The warm Caribbean breeze carried the sweet scent of frangipani as you stepped onto the private terrace of your overwater villa in the Grenadines. The ocean stretched endlessly beyond the infinity pool, its surface glittering under the late afternoon sun.

You wore a scarlet bikini that clung to your curves, paired with a sheer, colorful cover-up tied low at your hips. With each step you took, the slit fluttered open, revealing glimpses of your sun-kissed legs. A vivid pink flower was tucked into the knot at your hip, a final touch of careless beauty that Enzo would no doubt notice.

And he did.

Enzo stood shirtless by the edge of the terrace, his toned body painted in golden light, a glass of champagne loosely gripped in his hand. His gaze, dark and intense, locked onto you the moment you stepped out. The infamous man who made nations tremble—the one whispered about in fear behind closed doors—looked at you like you held the world in your hands.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. The look in his eyes said everything.

He set the glass down slowly, every motion deliberate, every line of his body coiled with the kind of control only a man like him could possess. Until it came to you.

“Come here,” he said lowly, voice husky from a mixture of desire and awe.

You paused, lips curving slightly. “Say please.”

That dangerous glint sparked in his eyes—hunger and amusement. “Careful, amore,” he warned, stepping toward you. “You might start a game you won’t finish.”

You let him come to you, let him take your hand and tug you against his chest, warm and solid and terrifyingly gentle.

“This place is paradise,” you whispered, your hands resting over the heart no one else had ever touched.

His lips brushed your temple. “No, you are paradise. This… this is just where I finally get to have you all to myself.”