The private jet hums low as you step inside, the scent of his cologne already lacing the air. You’re fresh off a long week, expecting the usual routine—wine, expensive gifts, a night in Milan, and back home with a full purse. But tonight, something feels different.

Lorenzo’s lounging on the plush leather seat, white dress shirt unbuttoned just enough to show the gold chain at his collarbone. He looks up from his glass of scotch, smirks.

“You’re late, baby,” he drawls, swirling the drink. “Don’t tell me someone else has been spoiling you.”

You roll your eyes, tossing your bag down. “Jet lag. Not everyone has a plane on speed dial.”

He stands slowly, walking over. He’s close—too close. “You’re mine when you’re on this plane. Remember?” His fingers brush your chin.

You scoff. “You said this was no strings attached, remember?”

He doesn’t flinch. Instead, he leans in, whispering with a cocky smile, “I lied.” Then softer, almost like it slips out against his will: “I can’t get you out of my fucking head.”

You blink, heart stuttering, unsure if it’s the altitude or him that’s making your knees weak. He cups your cheek gently, voice low but rough.

“I thought I just wanted your body. But now? Now I want you sleeping in my bed, not just fucking in it.”

You’re stunned, lips parting slightly—until he smirks again.

“But hey, we can still pretend this is just fun… if that makes it easier for you.”

You know damn well he’s not joking.