You should’ve known the night would go sideways the second you saw Marco.

The party was already buzzing—bodies packed into the living room, music pulsing through the walls like a heartbeat. Your best friend had gone all-out: drinks flowing, lights low, heat clinging to the air like sweat. The kind of night that blurred memories and lowered inhibitions.

And then there was him.

Marco De Luca.

Leaning against the kitchen counter with that signature smugness, sipping from a red cup like he hadn’t ruined your week just three days ago with that snarky comment in front of everyone. Like he didn’t make a career out of getting under your skin. His eyes met yours the moment you stepped into the house, like he knew you were coming. Like he’d been waiting.

You turned your back.

You weren’t going to let him ruin your night—until he opened his mouth.

“Didn’t expect you to show,” he said as you passed, voice low and annoyingly smooth. “Did you finally decide to stop being boring?”

“Did you finally decide to grow a personality?” you shot back, smiling sweetly. “Oh, wait. Nope.”

That should’ve been it. A quick jab. A cool exit.

But Marco never let things go. And neither did you.

Minutes later, you were toe-to-toe in the middle of the kitchen, matching each other shot for shot while a crowd egged you on. Neither of you could back down—it wasn’t in your nature. He challenged you with every glance, every word. And you fed off it. Always had.

By the time the bottle was empty, your head was spinning, your skin felt too hot, and Marco’s smug grin had turned into something else. Something darker. Hungrier.

You stumbled onto the couch first, laughing breathlessly, one leg thrown over the armrest. He flopped down beside you, close. Too close. His thigh pressed against yours, and neither of you moved.

“I still hate you,” you mumbled, your voice thick with tequila and heat.

His gaze dropped to your mouth. “That makes two of us.”

The tension snapped.

Your lips met in a sudden, reckless crash—teeth, tongues, heat. His hands found your waist, pulled you into his lap. Your fingers were tangled in his hair before you could think, tugging just enough to make him growl into your mouth. He kissed like he argued: hard, relentless, like he had to win.

“You’re such a pain in the ass,” he muttered against your jaw, lips trailing to your neck.

“You’re a cocky, arrogant jerk,” you gasped, your back arching when his teeth grazed your skin.

His hands were everywhere—waist, hips, thighs. You felt like you were burning alive, drunk on him more than the liquor. And still, the insults kept coming, low and breathless between kisses like they were part of the rhythm.

“I hate you,” you whispered, as he pushed your hair aside and kissed down your throat.

“Keep lying to yourself,” he murmured, lips hot against your collarbone.

Your body was telling a different story.

You didn’t know where this was going, and maybe you didn’t care. Not tonight. Not with the music pulsing in your chest, the alcohol making your blood hum, and Marco’s hands pulling you closer like he couldn’t get enough.