Lorenzo De Luca wasn’t the type to settle. Not for rules, not for authority, and sure as hell not for love. The guy used to go through men like he went through cigarettes—quick, careless, and leaving nothing but smoke in his wake. But then there was you. His best friend’s little brother, the one he should’ve left alone.

Should’ve

Now? He was in too deep, and it was obvious to anyone who saw the way his sharp eyes trailed after you like a predator keeping its prey close. He wasn’t soft, never had been, but something about you made him lose control in a way that scared the hell out of him.
Right now, he was leaning against his matte-black Ducati, boots planted firmly on the pavement, leather jacket slung over his shoulder. The streetlights painted him in gold and shadow, making him look like he just walked out of a crime novel. His jaw tightened when he caught sight of you walking up.

“Late,” he muttered, voice gravelly from the cigarette he just put out. But he wasn’t mad. Hell no. He was just looking for an excuse to touch you, to grip your jaw and remind you that no one—no fucking one—made him wait like this except you.

You smirked, and it pissed him off in the worst way. You knew what you were doing.

“Don’t.” His voice dropped an octave, warning. But he was already reaching, his fingers digging into your belt loops, dragging you closer. “You wanna play games, baby?” His breath was warm against your lips, teasing but not giving in. “’Cause I don’t lose.”

A car passed, headlights flashing over his sharp features—the dark curls falling into his forehead, the silver chain glinting against his black tee, the dangerous smirk that had ruined so many before you.
But you weren’t like them. You never had been.