6. Amara
AMARA
THE DEVIL’S PENTHOUSE
A s soon as we slide into his Hummer, the city blurs around us as neon lights streak across the windows like paint on a canvas. His gaze never leaves me as he leans back against the leather seat and spreads his legs in a way that exudes confidence.
The vehicle moves smoothly through the streets, but there’s an underlying edge to the driver’s maneuvers, like he’s used to dodging more than just traffic.
Trouble? Bullets?
The vehicle is second to none, featuring a leather interior, moonroof, and a bar that exudes luxury. It smells of cologne and crisp Benjamins and is spacious enough to house a small army.
Pulling my knees together, I lean toward him. “What, no sirens? No dramatic car chase?” I say with a touch of snark. “I thought a man like you would live more dangerously.”
He chuckles, low and rich. “I prefer my danger controlled.” He tilts his head, studying me. “Though, something tells me you’re the kind of woman who finds trouble all on her own.”
I feign innocence, widening my eyes. “Me? I’m just a simple girl looking for a night out and a good time.”
His gaze darkens, flicking to my lips. “You don’t impress as an easy woman. What’s on your mind? ”
I feel the pull between us like gravity. “Now? I’m wondering where you’re taking me, like any single woman who leaves a bar with a stranger. I don’t even know your name.”
“Pietro. Yours?”
“Amara.”
The corner of his mouth lifts, and amusement flickers in his expression. “I’m taking you somewhere you’ll either love or hate. Maybe you should be afraid.”
“I look in the face of fear, and I laugh,” I joke, but it’s true. My father is a scary, sadistic man, and I rebel against him even though it comes at a price.
“Perhaps you do,” he replies, amused.
I reach into the tiny purse still dangling across me and pull out my phone. I text Sarah an update so she won’t worry about me—unless I don’t make it home.
“Texting a roommate or your boyfriend?”
“Roommate. I’m no cheater. You?”
“I’m a one-woman man because I’ve never been with a woman who kept my interest long enough to commit. You?”
I’m not surprised by this. I’m sure he’s a player, and all it implies. But I admire his honesty.
“Same.” It’s a short answer, but it’s the truth. Maybe we have more in common than I thought. I assumed he’d be an arrogant prick and flaunt his wealth audaciously, but perhaps I’m wrong about him. There’s more to him than meets the eye.
The Hummer sharply turns, gliding through quieter and more exclusive streets. I recognize the area—it’s upscale, overlooking Central Park—but no houses are around.
So where the hell are we going?
When we pull into a drop-off area with a valet, I realize I’m looking at the Plazzo Romano Hotel. Everyone in the city knows the Borrelli family owns it. Last year, there were huge hearings on the height variances, and it’s rumored some officials were bribed.
It’s the highest hotel, and it sits on the edge of Central Park— it’s new and massive. Its opulent presence gleams under the bright lights and rivals the Waldorf-Astoria. The gold Borrelli logo towers above, shining like a crown—an unmistakable symbol of power and untouchable wealth.
The vehicle stops, and Pietro steps out, offering me his hand. I hesitate for a second before placing my palm in his. His grip is firm and warm. He has a commanding touch, and I have the feeling he always gets what he wants. And tonight, he wants me.
As we approach the hotel entrance, I find it is exactly what I expected—elegance blended with a modern vibe. It’s the kind of place where people make deals over expensive whiskey and ruin lives with a single handshake.
He doesn’t stop at the front desk. Instead, he pulls out a sleek, black keycard, embossed with the hotel’s emblem. VIP. Of course. He swipes it at the private elevator, and the doors slowly slide open. We step into the elevator, and I face him as the doors close.
When he presses the PH button, I raise an eyebrow. “Penthouse treatment? Should I be flattered or concerned?”
Pietro smirks. “Depends. What excites you more? Are you scared yet?” he taunts me.
“Not even close,” I scoff. Who am I, and what have I done with my everyday version of myself? I didn’t know I had a wild, carefree side inside me, but here I am, throwing caution to the wind.
I’m sure this is my attempt to have some control over my life. I might not be living under my father’s thumb, but he’s still controlling me from afar because I know he has men looking for me.
But Pietro feeds my wild side. His eyes flicker with something dangerous and intriguing. “Good.”
He cages me in, arms braced on either side of my head, and suddenly, my back is against the elevator wall. I can’t move—nor do I want to.
His clean, musky cologne tantalizes my senses.
My heart races as his lips cover mine. Desire pools between my legs.
His kiss is warm, hungry—and I welcome the slow invasion of his tongue, meeting it with a need I can’t hide.
The heat between us makes it impossible to ignore the fire sparking in my belly—the kind I’ve been missing my entire life.
I kiss him back as my hands snake around his neck, and my fingers run into his thick, dark hair. His kiss is more demanding as the temperature in the elevator rises. His hand grabs my boob and flicks a thumb over the thin material. My nipple pebbles, and my knees buckle with his touch.
The ride to the top is silent, except for the low hum of the elevator. A thick, undeniable tension coils between us. He moves into me, using his knee to part my legs as he peers intently into my eyes. It’s a power play he’s perfected as he watches me, waiting. Maybe he’s expecting my hesitation.
I tilt my head. “You bring all your one-night mistakes here?”
His lips twitch. “Only the ones worth remembering.”
I chuckle. His lips are so close to mine that I smell the liquor on his warm breath. “Damn, that was smooth. It’s almost too smooth. I should be worried.”
His body is flush with mine, and his hard cock presses against my body. He murmurs, “I told you. You should be concerned. I’m not a nice man.”
There’s a flicker of darkness in his icy blue eyes, and for a second, I wonder if I should be worried. Then, the doors slide open, revealing the penthouse with floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing the glittering skyline.
I step inside, glancing around. It’s filled with sleek leather furniture and a stocked bar that probably holds bottles worth more than my yearly rent. “Let me guess—this is where you lure unsuspecting women before they realize they’ve made a deal with the devil.”
Pietro strides to a bar and pours two glasses of bourbon before walking back to me with the kind of confidence that makes it hard to look away. “Something like that.” He hands me the glass with amber liquor as if it’s a challenge and watches as I take a slow sip.
The burn is smooth and settles in my chest like liquid fire.
I meet his gaze over the rim of my glass. “I hate to break it to you, but I don’t scare easily. ”
He exhales a quiet laugh, stepping even closer and wrapping his arm around my waist as he pulls me into his broad chest. “I was counting on that,” he murmurs.
I arch a brow. “So what now? You charm me into submission?”
“Oh, sweetheart. I think we both know you’d never submit to anyone.”
His grin moves slowly over his lips, dangerous and daring.
His voice is silk and sin, dripping like honey from those tempting, swollen lips. I’ve never done anything this reckless—who leaves a New York bar with a stranger and lives to tell the tale?
He’s a man who speaks softly, but his words are weighty. His hands are strong, and his eyes—well, I could get lost in them for days without food or water and not mind that I’m starving. He’s so fucking sexy, Hugh Jackman pales in comparison.
I take another sip, tilting my head. “You got that right.” How is it that he knows me so well? We just met.
For a second, there’s nothing but the quiet clink of ice in our glasses and the electric hum as the heat kicks on. Then, his smirk deepens, and I know this night is far from over.
“I’m going to fuck you now,” he says as he takes the glass from my hand. My heart races as I step out of my shoes.
His hand cradles my face, and I melt when his gaze holds mine. Completely his .
He’s intense. He’s a threat to me, my body, and the heart that I wear on my sleeve, even though I hate being vulnerable.
Vulnerability means I will be hurt. It might not be today or tomorrow, but eventually, I’ll pay the price for my night of freedom. It’s as certain as if it were written in the stars.
But for now, I’m going to let him fuck me. For one night, I’m giving myself to the man in the black Brioni suit—one night. No promises. And as long as I make it home safely, I’ll be fine.
Right?
His lips are soft as they glide over mine—teasing, nipping, melting into a kiss I never want to end. He smells of finely rolled cigars, crisp cologne, and pure money. He’s decadence wrapped in danger…, and my pussy is already wet for him.
I push his jacket off his shoulders and grip the back of his neck, inked and taut with muscle. My fingers trail along one of his tattoos, following it down to his chest, stopping at the buttons on his shirt.
His fingers brush mine as he grabs his shirt and rips it open, buttons scattering across the tile like coins at my feet.
His impatience makes me grin. I slowly and deliberately drag my hand over his chest, fingers toying with his hair before tracing the ink that winds across his skin.
I trail lower, barely grazing his taut abs, until I pause at the edge of his slacks.
“You have claws,” he murmurs, his decisive tone conveying approval. Every inch of his skin is covered with ink, even his fingers. He shrugs off the torn shirt, and I hear my zipper before my dress pools at my feet.