Page 21 of Ruined Vows
“You realize you’re overcompensating, right?” I snark.
He lifts a brow. “How so?”
“This car. The whole ‘I’ll pick you up, I’ll drop you off”act. You think it’s chivalry, but really it’s just your control complex with cooled seats.”
He hums low. “You noticed the temperature-controlled seats.”
“I notice everything.”
I give him a side-eye, and his lips twitch. He doesn’t smile. But healmostdoes.
“I’ll let you in on a secret,” he says, eyes still on me. “It’s not about control.”
“Oh? Then what’s it about?”
His knuckles flex. God, even his hands are beautiful.
“I’ve waited long enough to have you in my car, Bianca. I wasn’t about to miss the first time.”
My breath catches because there’s no flirt in his voice. He’s not giving me a line, just raw truth. He’s showing me a piece of himself.
He’s beingvulnerable?
I look out the window and pretend I’m unaffected because it hits home. I can’t let my guard down, not to him or anyone. I can’t be vulnerable. If I open myself up, I’m opening myself up to being hurt, and that’s never going to happen again.
I’ve never had a real relationship. My idea of commitment is an expensive bottle of Prosecco, a spicy romance book I can read in three hours, and takeout that’s delivered to my door.
So inside?
I’m reeling from his admission.
Ten dates.That’s what I asked for.
Ten dates is what we agreed to.
So why does every moment with him feel like it counts as three?
The 10th Roundis a serious gym and boxing center—sweat-soaked mats, and the stench of adrenaline clinging to the walls. No one is polite, and it’s not pretty.
Just fists, breath, and bruises. Of which I’m hoping to leave him with a few to remember me by.
He steps out. I rebuff the hand he holds out to assist me. I’m not elderly for fuck’s sake. But he steps in again, and reluctantly, I take it.
His grip is firm, and it doesn’t help the predicament between my thighs.
We walk into the gym, and I drop my bag in the women’s locker room before grabbing my gloves. I return to the boxing area as I slowly lace up my gloves—the air hums with tension.
He’s dressed in my favorite tactical color—black.
His sleeveless tee stretched across shoulders that could carry an empire. His fitted training pants hug his thighs, and I can’t miss his firm buttocks.
And when he turns, my eyes zero in on his glutes—his tight-fitted shorts look like they were stitched there. He’s all testosterone—no smile. No apologies.
Justhim.
I can’t help but gaze over the package he’s packing, and his gym shorts leave little room for guessing.
He’s well endowed. He’s the man I can’t wait to get a whiff of. He lives rent-free in my head—the man who invades my dreams and gives me sleepless nights.
