The Penthouse Door

The private elevator rose with a silent, sickening speed.

My heart hammered against my ribs like a caged animal. I had spent the entire day pretending to review quarterly spreadsheets at my desk, but every time I blinked, I saw Damon’s dark eyes cutting across that crowded ballroom.

Nine sharp. Don't make me wait for you, Robin.

I had told Ethan I was having a quiet night with takeout and a book. He hadn't questioned it; he had barely even looked up from his phone before texting back an unbothered Sounds good babe, out with the guys anyway.

Out with Victoria, more likely.

The elevator chimed softly, breaking my spiral. 

I stepped out, my black stilettos sinking slightly into the dark rug. I had traded the crimson gala dress for a simple black wrap dress made of thin, slinky jersey knit. It tied at the side with a single silk ribbon—easy to remove, easy to unravel. Beneath it, I wore nothing but a pair of sheer black lace panties.

I pushed the heavy wood open and stepped across the threshold.

Damon was standing by the floor-to-ceiling glass wall at the far end of the vast living room, holding a tumbler of dark amber scotch. He had stripped off his suit jacket and tie. His black dress shirt had the top three buttons undone, exposing the corded hollow of his throat and the dark dusting of hair on his chest. His sleeves were rolled up to his forearms, revealing thick veins and hard muscle.

The heavy door clicked shut behind me.

Damon didn't turn around immediately. He took a slow sip from his glass, looking out over the glittering city skyline spread beneath him like a carpet of cold diamonds.

"You're three minutes late," he said. His voice was a low, velvet rasp that vibrated straight through the soles of my feet.

"Traffic was heavy," I lied, my voice sounding smaller than I wanted it to.

Damon set his glass down on a dark marble console with a quiet clink. He turned slowly, his dark, hooded eyes locking onto me. He took his time, his gaze sliding down my body like a physical caress—lingering on my bare collarbones, the dip of my neckline, the cinch of the fabric at my waist, and the long expanse of my bare legs.

"Come here, Robin."

It wasn't a suggestion. It was a calm, absolute command that made my stomach drop into a pool of liquid heat.

I forced my legs to move, the heels clicking rhythmically against the dark hardwood floor until I stood barely two feet away from him. The scent of him washed over me—expensive bourbon, fresh cedar, and the intoxicating, raw musk of pure male heat.

He didn't touch me right away. He just stood there, towering over me, his dark eyes studying my face.

"Look at me," he ordered softly.

I tilted my chin up, meeting his brooding gaze.

"No trembling tonight?" he murmured, raising one large hand.

I held my breath as his knuckles brushed lightly against my jawline. His skin was warm and slightly rough, the callouses grazing my sensitive flesh with agonizing slowness. Ethan had never touched my face like this. Ethan touched only to take, grabbing clumsily and rushing straight to the end as if foreplay were a waste of time.

Damon’s touch was different. It was patient, methodical, and entirely terrifying.

His fingers trailed down the curve of my jaw, sliding over the hollow of my throat. He pressed his thumb against the frantic pulse beating at the base of my neck, feeling the rapid, chaotic rhythm of my heart. 

"Good girl," he whispered against the quiet air. "Your heart is racing for me."

"Damon—"

"Quiet."

His thumb slid over my bottom lip, pressing down with firm, possessive pressure to part my mouth. His eyes darkened as he looked at my parted lips, his pupils blowing wide until the irises were almost entirely black.

He stepped closer, closing the final inch between us. His chest pressed against mine, the heat of his body radiating straight through the thin jersey fabric of my dress. He reached out with his other hand, his fingers finding the delicate silk ribbon knotted at my hip.

He didn't tear it off. He tugged the loop slowly, deliberately, letting the silk slide through his fingers until the knot dissolved.

The dress fell open.

A cool draft swept over my bare breasts, making my nipples pebble instantly into tight, aching points. Damon’s breath hitched, a low rumble vibrating in his chest as his gaze dropped.

"Exquisite," he muttered, the word rough and thick.

He peeled the fabric off my shoulders, letting the black dress slip down my arms and pool at my feet on the dark floor. I stood before him in only my heels and the tiny scrap of black lace between my thighs, my chest rising and falling in shallow, desperate gasps.

His large hands came down on my bare waist, his long fingers spanning the dip of my ribs. The contrast of his burning palms against my cool skin sent a violent shiver down my spine.

"You have no idea how long I've wanted to do this," he growled.

He pulled me flush against his frame, and I gasped as my soft, bare breasts flattened against the crisp cotton of his shirt. Lower down, through the heavy wool of his tailored trousers, I felt the rock-hard, unyielding length of his erection pressing insistently against my stomach.

Damon slid one hand up my ribcage, his palm cupping the outer curve of my breast. He held the weight of it, his thumb slowly dragging across the sensitive tip. A sharp, involuntary whimper tore from my throat, my hands flying to his broad shoulders for balance.

"Sensitive?" he whispered, his lips grazing the sensitive skin beneath my ear.

"Damon, please," I choked out, not even knowing what I was begging for.

"Please what, Robin?" His teeth lightly nipped the tendon of my neck, sending an electric shock straight down between my thighs. "Tell me what you want."

"Touch me," I pleaded, my fingers digging into the muscle of his back.

He gave a low, rumbling chuckle against my skin. "I am touching you. But I haven't even started yet."

His hand left my breast, tracing a slow, agonizing path down the center of my stomach, his nails lightly scraping over my skin until my belly quivered. Down, down, until his fingers reached the delicate black lace band of my panties.

He slipped two fingers beneath the silk edge, gliding over the smooth skin of my hip, then slowly drifted inward.

The moment his fingertips brushed against my center, he let out a harsh, ragged breath. The fabric was already soaked through, slick with the desperate ache I had been carrying all day.

"Look how wet you are for me," he whispered, his voice dropping into a dark, filthy purr that made my cheeks burn. "Did Ethan ever make you this wet, Robin?"

"No," I gasped, my head falling back against his shoulder as his fingers stroked through the lace. "Never."

"Good," Damon growled, his thumb pressing firmly against my clit through the damp silk, circling with a slow, heavy pressure that made my hips buck helplessly against him. "Because from now on, you only come for me."