Page 63 of Dangerous Vows

Grandma Rossi gives me a side-eye, and I know she understands—I’m not a man who makes promises lightly.

The restaurant is warm,bathed in the golden glow of low-hanging lights. The scent of garlic, basil, and simmering tomatoes lingers in the air—a reminder of home, of tradition, of the kind of life I was born into. But I’ve never missed home as much as I do today.

Amara sits across from me, her back straight and her arms crossed. She’s a picture of defiance wrapped in cashmere. I see the heat lurking, even though her eyes flash with irritation. She’s immersed in a battle she’s too proud to admit she’s already losing.

“What are you smirking at?” she snaps, tossing her napkin into her lap.

“You,” I answer, swirling the dark red wine in my glass before taking a slow sip. “You pretend to be immune to me. It’s adorable.”

She exhales sharply. “I’m not pretending.”

“Of course not.” I set my glass down, tilting my head. “That’s why you’ve spent the last five minutes staring at my hands. Do you like them, Princess? Do you imagine them wrapped around your throat… or spreading your thighs under this very table?”

She inhales, nostrils flaring, and I swear her chest rises with excitement. I run my fingers over her hand, stroking her soft, supple skin.

“You’re disgusting,” she says.

“And yet you’re still here,” I smirk. I lean forward, keeping my voice low and intimate. We’re so close, I smell the butterscotch candy on her breath. “You’re wet for me, Amara. Right now. I can tell.”

Her throat bobs with a hard swallow, her gaze darting around the restaurant. It’s packed, the hum of conversation and clinking silverware filling the space. No one is paying attention to us—not yet.

I extend my hand across the table with my palm up. “Give them to me.”

She blinks, feigning ignorance. “Give you what?”

“Your panties.” I let the order settle between us, watching herpupils dilate.

Her breath stutters, and she grips her fork a little tighter. “You’re insane.”

“Take them off.” I sit back, draping my arm over the back of my chair with casual confidence. “Right now.”

“I’m not doing that.”

“You are,” I smirk, tilting my head slightly. “Unless you want me to slide under this table and take them off for you.”

Her nails dig into her palm. “You wouldn’t.”

I shrug, watching her squirm. “Try me.”

A challenge burns in her eyes. But there’s something else too—something darker. Something hungry. And she knows I’m not bluffing when it comes to my threats.

Seconds pass. The waiter approaches with our food, but she’s already moving, shifting in her seat. Her hands disappear under the table, and my cock throbs at the thought of her fingers hooking the delicate lace before sliding it down. I know my woman—and I’m sure desire pools between her thighs as she does precisely what she swore she wouldn’t.

The waiter serves us, oblivious to our shenanigans, and just as he steps away, Amara reaches under the table and places the tiny scrap of fabric in my waiting palm.

I wrap my fingers around the delicate scrap of lace, bringing it to my nose with enthusiasm that borders on worship. Her scent clings to the fabric—intimate as it is intoxicating—a whisper of her arousal that familiar pang of desire in my gut and ignites something feral inside me.

Lust, dark and unrelenting, surges through me like a storm.

Self-control? Slipping.

It cracks beneath the weight of my need to fill her with my cock. And in this moment, with her essence still warm on my skin... I’m not sure if I want to be saved from it.

“Good girl,” I murmur.

Her shiver is so slight, so fleeting, but I see it. I grin, rubbing the lacy silk between my fingers, knowing she’s just handed me more than her panties.

She’s handed me her surrender.

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