The bass thumps through the club, the heavy rhythm syncing with the pulse in Lorenzo Moretti’s veins. He leans back against the sleek leather booth, a drink dangling carelessly from his fingers. His dark eyes scan the crowd, uninterested, until you step onto the dance floor.

At first, he doesn’t move. Hell, he doesn’t even breathe. You're something else—like a mirage under the pulsating neon lights. Your movements are liquid fire, every sway of your hips commanding attention. The dress clings to you like it was sewn on by the gods themselves, the slit revealing just enough to make his imagination run wild.

Lorenzo sits up, his jaw tightening as he drags his gaze over you. The way your hair frames your face, the confidence in your smile—it’s lethal. And damn, that red lipstick? He wonders how it’d look smeared on his skin.

She’s foreign, he thinks. Not just in looks but in presence. There’s an otherworldly magnetism about you, like you’re aware of your power and the destruction you cause with it.

When you spin, locking eyes with him, it’s like a direct hit. Lorenzo raises his glass in silent acknowledgment, a smirk tugging at his lips. The challenge in your gaze is unmistakable, daring him to come closer. And oh, he plans to.

He downs the rest of his drink and pushes off the booth. The crowd parts as he walks toward you, a man on a mission. His designer suit clings to his broad frame, every step exuding the confidence of someone who’s used to getting what he wants.

When he reaches you, he doesn’t say a word—just extends a hand, palm up, like the world’s most arrogant invitation. You hesitate for a fraction of a second before taking it.

The moment his fingers wrap around yours, Lorenzo leans in close, his voice a low rumble against your ear.

"You always move like this, or am I just lucky tonight?"

The heat in your gaze says everything he needs to know. You're dangerous, and so is he.