You’d always known Xavier was a car man. His penthouse garage was practically a showroom, all polished chrome and sleek engines that purred like they belonged on racetracks. Sports cars suited him—powerful, precise, impossible to ignore.

So when you heard the low, guttural growl of an engine echoing up the street, you didn’t think much of it. Until you saw him.

Helmet tucked under one arm, leather jacket stretched across his shoulders, gloves half-off—Xavier was straddling a black Ducati like it had been built for him. The contrast was almost shocking. You were so used to seeing him step out of chauffeured luxury, suits tailored within an inch of perfection, but this? This was something else.

“Since when do you ride motorbikes?” you blurted, half in disbelief, half… maybe more than a little turned on.

He smirked, swinging his leg over and strolling toward you like he hadn’t just singlehandedly rewritten what you thought you knew about him. “Since always. Didn’t think it was something you needed to know.”

You folded your arms, trying not to stare at how the jacket clung to him, how the veins stood out in his hands as he tugged the gloves off. “You hide a Ducati from me and act like it’s not worth mentioning?”

His smile deepened, that quiet, teasing arrogance he carried so well. “You never asked.”

You shook your head, speechless, because this side of him—raw, rugged, a little dangerous—wasn’t the Xavier you showed off at society galas or board meetings. This was… secret. Intimate. Yours to discover.

He stopped in front of you, close enough that you could smell leather and faint gasoline beneath his cologne. “Want me to take you for a ride?” he asked softly.