Page 128 of Reckless Vow

“My company is delicious.”

“Sappy much?”

I throw my head back, laughing. God, I haven’t done that in years as much as in the last few days.

And just like that, the walls are cracking. They have been cracking for weeks now, but I haven’t admitted that to myself openly.

Mimi arrives with two plates of prawns pil pil, knowing it’s one of my favorites.

“Mmm, this is divine.” Brook sighs. “The garlic just melts in your mouth.”

“Told you, Mimi’s the best. She knows all my weak spots.” I wipe my mouth and watch Brook eat.

It’s addictive. Just like on the street, when she admired everything she saw, she eats with an enthusiasm that is contagious.

Maybe she partied and shopped a lot, but she certainly grew into enjoying life with open arms.

“Maybe I dated assholes because I craved the adrenaline of it.”

“I can give you enough adrenaline, baby.” I lick my lip, steering the conversation, because no fucking way I’m talking about her fucking exes.

Our eyes lock and she opens her mouth, but changes her mind and returns to her food instead.

“Brook,” I warn. “Talk.”

She straightens the napkin in her lap and takes a sip of the wine. “Would you chase me again like that first night?”

For a second, my mind goes to that night when I didn’t save her. Will the shadows of our past always define every moment between us? Mark our intimacy?

But then I look at her, really look at her, and what I find isn’t the ghost of the past, but genuine desire, primal need. Her pupils are dilated, and her breathing is rushed.

“Is that what you want me to do? To force you?” There is nothing I wouldn’t do for her.

“Yes,” she rasps.

“Okay.” I smile, and my cock twitches in my pants. “You have your safe word.”

She bites her bottom lip, excitement flashing across her face.

“Fuck dessert. Let’s go use my gift.”

* * *

“How was Italy?” Brook asks, taking a bite of the pastel de nata.

We’re sitting in the same bistro I took her to with Chloe. Our small table is one of the few that line the front windows along the sidewalk.

Her eyes are glassy in that dreamlike way, and her face is flushed. She wears the just-fucked look beautifully. Her blonde hair is in a messy bun on top of her head.

No makeup. No frills. Nobody would guess this woman’s net worth is formidable. It’s funny how I know so much about her, but only this morning I learned how she takes her coffee.

No surveillance report could ever get me a taste of the real woman behind the bravado. Getting under all her layers is exciting. And dangerous.

“Boring.” I cross one leg over my knee and lean back, enjoying the view.

There are moments—fluid, silent moments like this one—when I still can’t believe I have her. That she is mine.

For now.

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