all over again even though he knows every inch.
By the time he’s got us both undressed enough, my breath is stuck somewhere between my ribs. He’s watching me with that look he only ever uses when it’s just us—hungry, intent, completely in love.
“Savannah,” he murmurs, hands on my waist, guiding. “Come here.”
I brace my palms on his shoulders and lower myself onto him.
The gasp that leaves me is quiet but sharp, swallowed by the sound of the waves. His hands tighten on my hips, fingersdigging in just a little, like he’s grounding himself against the feel of me.
