Soren Vasquez (Your Troublemaker)

The club’s heavy, rhythmic pulse feels like a warning, one that everyone in the room has heeded by giving you a wide berth. In this corner of London, the De Luca name is a death sentence, and you move through the neon-drenched shadows like the blade it represents. But as you reach the velvet rope of your private booth, the path is blocked by a man who clearly didn't get the memo.

Soren Vasquez is draped over the railing of your section, looking every bit the billion-dollar disaster. His eyes are dark with a mix of intoxication and pure, unadulterated arrogance. He doesn't see a "Mob Princess" who could have him erased from the city’s records by sunrise; he just sees a challenge in a designer dress.

"Sup cutie, wanna fuck?"

'God, she’s icy,' he thinks, his gaze dragging slowly over your silhouette. 'Most girls would’ve giggled or blushed by now. This one looks like she wants to bury me. I love it.'

He lets the question hang in the air, thick with the scent of high-end scotch and the kind of entitlement that only comes from a lifetime of being told 'yes.' He has no idea that the silent men at the tables nearby—your father’s hand-picked wolves—are already tensing, waiting for a single nod from you to end him.

Soren just chuckles, a low, rasping sound, and takes a slow sip of his drink while his gaze lingers on your lips. 'Is that a hint of a scowl? Come on, princess, give me something. I bet that cold attitude melts real fast once the lights go down.'

"What's with the 'ice queen' stare? It's a simple question," he drawls, stepping into your personal space until you can smell the woodsmoke on his skin. "You're clearly the most expensive thing in this room, and I've got a very high credit limit. Don't tell me you're actually going to spend the night in this booth alone when you could be spending it with me."

The heavy thud of the penthouse door closing is the only warning he gets before the tension that’s been simmering since the club finally snaps. There’s no more "Forbes" magazine wit, no more playful banter—just the raw, desperate friction of two people who have spent the last hour imagining exactly this.

Soren has you pinned against the cold marble of the entryway wall within seconds. His hands are frantic, almost clumsy with a hunger he’s never felt before, as he tugs at the silk of your dress, his fingers tangling in the expensive fabric. He’s starving for you, his mouth crashing against yours in a kiss that tastes of top-shelf bourbon and reckless adrenaline.

'God, I’ve never wanted to ruin someone this badly,' he thinks, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped animal. 'She’s like ice and fire at the same time. I don't care who she is—I just need to know what she tastes like.'

With a low, guttural growl, Soren hooks his arms under your thighs and hoists you up, slamming you back against the wall to anchor you there. Your legs wrap instinctively around his waist, but he’s already moving, his breathing heavy and ragged against your skin as he repositioned you.

He hitches your legs up higher, draping them over his broad shoulders until you are completely, devastatingly exposed to him under the dim foyer lights. He doesn't hesitate. He buries his face between your thighs, his tongue lashing out with a hunger that is primal and utterly unchecked, eating your pussy like it was his last supper.

"You're... driving me out of my mind," he rasps against your sensitive skin, his voice muffled and thick with a lust that borders on feral.

He’s eating you like a man who hasn't seen food in days, his hands gripping your hips so hard his knuckles are white, his fingers digging into your skin to keep you pinned. He still has no idea that the woman he's worshiping is a De Luca—the daughter of a man who would have his head on a platter for this. To him, you’re just the most intoxicating, high-status conquest he’s ever touched, and he’s determined to make you come apart in his hands.

'I’m going to break that 'ice queen' attitude right here,' he thinks, his smirk ghosting your skin as he feels you tremble. 'I’m going to make her forget every bit of that pride until she’s screaming my name.'

The penthouse door has barely clicked shut before Soren has you backed against the floor-to-ceiling glass, the city lights of London blurring behind your head. He isn't just kissy; he’s desperate, his hands shaking slightly as they find the hem of your dress.

"You're... you're killing me," he rasps, his forehead dropping against yours for a frantic second. 'God, I’d crawl through glass if she told me to,' he thinks, the thought terrifying and exhilarating all at once. 'I want to own her, but I want her to ruin me first.'

He drops to his knees with a sudden, heavy thud—a move that is both a surrender and a conquest. He doesn't ask; he simply takes, his hands bruising your hips as he pulls you toward him. He looks up at you with those hooded, emerald eyes, dark with a mix of predatory hunger and total, pathetic devotion.

"Tell me what you want, Princess. Give me an order."

He doesn't wait for the answer. He’s already "starving," his mouth seeking out the sensitive skin of your inner thigh with a feral intensity. He’s marking you—deep, dark blooms of color that say you’re his—but the way he clings to you, the way his fingers dig into your skin like he’s drowning and you’re his only air, shows exactly who is really in charge.

'I’ll stay here all night if she lets me,' he muses, his tongue lashing out with a desperate, frantic pace. 'I’ll eat every bit of that pride until she’s shaking, and then I’ll ask for more. I’m a dead man if I don't have her.'