When Lorenzo pushed through the heavy door of the bar, the wall of sound hit him first—bass throbbing low and relentless, laughter and shouts blending into a chaotic roar that vibrated through his chest. The air was thick with the scent of spilled liquor, sweat, and perfume, the kind of place where inhibitions dissolved under pulsing lights and too many drinks. Strobe flashes cut through the haze, painting bodies in fleeting color—red, blue, violet—before plunging them back into shadow.
And there she was.
Lily.
In the center of the dance floor, lost to everything but the music and the alcohol burning through her veins.
She moved like a woman trying to outrun her own heart—hips rolling slow and sensual, arms raised above her head, dark hair a wild cascade down her back, clinging to the damp skin of her neck and shoulders. Her sweater had slipped dangerously low, one strap of her bra visible, the soft curve of her breast rising and falling with every ragged breath. Her cheeks were flushed deep rose, lips parted, eyes half-lidded and glassy with drink and something far more devastating: escape.
She was breathtaking.
And breaking.
Every sway of her body was a silent scream. Every laugh that spilled from her lips—too loud, too sharp—was a lie she was telling herself. Men watched her, drawn like moths to the flame she didn’t even know she was giving off. Their eyes traced the line of her throat when she threw her head back, lingered on the way her jeans hugged her hips as they moved.
Lorenzo’s blood turned to fire.
Jealousy—dark, possessive, violent—surged through him, hot and immediate. His jaw clenched so hard it ached. His hands flexed at his sides, itching to clear the room, to eliminate every gaze that dared touch what was his.
He moved.
The crowd parted without realizing why—something in the set of his shoulders, the cold purpose in his eyes. He cut through them like a blade.
Sofia saw him first. She was at the edge of the floor, drink in hand, watching Lily with worry etched between her brows. When her gaze landed on him, surprise flickered, then understanding.
“Lorenzo—” she started, stepping forward.
He didn’t stop.
Matteo appeared out of nowhere, materializing at his side with that infuriating smirk already in place, whiskey glass dangling from his fingers.
“Well, well,” Matteo drawled, voice laced with mockery. “The prodigal ghost returns. Come to claim your prize, Romeo? Or just enjoy the show?”
Lorenzo’s eyes didn’t leave Lily.
“She’s drunk,” he said, voice low, lethal calm.
Matteo chuckled, sipping his drink. “Observant as ever. She’s been like this for an hour. Dancing like the world’s ending. Laughing like it already has.” He leaned closer, sarcasm dripping. “Funny how heartbreak looks good on her, huh? Almost makes you forget you’re the one who put it there.”
Lorenzo’s hand shot out, fisting in Matteo’s shirt, pulling him close enough to feel the threat.
“Shut your mouth,” he growled. “Or I’ll shut it for you.”
Matteo’s grin didn’t falter. “Touchy. But you’re right—she’s a mess. Your mess. So what are you going to do about it, big brother? Walk away again? Or finally grow a pair and take responsibility for the woman you broke?”
Lorenzo released him with a shove, eyes never leaving Lily.
She spun again, oblivious, hair whipping around her face, body moving in a way that made his throat tight and his blood roar south despite everything.
He moved.
Reached her in three strides.
His hand closed around her upper arm—gentle but unyielding.
She stumbled slightly, turning into him, eyes unfocused at first, then widening in shock.
“Lorenzo?”
Her voice was slurred, soft, confused.
Up close, she was worse.
Beautiful and wrecked.
Cheeks flushed deep, lips swollen from biting them, eyes glassy and red-rimmed beneath the makeup. Her skin was hot under his palm, breath coming in shallow pants scented with vodka and something sweeter.
His chest caved in.
“Lily,” he said, voice rough, barely audible over the music. “We’re leaving.”
She blinked slowly, swaying toward him, body remembering his even through the haze.
“No,” she whispered, but there was no force behind it. “I’m… dancing.”
“You’re done dancing.”
He slid an arm around her waist, pulling her against him—supporting her weight as her legs faltered. She fit against him perfectly, soft curves molding to hard muscle, head falling to his shoulder for a moment as if her body betrayed her will.
The contact was electric.
Even drunk, even angry, her nearness set him on fire.
She smelled like flowers and vodka and warm woman.
Her breath hitched against his neck.
For a heartbeat, she melted—just enough for him to feel the tremor running through her.
Then she stiffened, pushing weakly at his chest.
“You left,” she slurred, eyes filling. “You don’t… get to…”
“I know,” he murmured, voice raw, guiding her through the crowd. “I know what I did.”
Matteo watched from the bar, smirk gone, something almost respectful in his eyes.
Sofia met them at the edge of the floor, concern deepening.
“She okay?”
Lorenzo didn’t answer.
Just tightened his hold on Lily and carried her toward the door.
Outside, the cold hit them like a slap.
Lily shivered, burrowing closer without thinking.
He shrugged off his coat, wrapped it around her—big, black, swallowing her frame.
She looked up at him, eyes glassy, tears spilling silently.
“I hate you,” she whispered.
“I know,” he said, voice breaking for the first time. “But I’m not leaving you like this.”
He lifted her into his arms—effortless, possessive.
She didn’t fight.
Just turned her face into his neck, breath warm against his skin.
And let him carry her into the night.
Away from the music.
Away from the escape.
Into whatever came next.
Because even drunk, even hurting, her body knew where it belonged.
But as they reached the car, Lily swayed heavily in his arms, her body soft and pliant from the alcohol, pressing against him in ways that made his blood roar despite the chaos in his mind. The cold night air wrapped around them, sharp and biting, but it did nothing to cool the heat radiating from where her curves molded to his chest—her breasts crushed against him, hips brushing his with every unsteady step. His coat swallowed her frame, the scent of his cologne mingling with her floral warmth, creating something intoxicating that made his jaw clench and his grip tighten around her waist.
She looked up at him then, eyes glassy and heavy-lidded, cheeks flushed deep rose from the drink and the dance. Her lips—swollen from biting them, still tasting faintly of the vodka she’d drowned in—parted as she stared at him, vulnerability and accusation swirling in those dark depths.
“You never should have left me, Lorenzo,” she whispered, voice soft and slurred, laced with a raw ache that sliced straight through him.
The words hung between them in the frozen air, heavy and damning.
He couldn’t answer.
His throat tightened, guilt and desire twisting into a knot that made breathing difficult. He wanted to tell her everything—how leaving her had been the hardest thing he’d ever done, how he’d thought it was to protect her from the violence that shadowed his life, how every night since he’d burned with the memory of her body arching into his, her soft gasps echoing in his dreams. But the words stuck, trapped behind the wall of his pride and the fear that nothing he said would ever be enough.
Instead, he opened the passenger door of the Aston, the interior light spilling soft gold over her face, highlighting the tear tracks on her cheeks and the way her sweater had slipped further, revealing the lace edge of her bra and the smooth swell of her breast rising with each shallow breath.
He lifted her carefully—effortless, possessive—settling her into the seat. She didn’t fight, just leaned into him, head falling against his shoulder for a moment, her hair brushing his jaw, her breath warm against his neck. The contact was electric—her body soft and yielding, curves pressing into him in ways that made his pulse thunder and his cock twitch despite the guilt gnawing at his gut.
He buckled her in, his hand brushing the inside of her thigh as he reached across—accidental, or maybe not. She shivered, a soft sound escaping her lips, and his eyes darkened as he pulled back, slamming the door harder than necessary.
The drive through the empty streets was torture.
The city was a blur of neon and shadow, the engine’s low growl the only sound besides her uneven breathing. She slumped against the window at first, forehead pressed to the cool glass, but as the warmth of the car enveloped her, she shifted—restless, drunk, emotional.
Her hand fell to her bare thigh, fingers tracing absent, restless patterns on the smooth, warm skin just below the hem of her dress, drawing his gaze despite every effort to keep his eyes on the dark, empty road. The soft fabric had ridden higher during the drive, bunching softly around her hips, exposing long, toned legs that gleamed faintly in the passing streetlights. The sweater clung to her curves, slipping further off one shoulder with every shift of her body, revealing the delicate lace of her bra strap and the tempting swell of her breast rising with each uneven breath.
Lorenzo’s grip on the wheel tightened until his knuckles whitened, the leather creaking under his fingers. The car felt too small, the air thick with her scent—flowers, vodka, and the warm, intoxicating essence of her skin. Every time she moved, the dress shifted again, the hem teasing higher, offering glimpses of the soft inner curve of her thigh that made his pulse thunder and his cock ache with a need he was barely holding at bay.
She was drunk, vulnerable, hurting because of him.
And still, his body reacted like a traitor—heat surging low and insistent, the memory of her pressed against him in the bar flooding back: the way her hips had rolled into his when he’d pulled her close, the soft, involuntary moan she’d made against his mouth, the way her thighs had parted just enough to cradle him.
He forced his eyes back to the road, jaw clenched so hard it hurt.
But she shifted again—restless, sighing softly—and her hand slid higher on her thigh, fingers brushing the edge of the dress, dangerously close to where the fabric ended.
His breath caught.
The car swerved slightly before he corrected, cursing under his breath.
She didn’t notice.
Or if she did, she didn’t care.
Her head lolled against the window, then turned toward him, eyes half-open, glassy with alcohol and unshed tears.
The city lights painted her in fleeting color—red, gold, blue—highlighting the tear tracks on her cheeks, the swollen curve of her lower lip, the way her chest rose and fell too fast.
She was beautiful.
Devastating.
And his.
Even if she hated him for it.
“You left,” she mumbled suddenly, voice thick with sleep and alcohol, eyes half-open as she turned to look at him. “Just… gone. Like I was nothing.”
The words were a knife.
He gripped the wheel tighter, knuckles white.
“You were everything,” he said, voice rough, low, barely audible over the engine. “That’s why I left.”
She laughed—soft, bitter, broken. “Everything? Then why does it hurt so much?”
Her hand reached out, unsteady, landing on his thigh—high, too high. Fingers curling into the muscle there, heat seeping through his trousers.
He sucked in a breath, the car swerving slightly before he corrected.
“Lily…”
“Don’t,” she whispered, but her hand didn’t move. If anything, it slid higher, nails dragging lightly, sending fire straight to his groin. “Don’t say my name like that. Like you still want me.”
“I never stopped,” he growled, voice raw with truth.
She turned fully now, body angled toward him, eyes dark and glassy in the passing streetlights. Her lips parted, breath coming faster.
“Then why?” Her voice cracked. “Why did you make me feel like this?”
Her hand moved again—deliberate now—brushing the hard line of him through his trousers.
He groaned, low and tortured, the car slowing as he fought for control.
“Because I’m no good for you,” he rasped. “Because I’d ruin you. Possess you. Never let you go.”
Her fingers tightened, stroking once—slow, teasing—making him throb.
“Maybe I wanted to be ruined,” she breathed, tears spilling again. “Maybe I still do.”
The confession hung between them, heavy and dangerous.
He pulled over abruptly—tires crunching on the empty curb, engine idling in the dark.
He turned to her, hand sliding to her jaw, thumb brushing her lower lip.
“You’re drunk,” he said, voice strained. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I know exactly,” she whispered, leaning into his touch, eyes burning. “I know I hate you. And I know I still want you to kiss me until I forget.”
His control fractured.
He leaned in—slow, giving her time to pull away.
She didn’t.
Their mouths met—soft at first, tasting tears and vodka and need. Then deeper. Hungrier. Her hand fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer, tongue sliding against his in a way that made him groan into her mouth.
He kissed her like a man possessed—hand sliding to her throat, thumb stroking her pulse, the other gripping her thigh, pulling her leg over the console until she was half in his lap, body pressed tight against him.
She moaned—soft, desperate—hips rolling instinctively, feeling how hard he was, how much he wanted her.
The windows fogged.
The city disappeared.
There was only heat.
Only them.
Only the slow, inevitable surrender.
But even as he lost himself in her taste, in the way her body melted for him despite everything, guilt gnawed at the edges.
She was drunk.
Hurting.
And he was taking.
Again.
He pulled back—breathing ragged, forehead against hers.
“Not like this,” he rasped. “Not when you’re drunk. Not when you hate me.”
She stared at him, tears glistening, lips swollen from his kiss.
“I do hate you,” she whispered.
“I know.”
He pulled her fully into his arms then, holding her as she cried—quiet, broken sobs against his chest.
And he drove her home.
Not to his bed.
Not yet.
But to safety.
Because for the first time, he was choosing her over himself.
And it hurt more than anything.
But it was the only way he’d ever earn her back.
