Chapter 15 Amber
AMBER
By the time the car slows, my breathing has evened out.
I’m not calm. Not really. But the hysteria has burned itself out, leaving me hollow and sore and strangely clearheaded, like the aftermath of a storm. Giovanni opens the door and waits, giving me space. I take it.
I put my feet on the pavement and stand on my own two legs.
He watches me closely, like he’s measuring something. My balance? Resolve, maybe? Or, could it be my likelihood of bolting. I can’t tell which.
“I’m fine,” I say, because the silence makes me nervous.
“I know,” he replies.
He doesn’t sound convinced.
The building rises above us, glass and steel and light. It’s absurdly tall, absurdly clean. A world away from the docks and their flickering streetlights. We’re in Staten Island’s equivalent of Hudson Yards, though I wasn’t aware it had one until now.
The driver moves ahead to open the entrance, and Giovanni falls into step beside me.
“I can carry you,” he casually says, like he’s offering to take my coat.
I let out a short laugh. “That won’t be necessary.”
He stops.
I take another step before I realize he hasn’t followed. When I turn back, his expression is serious. Not offended. Not amused. Just matter-of-fact.
He would have carried me. The realization lands heavier than it should.
“Okay,” I say quietly, and start walking again before I can think too hard about why that unsettles me.
The elevator ride is silent. The kind of silence that presses in, reflective enough to show me my own face in the mirrored walls. My eyes are red. My cheeks blotchy. I look like someone who has fallen apart in public and been scooped up by a stranger.
Which is more or less what happened.
Giovanni stands close without touching me. I’m acutely aware of the heat of him, of the way his presence fills the small space. When the doors open, I almost flinch.
The penthouse is a lot. There’s no other word for it.
Floor-to-ceiling windows. Soft lighting. Furniture that looks like it belongs in magazines I flip through while waiting in line. Everything is deliberate and expensive and calm, like chaos has never been allowed to cross the threshold.
It makes my chest tighten.
“Are you tired?” Giovanni asks.
The answer hits me all at once.
Yes.
Bone-deep, soul-deep tired. The kind that creeps up on you when you finally stop running on adrenaline.
“I think so,” I say.
He nods, like that settles something.
I wander down the hall without really choosing a direction, drawn by the promise of a bed. When I find one, I don’t question it. I toe off my shoes, mumble a vague “thanks, goodnight,” and faceplant onto the mattress.
The bed is soft. Too soft. I sink into it, the weight of the day crashing down all at once.
Embarrassment creeps in as the tears finally stop.
I made a fool of myself. I screamed. I sobbed. I collapsed into his arms like I couldn’t stand on my own. I hate that memory almost as much as I hate the destruction waiting for me back home.
I roll onto my side and bury my face in the pillow.
There’s a soft sound behind me.
Fabric shifting.
I sit bolt upright.
Giovanni is standing near the foot of the bed, unbuttoning his shirt.
“What are you doing in my room?” I blurt.
He pauses, eyebrow lifting slightly. “Actually, you’re in my room.”
I look around.
The bed is enormous. The furniture more restrained, more personal. A faint scent in the air that I recognize now—clean, dark, unmistakably him.
Not a guest room.
His room.
“Oh,” I say.
Heat rushes to my face.
“I’m so sorry,” I start, scrambling to my feet. “I didn’t realize, I’ll just—”
His hand comes out, light but firm, pressing against my shoulder.
“Stay.”
The word is quiet. Non-negotiable.
“You need rest,” he continues. “You’re not taking one more step tonight.”
Something in my chest twists.
Part of me bristles at the command. At the assumption.
Another part—smaller, traitorous—melts a little.
“I’m not tired,” I say.
It’s not a lie. My heart is in tatters, but my body is awake again now, shot through by something that’s not quite adrenaline, but not quite anything else I’ve ever felt either.
I just know it wouldn’t let me sleep.
But Giovanni gives me a skeptical once-over. “I doubt that.”
“I can decide my bedtime on my own, thank you very much.”
“Can you?” He prowls a little closer. “You strike me as the kind of person who’s had to decide everything her whole life. Maybe it’s high time someone relieved you of that burden.”
I sit back down, heart thudding. Because no one has ever read through me like this. “Who are you?” I ask.
It’s not his name I’m after. I already know that.
I want to know how someone can be like this. So controlled. So dangerous. So unexpectedly gentle. How he can wrap all of that in a layer of bluntness and authority and still feel safe.
He studies me for a long moment. Then, slowly, one corner of his mouth curves. “Would you like to find out?” he asks.
The air between us tightens.
I know what he’s offering. Or asking. Or daring me to do.
I shouldn’t.
I’m exhausted. Raw. Still shaking under the surface. This is not the state you make decisions in.
But I also don’t want to think anymore.
I don’t want to be careful. I don’t want to be alone with my thoughts and the image of red paint on white walls.
I meet his gaze.
“Yes,” I say.
He doesn’t hesitate.
Giovanni crosses the distance between us in two steps and cups my face with both hands, thumbs brushing my cheeks like he’s memorizing the shape of them
Then his mouth is on mine.
I gasp softly and cling to his shirt, the world narrowing down to heat and breath and the steady pressure of his hands.
For the first time all night, the dark recedes.
And I let it.
The kiss deepens, his tongue thrusting into my mouth with a hunger that makes my head spin.
My body arches against him instinctively, and before I can catch my breath, Giovanni pushes me down onto the bed.
He's shirtless now, his broad chest pressing flat against me, pinning me in place. I feel crushed beneath his weight, but it's the best kind of pressure—solid, unyielding, like he's claiming every inch of me.
I've never done this before. Never felt a man's body like this. But in my fantasies, it's always been exactly like this: a powerful man on top, taking control so I don't have to think, don't have to worry about anything but the heat building inside me.
His lips trail down my neck, nipping at my skin before he yanks my shirt up, exposing my breasts to the cool air of the room. I gasp as his mouth latches onto one nipple, teeth grazing the sensitive peak before he bites down just hard enough to send a jolt straight to my core.
My back bows off the mattress. His hand slides between my legs, rough fingers parting my thighs. He cups my pussy through my panties, rubbing slow circles that make me whimper.
"Did you fantasize about this, Amber?" he murmurs against my skin, his voice low and gravelly. "About me touching you like this?"
Heat floods my cheeks, but I nod, my voice barely a whisper. "Yes. Every night."
He chuckles, the sound vibrating through me as he bites my other nipple, sucking it into his mouth. "Tell me how. On your back like now? Or on your belly, ass up for me? On your hands and knees, begging for my cock?"
I squirm under him, the words spilling out before I can stop them. "All of it. On my back, on my belly, hands and knees. Everywhere. I imagined you fucking me in every position, Giovanni. Taking me however you want."
His fingers hook into my panties, shoving them aside as he slides one inside me, stretching my untouched pussy. "Good girl," he growls, pumping slowly while his thumb finds my clit, circling it with firm pressure.
“Have…” I gasp, torn between pleasure and the burning need to know. “Have you?”
“Yes.” He doesn’t fucking hesitate to say it. “Would you like to know how?”
Breathless, I nod.
"I've daydreamed about bending you over our table in the pub. Spreading your legs and pounding into you until you scream, not caring who sees or hears.” His finger pushes deeper, making me moan as I picture the scene.
“Or against the wall in the restaurant, your tits bouncing while I fuck you standing up. Or in the alley where you cornered me.”
“In the…?”
“Yes.” His free hand rises to thumb at my bottom lip. “Your knees in the dirt, your mouth on my cock. Then I’d flip you around and fuck you against the wall, just like that."
His dirty words wash over me like fire, and I moan, my hips bucking against his hand.
He adds a second finger, curling them deep inside, hitting spots that make stars burst behind my eyelids.
His free hand pinches and twists my nipples, alternating between them as he leans close, his breath hot in my ear. “You want that, Amber?”
I can’t bring myself to say it. It’s too filthy. All my adult life, I’ve never had space to ask myself what I wanted. Repressing my desires, my needs—it’s second nature by now.
I don’t deserve it.
I couldn’t save my sister. I couldn’t protect my family. What right do I have to feel pleasure? To have anyone ask me what I want, and then give it to me?
And yet, even when I don’t speak, the pressure builds fast, overwhelming, my body trembling as Giovanni’s thumb grinds against my clit.
“Amber.” His husky voice fills my ear. “If your answer is no, you have to stop me now. Because there’s no way I’m not fucking you after this.”
I’m trapped between pleasure and guilt. But in a strange, forbidden way, it feels too good to stop. I want to let Giovanni take the lead. Let him take whatever he wants from me without asking.
It’s fucked up. I know it is. It never felt like this with any of the drunk clients who dared get handsy with me on my shift. When they touched me and I didn’t ask them to, it didn’t feel good.
But this does.
Because Giovanni is who I want. Because I trust him.
And because I want him to fucking ruin me.
“Please,” I gasp. “Please, just—”
Giovanni groans in my ear. “Fuck, Amber. Come for me like this.”
His fingers start pumping harder in and out of me. Rough—almost violent.
Fuck me, I love it.
I cry out, waves of pleasure crashing through me, my pussy spasming around his fingers as I come harder than I ever thought possible. He doesn't stop, drawing it out until I'm shaking, gasping for air.
Finally, he pulls his hand free, bringing his fingers to his mouth.
No. Wait. He can’t mean to—
He licks them clean, tasting me with a satisfied hum. "Not tired of not thinking yet?"
My face goes up in flames. "No," I breathe, my voice hoarse, my body still humming with need.
He grins, dark and predatory. "Then get on your hands and knees."
My heart races as I obey, rolling over and pushing up onto all fours, my ass presented to him like an offering. I glance back, seeing the hunger in his eyes, and a thrill shoots through me.
He’s going to do it. He’s going to fuck me like he said.
And he’s not going to stop.
A thrill zaps through me at the thought of being helpless underneath him. Of feeling his cock push inside me regardless of what I say or do.
Have I mentioned yet how fucked up I am?
But if Giovanni thinks I’m broken, he doesn’t say a word about it.
“Last chance to stop,” he murmurs and waits.
I know he’s waiting for me to say no, or stop him, but I don’t. No, never.