The Price of His Obsession

The rooftop club's bass thrummed its way down Amara's spine as a second heartbeat-speedier, crazier, and far more reckless than the first. She shouldn't have come. She'd had a morning meeting at the gallery, and her shoes were killing her like damnation. But she was here now, sipping something amber and potent, dressed in a blood-red satin dress that clung to her like sin, and being leered at by men who kept secrets better than suits.

"Another drink, Miss Leighton?"

She turned to the bartender-a slim brunette with a pierced lip and a knowing smile.

"No, thanks. I'm not here to drown anything tonight."

She was lying. She was always drowning something. Regret. Guilt. Desire.

Especially tonight.

Her eyes cut through the group-taut bodies, loose ethics. New York's aristocracy, disguising themselves incognito in black tie and silk masks. Invitation-only. You weren't allowed in unless you wielded power, wealth, or a name murmured behind hands.

Amara had none of those anymore.

But she did possess an assumed name, a phony invitation, and a body men loved to sin with. That sufficed.

Your mask is slipping," a soft voice spoke behind her, and her heart tripped over itself.

She turned around.

And lost her breath.

He stood somewhat to the side from the rest of the group. Black from head to toe. No tie. A half-mask fashioned in matte obsidian covered the upper half of his face, showing only a jaw carved like temptation and lips that could rewrite scripture.

His presence attacked her like smoke-sluggish, dense, deadly. There was something about him that screamed restraint. Controlled menace. A man who broke rules by existing. But it was his voice-deep, gravelly-that slipped beneath her skin like bourbon-saturated silk.

"Maybe I like being noticed," she shot back, cold in the face of the flame now raging under her dress.

His eyes, guarded behind masked obscurity, searched her as if memorizing the color of her flesh against the strobe lights. "Perhaps I don't."

"What do you like?" she asked, tilting her head. Playing with danger was her one vice.

"One night," he replied bluntly. "No names. No histories. Just need."

Her throat was dry. No man ever approached her so plainly-so neatly with desire. Most men faked. Promised. Created issues.

This one did not.

"I don't usually do this," she breathed, even as her body deceived her in a creeping step forward.

He did the same-graceful, panther-quick. "Neither do I."

Another lie. She knew it. He probably did this every night. Tonight, however, so would she.

He held out a gloved hand. She did not hesitate, then inserted her hand into his. The shock was instantaneous-static and flame colliding beneath skin.

"I have a suite on the top floor," he said to her. "Or we can get this done in a messier location."

A challenge.

She blinked. "I like clean sheets."

A slow, evil smile. "I like watching them get destroyed."

---

The suite was a glass cathedral of darkness. Floor-to-ceiling windows, a skyline dense with light, and a king-sized bed built for destruction.

He closed the door behind them, and in that click, Amara felt something change. Reality blurred. Her heartbeat was a drum of wild expectation.

He spoke not as he removed his gloves, each movement calculated. Her breath caught as he approached, not touching, merely regarding. She felt him in her bones, flesh made of gravity.

"Take off the dress," he instructed.

Not a request.

A command.

She hesitated-but for a moment. Then she leaned forward, slid the straps off her shoulders, and allowed the satin to fall like a sigh to her ankles.