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“Did you just say Lamborghini?”

I nodded and tried to admire every inch of the machine as envy welled up inside me.

Yes, I already rode one of the most expensive Ducati models, but this was a completely different model from mine. Not only in terms of aesthetics.

There were small, pretty details that the rider must have added himself, because the motorcycle looked even better than the models on the internet.

This had to be a tuned model, because it was completely black and had pointed decorations that didn't stop at the motorcycle itself.

His damn helmet matched the model he was riding, and it looked as if he – whoever he was – had broken out of a science fiction Transformer movie, but without overdoing it.

Most of the time, I just looked at the motorcycles, but this time, despite the hot model – which I might never see again – it was the guy dressed entirely in black on the bike that caught my eye.

He rode past us without even paying attention to us – or probably even noticing us at all, because the whole parking lot was staring at him – and I eyed the black biker jacket he wore over a hoodie, along with jeans and leather biker gloves, as well as street biker shoes. All in black.

He had to be a student, even though I seriously doubted it, given how shamelessly he was breaking the uniform rule. And I well damn doubted that he was wearing a white shirt with a sweater vest under his hoodie.

Holy shit. Whoever was parking his motorcycle between the Copelands' Jeeps was practically screaming for trouble. The kind of trouble I attracted like dirt did to flies.

I tried to push Olivia's words out of my head and stay in the moment, which resulted in me watching the guy in the parking lot let go of his handlebars, lean back, and unfasten his helmet.

I found it incredibly attractive when guys wore biker gear. It was one of the many things I couldn't describe. Just as grapes went well with cheese cubes, biker gear went well with athletic men. And the guy there looked anything but unathletic.

I didn't blame myself for staring, because the entire parking lot was doing the same.

The moment the guy took off his black helmet, tingly goose bumps spread across my entire back.

It wasn't the partly jagged, partly rounded runic tattoos peeking out from his hoodie collar, nor the defined veins on his tattooed hands, which I caught a glimpse of when he took off his gloves and put them in his helmet, not even the black metal rings on his fingers...

It was his thick dark brown hair and gray eyes, clear as diamonds...

My lips parted slightly as my goosebumps intensified.

It was the guy from the winter ball I had almost bumped into in the west wing.

And then the pieces of the puzzle fell into place: He had parked in the Copelands’ parking spot. And our encounter in the corridor three weeks ago... He was a Senseque.

“Who the hell is this motherfucker?” Miles laughed beside me.

Indeed. Who was this guy?

I observed him, trying to make sure it was really him, because the fact that he wasn’t wearing a suit but these clothes made a huge difference.

And how could I not have noticed his tattoos?

Just then, he took off his leather jacket and pushed up the sleeves of his hoodie.

Fuck. His arms were covered in tattoos. And the problem was that they weren't just any tattoos, not the usual gangster motifs like skulls in flames or some lettering, dates, or animals symbolizing danger.

They were goddamn ravens. Ravens ascending into the sky, as if painted with watercolor ink. On both sides, divided by the pattern created by his voluminous veins.

Another shiver came over me, because whatever it was... it was hot.

Do I Wanna Know

(slowed to perfection) – TikTok Remix

TommyMuzzic, ZeddMusique