Ben Carter, Damien’s silent driver, was already out of the car, opening my door with that same stoic professionalism. It seemed the grand brownstone we’d stopped in front of was more than just a house; it was an entrance, discreet and imposing.
Damien’s hand was at my elbow instantly, guiding me out. His touch was firm, possessive, sending shivers down my spine despite the warm night air. My legs felt a little like overcooked spaghetti. Shit.
He led me through an opulent lobby that whispered of old money and new power. Marble floors gleamed under soft, recessed lighting, and the air smelled faintly of something expensive and floral. There were no receptionists, no bustling crowds. Just silence and a bank of sleek, unmarked elevators.
Damien produced a black key card and swiped it through a nearly invisible reader. One of the elevator doors slid open silently, revealing an interior lined with dark wood and polished chrome. My heart began to thud a frantic rhythm against my ribs. This wasn't just a private elevator; it felt like a gateway to another world. His world.
I stepped inside, acutely aware of Damien following, his presence filling the small space. The doors hissed shut, and for a moment, there was only the almost inaudible hum as we began to ascend. He was close. So damn close. My shoulder brushed his arm, and the contact was like a spark igniting a trail of gunpowder. His scent enveloped me – that intoxicating blend of expensive cologne and something purely, uniquely masculine. Damien.
My breath hitched. I stared straight ahead at the polished doors, but I could feel his gaze on me, intense and unwavering. Every nerve in my body was screamingly aware of him. The air crackled with unspoken things, a tension so thick I could barely breathe.
“Your eyes sparkle when you’re nervous, Amelia,” he murmured, his voice a low caress that vibrated through me. I risked a glance. A predatory smirk played on his lips, his eyes dark and knowing. He liked this. He liked seeing me flustered, on edge. And some traitorous part of me, deep down, liked him seeing it. Damn it. He saw too much.
“I… I’m not nervous,” I lied, my voice embarrassingly shaky. My cheeks felt like they were on fire.
His smirk widened. “Aren’t you?” He didn’t move closer, but he didn’t have to. His presence was a physical weight, pressing in on me, making my pulse race and a strange heat coil low in my belly. This man was going to be the death of me. Or the beginning of something I couldn’t even comprehend.
The elevator slowed, and with a soft chime, the doors slid open again. My jaw literally dropped. We weren’t in a hallway. The elevator opened directly into the most breathtaking space I had ever seen. An entire wall of floor-to-ceiling windows revealed a glittering panorama of New York City spread out like a carpet of diamonds. The city lights twinkled far below, vast and endless. Holy shit.
This wasn’t an apartment; it was a goddamn palace in the sky. My crappy, shared shoebox of a room, with its peeling paint and noisy radiator, felt like a distant, pathetic dream. This was real. And he lived here.
I stepped forward, drawn by the view, completely forgetting Damien for a blissful, stunned second. The living area was huge, minimalist but undeniably luxurious. Plush, low-slung sofas in a cream fabric faced the windows. A massive, abstract painting hung on one wall. Everything was sleek, modern, and screamed money. So much money.
I felt a warmth at my back and knew Damien had followed me out of the elevator. He was standing just behind me, watching me take it all in. I could feel his gaze, a possessive glint almost tangible in the air. It was the way a king might survey his domain, and perhaps…his newest acquisition.
A shiver traced its way down my spine, part fear, part a thrill I didn’t want to acknowledge. He was so powerful, so in control, not just of this space, but seemingly of everything around him. Including, terrifyingly, me.
He moved, a subtle shift of air, and then his hand was on my arm, light but firm. He gestured towards one of the plush sofas that looked like a cloud.
“Make yourself comfortable, Amelia.” His voice was a silken command, smooth and low, leaving no room for argument. “Drink?”
I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry. Comfortable? How could I possibly feel comfortable here, in this fantasy penthouse, with this man whose very presence set my entire system on high alert? But I nodded, because what else could I do? I was in his world now, playing by his rules, and I had a terrifying, exhilarating feeling that the game was just beginning.
