A PRICE OF 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.

His breath hitched.

Below, she wore nothing but a midnight-colored lace thong. Her nipples pushing against the chill, and his gaze devoured her.

He did not approach.

He moved around her-slow, stalking prey he didn't wish to devour too quickly. "Turn around."

She did.

Fingers stroked against her back. Traced the line of her spine. Down to the crease of her hips. She felt each touch like a prayer.

"Your're real," he whispered. "Too fucking real."

And then his hands were on her-hot, hard, desperate. He spun her around, kissed her like she was property, and she dissolved into him, into the insanity.

The mask remained in place.

His tongue danced against hers, probing, taking control, before he bit her lip-hard enough to make her gasp.

Clothing stripped off in strips. Her thong ripped. His shirt took off. She saw tattoos on his chest-lines, symbols, maybe a name-but he pushed her onto the bed before she could demand to know.

And when he entered her, there was no gentleness.

No sweetness.

Only need. Black. Unyielding. True.

He fucked like a starving man. Possessive. Strong.

And she accepted it like a woman who had not been touched in years.

He gripped her thighs, spreading her wider, deeper, pulling moans from her that didn't sound like hers. The headboard slammed. Sheets tangled. Her nails carved his back. She didn't know where he ended and she began.

"Say you're mine," he growled into her neck.

"No names, remember?" she panted, even as her hips chased him like fire.

"I don't need your name," he whispered, biting her shoulder. "Just your surrender."

And in that moment, she gave it.

Her orgasm washed over her like a wave of lightning and heat, and when he followed, gasping her name-or someone's name-it didn't matter.

Because for those few minutes, she was his.

And he was hers.

---

She woke up alone.

The sheets were chilled. Her body ached in all the right places. On the pillow beside her, coiled like a secret, lay a diamond pendant in the shape of a teardrop.

And no card.

She stared at it, pulse thudding.

Who loses diamonds after a one-night stand?

Amara picked it up, heart racing. There was something written on the back.

A date.

Not the one for today. But one from so very long ago.

She swallowed.

The past she'd thought she'd buried just rattled at her door again.

And it was hidden.