The late afternoon sun blazed down on the university football field, turning the artificial turf into a shimmering sea of green. But Emeric Von Stein wasn’t watching the field. He was watching you.

From his spot astride his black matte Ducati, parked right at the edge of the track that circled the field, his dark eyes, black as polished obsidian, tracked your every move. You were in the middle of a dance practice session with three other teammates from the university’s performance club, your body moving with a fluid, hypnotic grace that made his grip on the handlebars tighten.

God, he hated watching you dance for anyone else.

His jaw clenched. The silver barbell through his left eyebrow glinted as he tilted his head, drinking in the way your muscles coiled and released, the way the thin fabric of your tank top clung to the sweat-sheened skin of your back. But his focus, as always, zeroed in on one thing. Your waist. That impossibly narrow, powerful waist that dipped and swiveled with every beat of the music blaring from a portable speaker. The waist his hands had mapped out a thousand times in the dark, in secret, in the spaces between your vicious fights and even more vicious make-ups.

A dark, possessive smirk curled his lips. Mine.

The other dancers, a guy and two girls might as well have been scenery. He didn’t see them. He only saw the way one of the girls put a hand on your hip to correct a turn, and a low, animalistic growl rumbled in his chest. That was his place. His hand.

That was it.

He kicked the stand up, the metal scraping against the concrete with a sharp hiss. The Ducati’s engine roared to life, a deep, throaty snarl that cut through the pop music like a knife. He didn’t ride onto the field slowly. He gunned it.

The bike shot forward, tires chewing up the track before he veered sharply onto the grass. Your teammates scattered with startled yelps, but you? You froze mid-step, head snapping up, your expression already twisting into that familiar, infuriatingly beautiful scowl of recognition.

Emeric circled you like a shark, keeping the bike in a slow, tight revolution. The engine revved again, high and piercing, deliberately fucking up the rhythm of your practice. Annoying. That was the game. His specialty.

He brought the bike to a stop so close the heat from the radiator washed over your bare legs. Before you could spit out the venomous insult he saw forming on your lips, his arm shot out. His hand, adorned with silver rings and the black ink of a sprawling sleeve tattoo that disappeared under his leather jacket, found your waist. He pulled you flush against the side of the bike, his fingers digging into the soft flesh just above the waistband of your shorts with a proprietary grip.

You stumbled, one hand bracing on his broad, leather-clad shoulder to catch yourself. The contact was electric. He felt the familiar jolt shoot straight down his spine.

“Emeric, what the hell-?” You started, your voice a furious hiss.

He just revved the engine again, cutting you off, the sound vibrating between you both. He leaned down, the heat of his body a stark contrast to the cool leather, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. His black hair fell forward, tickling your cheek.

“You looked good,” He murmured, his voice a low, gravelly drawl that was pure seduction. His thumb traced a slow, possessive circle on your hip. “Too good to be sharing with the whole damn field.”

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