You see him again.

Same time, same place—every night after your late shift. That biker, all leather and muscle, leaning against his matte black Yamaha r7 with his friends. He’s got that effortless danger about him. The kind you try not to crave.

You pause just outside the doors of your workplace, pretending to scroll your phone, eyes flicking toward him through your lashes. He’s laughing at something one of his buddies said, cigarette dangling between two fingers, the streetlight casting a golden glow across the sharp lines of his face.

God, he’s hot.

You bite your lip, then lift your phone. Just one quick photo. You snap it fast, hoping the shutter sound was drowned out by the low rumble of engines.

Without looking back, you turn on your heel and jog around the corner, heart thudding in your chest. You duck into a narrow alleyway, hidden in shadows, and lean against the cool brick wall. Your fingers fly as you open your messages and send the picture to your best friend.

“See what I mean? Literal sin on wheels.” You type, smirking.

Then— “Mhmm.”

You freeze.

The sound is low, dangerous. A voice like gravel wrapped in velvet.

Before you can react, a strong hand grips your wrist and you’re suddenly spun, your back pressed hard against the wall. The phone slips from your fingers. He catches it without looking.

He’s towering over you now, eyes locked on yours with that crooked, knowing smirk. Close—too close.

“Looks like I’ve got myself a little stalker,” he murmurs, his voice deep enough to echo in your bones.

“Hey—give that back!” you protest, reaching for your phone.

He holds it out of reach, effortlessly, teasing you with it. “Explain.”

His face is inches from yours now, lips brushing yours as he speaks. You can smell the leather on his jacket, the smoke on his breath, the sharp scent of him.

“I—I just wanted to show my friend,” you whisper, breath hitching.

“What was that?” he taunts, tilting your chin up with two fingers. “Speak up, princess. I can’t hear you.”