Page 148 of The Devil of Downtown

He hisses, taking a sharp intake of breath, and in one fluid motion, he bends, hooks an arm under my knees, and lifts me. I cling to his neck, burying my face against his shoulder, inhaling his scent. He sits on the couch, and I straddle him, my knees sinking into the cushions on either side of his hips. We’re face-to-face. The only light is the frantic pulse of lightning outside,illuminating the stark hunger on his face, the desperate love in mine.

He guides himself to me, the blunt head nudging my entrance. I’m already wet, aching for him. “Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he rasps, his hands firm on my hips.

I stare straight into his wild eyes as I sink down, taking him in excruciatingly slow. The stretch is perfect, a deep, burning fullness that pushes every ghost, every memory of pain, out of my mind. There is only this. Only him. A low moan escapes me, long and shuddering, as I settle fully onto his lap, him buried deep inside me. Then I begin to move. A gentle, rolling lift of my hips, then a slow, sensual sink back down. I lean in, capturing his mouth with mine. The kiss is tender, deep, a shared breath. Our tongues slide together in time with the rhythm of our bodies.

His hands roam my back, his palms branding my skin. He shifts his angle, just slightly, and on my next downward slide, he brushes a spot inside me that makes my vision swim.

“Oh,God... right there,” I gasp, my rhythm faltering.

“I love you,” he says, the words a rough promise against my lips. “I love you so damn much.”

“I love you more,” I whisper, my hips finding a new, steady cadence.

I’m not sure how long we make love. Long enough for the first pale gold of dawn to creep over the mountain peaks and spill into the room.

Long enough to know I love every little thing about this man.

The way he saw through the version of myself I was pretending to be—and wanted what was underneath, anyway.

The way loving me hurt him.

And he stayed anyway.

Chapter thirty-two

Dane

Eighteen Months Later

“I can’t,” I say into the phone, already lowering my voice. “No, we’re not rerouting funds tonight. I don’t care if it’s clean. I don’t care if it’s urgent. It’s opening—”

“Closing,” Charlotte corrects from my left, not looking at me. “And if you take one more call, I’m confiscating your phone.”

“I’m in a theater,” I add flatly. “They’re not delaying a Broadway performance so you can wire money.”

The house lights dim.

“That’s your answer,” I say and end the call.

Charlotte presses two fingers into my chest and pushes me back into my seat. “Sit down,” she murmurs. “The show is about to start.”

The orchestra swings into a bright, rousing rhythm, and Ivy steps into the light like she belongs there. Not just on the stage, but in the very center of it. Her voice slides over the music, rich and playful, wrapping the room in something warm and electric all at once. I’ve seen this number more times than I can count,and still I don’t look away. I never do. There’s something about the way she moves, the way her body listens to the music and answers it, that keeps pulling me back in.

Every turn is clean. Every step is smooth. Every smile feels real. After what she went through, she didn’t shrink. She leaned into it. Stronger, surer, brighter. Eight shows a week, rehearsals stacked on top of each other, and she only grew more luminous inside it. Watching her, it’s impossible not to feel a slow, aching pride twist in my chest. Most nights she’s home late, hair still half pinned, eyes heavy with exhaustion. She crawls into bed beside me like she’s running on fumes, curling into my side. It’s my favorite part of the day.

The men who destroyed my old life are in prison now. Julian and I made damn sure of that. Justice, in its neat, legal way, has been served. But Ivy was never about filling what was taken from me. I didn’t need something to replace what I had lost. I needed something to bring me back to myself.

And somehow, impossibly, she did.

She glides across the stage, skirt swirling around her thighs, and when her partner steps in close, I feel it in my gut. Too close. Their bodies align, not touching everywhere, but near enough that the space between them seems charged. His hands settle at her waist as she spins, turning into him, away, then back again. Their movement is seamless, like a conversation spoken in motion.

He leans in, her back briefly to his chest, his grip firm as he steers her through a lightning change of direction. For a heartbeat, they’re locked together, breath to breath, the choreography demanding trust, proximity, control. His hands linger a fraction longer than they should.

He smiles at her. She smiles back, professional, radiant, alive in a way that still hits me square in the chest.

I clench and unclench my fists, reminding myself that I’m not sixteen, that I’m not about to commit a felony in a theater aisle, that Ivy is choosing me every single night she comes home.

It doesn’t help.