“What should we do now?” Sebastian asks me.

“I probably should go home . . .” I tell him.

“Don’t go yet,” he urges. “Stay with me a little longer.”

“What do you want to do?”

“Let’s drive up to the dunes and sit out on the sand for a while. I’ve got some blankets in the back of the truck.”

The thought of sitting on the lakeshore with Sebastian is a thousand times more enticing than the idea of going home. Even though I know it’s a bad idea, I can’t resist.

I climb into Sebastian’s truck, which is becoming more and more familiar to me. I love the way it smells like him—like hawthorn and nutmeg, like fresh laundry and rubber. The seats are worn, and the windshield is cracked. I like that Sebastian doesn’t care. Despite his good looks, he isn’t vain. He doesn’t wear brand-name clothes or an expensive watch.

In fact, the only jewelry he wears is the tiny gold medallion on a chain around his neck.

“What is that?” I ask him.

“It’s St. Eustachius. Patron saint of hunters, trappers, firefighters, and, uh . . . difficult situations.”

“I didn’t know you were Catholic.”

“I’m not. My uncle was. He used to wear this every day. He said it was lucky. Then he gave it to me . . . and he died a month later. So maybe he was right.”

I swallow hard, thinking of the Winter Diamond. Kristoff put it in a vault, and he was shot shortly thereafter. If my father’s right, the Gallos don’t have the stone anymore either. They sold it to fund their real estate development.

“How did your uncle die?” I ask Sebastian.

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, turning the wheel to head out of the city, toward the state park.

“Well . . . he was killed by Bratva,” he says. “But I don’t want you to feel bad about that. It was fifteen years ago, when the Chicago chapter was run by the boss before the last boss. So . . . I doubt it was anyone you know.”

My stomach is churning, and my face is on fire. I should tell Sebastian. I should tell him.

But I can’t. There’s so much bad blood between our families. So much mistrust. He only likes me because he thinks I’m different from my father and his men. If he finds out I was part of their plan from the beginning . . . he won’t forgive me. He won’t be able to see past that. And his family won’t, either. They’ll be certain it’s proof that I’m Bratva, too. A liar and schemer. Full of ill-intent and rivalry.

“Were you close to him?” I ask Sebastian.

“Yes,” he says. “He was my father’s youngest brother—not that much older than Dante. So he kind of seemed like a big brother to me, too. He was competitive. He loved to take the piss out of people. But he wasn’t cruel. You know, most people who like to tease and joke, they cross the line sometimes. They don’t really care if you’re laughing along with them. Francesco wasn’t like that. He didn’t hit you where it hurt. But he was over-confident. He never thought he could lose at anything. Even if he was ten pieces down playing chess against Nero, he always thought he was about to come back . . .”

Sebastian sighs, pulling into the parking lot next to the beach, and turning off the engine.

“That’s probably what got him killed. When you’re endlessly optimistic . . . you’re going to be wrong eventually.”

Sebastian climbs out of the truck, grabbing a couple of heavy outdoor blankets from the bed.

We take our shoes and socks off, leaving them in the truck, so we can walk across the sand barefoot.

The dunes aren’t as crowded as the beaches close to the city, especially not in the evening on a weekday. Sebastian and I walk far up the shore, away from any other people. It’s a little rockier here, but I don’t mind. We have the blankets to lay on.

The sun has almost gone down. Heat is still radiating up from the sand. Even more heat comes out of Sebastian’s body. I’m laying with my head on his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his lungs. Little waves break on the beach, in almost exactly the same rhythm.

He’s stroking his hands through my hair.

Sebastian has an incredible sense of touch. His hands are so large and long fingered that you’d think they’d be clumsy, but it’s exactly the opposite. He’s a true athlete, never uncoordinated. He touches me with the perfect mix of strength and delicacy, not too hard or too soft. Teasing out my most sensitive and responsive areas.

Even though he’s so tall, his movements are smooth and precise. His reflexes are perfect. I think I could sweep an entire set of dishes off a countertop, and he’d catch every one before they hit the floor.

And then there’s that face.

I roll over on my side to look at him.

His skin is so deeply tanned that you might think he was Latin. His face is long and lean, with a little stubble that fails to hide the boyishness of his features. His eyes are the most striking part of him. They’re brown, but not any brown I’ve seen before. The irises contain every shade of caramel and gold, bordered by dark smoky rings, and framed by thick black lashes. His eyebrows are straight, dark slashes, and his thick curls hang down almost over his eyes.

Then those lips . . . almost as full as mine. Finely shaped, but still completely masculine.

I lean over to kiss him.

Every time I kiss Sebastian, I think I’ll get used to it. I think it will start to feel mundane. But that never happens. Every single time, he takes my breath away all over again.

The whole world falls away around us—the last rays of the sun, the warm, rough sand, the sound of the water on the shore. It all disappears, and all I can feel are his lips and tongue, and his strong hands gripping my shoulders.

Sebastian rolls over on top of me. I realize how big and strong he really is, with his full weight on top of me. I’m completely hidden beneath him. Completely trapped under him.

I don’t feel afraid. Quite the opposite—it seems like the safest place in the world.

I want to stay inside his arms forever.

He kisses me deeper, his body grinding against mine. I can feel his cock stiffening, pressing against my bare thigh with only his jeans between us.

I feel my own body responding. He made me cum harder than I have in my life only an hour ago, but already I want more. Already I’m dying to feel that same sensation flushing through my system, wiping every fear and stress out of my mind.

His cock is getting harder and harder, until the pressure on my leg is almost painful. His arousal makes me aroused. It makes me want to touch him the way he touched me.

I reach down and snap open the button of his jeans. I tug down his zipper and reach inside his boxer shorts.

His cock is so hard that it’s rammed down the leg of his jeans. I can barely slip my hand down to touch it.

I close my hand around his shaft, shocked by its thickness. His cock is bigger than a banana—it’s almost as thick as my own wrist. And much warmer. I can feel it throbbing against my palm. Sebastian groans with frustration.

Gently, I tug his cock upright, and it gets even harder, now that the blood can flow freely. His erection juts out the open fly of his jeans, his cock brown and veiny, with a heavy head swollen with blood.

I stroke his cock with my hand, marveling that I’m doing something completely forbidden out here in the open. I’m not allowed to touch a man like this. I’m not allowed to do anything sexual without my father’s permission.