The darkest Druid currently resides in the East 70s in Manhattan, and that is where our story begins.

PRESENT DAY

1

Dageus MacKeltar walked like a man and talked like a man, but in bed he was pure animal.

Criminal attorney Katherine O’Malley called a spade a spade, and the man was raw Sex with a capital S. Now that she’d slept with him, she was ruined for other men.

It wasn’t just what he looked like, with his sculpted body, skin poured like gold velvet over steel, chiseled features, and silky black hair. Or that lazy, utterly arrogant smile that promised a woman paradise. And delivered. One hundred percent satisfaction guaranteed.

It wasn’t even the exotic golden eyes fringed by thick black lashes beneath slanted brows.

It was what he did to her.

He was sex like she’d never had in her life, and Katherine had been having sex for seventeen years. She thought she’d seen it all. But when Dageus MacKeltar touched her, she came apart at the seams. Aloof, his every movement smoothly controlled, when he stripped off his clothing he stripped off every ounce of that rigid discipline and turned into an untamed barbarian. He fucked with the single-minded intensity of a man on death row, execution at dawn.

Just thinking about him made places low in her belly clench. Made her skin feel stretched too tight across her bones. Made her breath come short and sharp.

Now, standing in the anteroom outside the enameled French doors of his exquisite Manhattan penthouse overlooking Central Park that fit him like a second skin—starkly elegant, black, white, chrome, and hard—she felt intensely alive, every nerve wired. Drawing a deep breath, she turned the handle and pushed open the door.

It was never locked. As if he feared nothing forty-three floors above the flash and razor edges of the city. As if he’d seen the worst the Big Apple had to offer and found it all mildly amusing. As if the city might be big and bad, but he was bigger and badder.

She stepped inside, inhaling the rich scent of sandalwood and roses. Classical music spilled through the luxurious rooms—Mozart’s Requiem—but she knew that later he might play Nine Inch Nails and stretch her naked body against the wall of windows that overlooked the Conservatory Water, driving into her until she screamed her release to the bright city lights below.

Sixty feet of coveted Fifth Avenue frontage in the East 70s—and she had no idea what he did for a living. Most of the time she wasn’t certain she wanted to know.

She pushed the doors shut behind her and allowed the buttery-soft folds of her leather coat to spill to the floor, revealing black lace-topped thigh-highs, matching panties, and a sheer push-up bra that presented her full breasts to perfection. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the darkened windows and smiled. At thirty-three, Katherine O’Malley looked good. She should look good, she thought, arching a brow, as much exercise as she’d been getting in his bed. Or on the floor. Sprawled across the leather sofa. In his black marble Jacuzzi . . .