He had moved farther down the shoreline, his shirt discarded somewhere in the sand, his board shorts clinging to powerful thighs as he glided across the beach with effortless control.
Every motion was smooth—balanced—like the sand beneath him wasn’t resistance but something he had learned to dance with.
He carved a wide arc, turned, then spun—board flipping beneath his feet in a clean, practiced rhythm that drew the eye whether you wanted it or not.
“You’re staring at him way too much.”Vincenzo murmured beside me.
His voice was low.
I blinked and tore my gaze away.
“Just admiring the way he sandboards,” I said evenly. “Nothing more.”
“Quit staring at him.”
It wasn’t said harshly.
Before I could respond, his hand slipped from mine and circled my waist, pulling me into him so suddenly I lost my balance and collided against his chest.
His grip tightened.
He inhaled slowly, as if committing my scent to memory, before his lips brushed against my neck, warm and deliberate.
A soft sound escaped me before I could stop it, the world around us—the beach, the people—fading into nothing.
When I lifted my gaze, I found him already watching me.
There was hunger there.
Dark. Controlled. Barely restrained.
“You’ll keep your eyes on one man,” he said softly.
“Me.”
Heat rushed to my cheeks under the weight of his gaze.
Then, just as suddenly, he released me.
But not entirely.
His fingers found mine again—sliding between them slowly, deliberately—until our palms pressed together, his grip firm, possessive.
I lowered my gaze.
Our hands looked... strange together.
His was larger.
Scarred.
Weathered by something far rougher than the life I knew.
Mine was smaller.
Still bearing faint bruises—remnants of everything I’d endured over the past weeks.
Yet here they were.
