“You’re not wearing your ring, Elena,” he said quietly.
Not angry. Not loud.
But the undercurrent in his voice was unmistakable.
“You’ll give men the wrong impression.”
His gaze stayed on my hand a moment longer.
Then—
He lifted it.
And pressed a kiss to the exact spot where a ring should have been.
Soft. Reverent.
Lingering just long enough to make my breath catch.
I froze.
Completely.
Too stunned to pull away.
Too aware of everything—the warmth of his lips, the weight of his presence, the silent message behind the gesture.
Behind us, Dante shifted.
Uncomfortable now.
His earlier confidence dimmed slightly as he adjusted the sandboard against his leg, suddenly looking less like the carefree stranger from moments ago and more like someone trying to decide whether to stay or walk away.
Vincenzo barely acknowledged Dante—just a brief, dismissive glance that stripped the younger man of any significance—before his attention returned to me, as if the world had already narrowed down to exactly one thing that mattered.
Me.
His hand slid from my jaw to my chin, his fingers light, almost careful, as he tilted my face up toward his.
There was no rush in him now.
Just a slow, deliberate focus that made my pulse stutter.
Then he kissed me again.
This time, it was different.
Deeper. Slower.
Intentional.
His lips moved against mine with a restrained hunger, as though he was holding something back—but only just.
A low sound rumbled in his throat, barely audible, as he tasted me like he needed to remind himself I was real, that I was here.
My body reacted before my thoughts could catch up.
My hands rose instinctively, slipping around his neck, fingers threading into the dark hair at the nape of his neck.
