Page 37 of The Devil of Downtown

“You don’t know what I want.”

“Oh, but I do.” His tone dips lower as he hooks a finger under my chin, edging me closer until my breath tangles with his. “Your eyes have been begging me all night.”

His lips brush mine, just a breath of contact that sends a shiver racing through me.

“Do you know what they’ve been telling me?” His voice hums against my skin as his knuckles trail slowly up the inside of my thigh, lingering at the edge of my lace panties.

I shake my head, breath already uneven.

“That if I do this...” He inhales softly, as if tasting the sound I make, his finger slipping beneath the delicate lace, finding heat and slickness that betrays me instantly. “I’ll find you wet. Aching. Ready.”

A broken sound slips out of me when he pulls back, my body reacting on instinct. His grip stays firm on my chin as he drags his slick fingers to my mouth.

“Open,” he orders, voice gruff.

His gaze pins me there—jaw tight, eyes blazing—watching every slow flick of my tongue.

The wind surges again, rain misting my skin, cold against the fever burning through me. He catches my lower lip between his teeth, tugging until I gasp, then releases it with a low sound that feels half warning, half surrender.

I rock against him slowly, chasing friction, feeling him harden beneath me, savoring the groan I pull from his chest. His mouth returns to mine—deeper this time, hungrier—the kiss building as his hands roam, fingers threading into my hair, skimming over my breasts, settling hard at my waist to keep me pressed close.

Beads of rain mingle with our frantic kisses as our mouths move together, messy and breathless, heat replacing any thought of control. His hand slides to my skirt, hitching it up, fabric bunching at my waist. Relief floods me when his fingers slip beneath the seam of my panties.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know this is reckless—a mistake I’ll regret. But then his fingers sink inside me, his thumbfinding my clit in tight, merciless circles, and every thought disintegrates.

I moan into his mouth as he drives his middle finger deeper, curling just right until sparks tear through me. The pressure coils low, twisting tighter and tighter, until all I can feel is the blinding rush of heat spreading through every nerve.

A strangled sound leaves me when he drags his mouth from mine, breath hot against my ear, teeth grazing the shell. “Come for me now, like a good girl, and I’ll fuck you extra hard later.”

That’s all it takes.

I break with a cry, pleasure crashing through me in waves, my body trembling hard as his name spills from my lips into the night sky.

He crushes his mouth to mine again, kissing me long and hard, swallowing every moan, every broken sound. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he rasps against my lips, his voice hoarse with something I’ve never heard from him before. For a moment, as his hand cups my face with startling gentleness, I almost believe that what flickers in his eyes is real.

Until one word shatters it.

One name.

“Sloane,” he breathes, soft, stunned.

Bile burns the back of my throat.

I scramble off his lap, stumbling backward, yanking my skirt back into place. “No—no, no, no.” My hands fly up as if I can physically stop what’s already happened. “Sorry. I’m sorry,” I mumble, the word tumbling out again and again, like repetition might erase the last five minutes.

“Sloane?” he says again, a crease forming between his brows. He reaches for me, but I shake him off, pacing in tight circles, fingers digging into my hair.

“That wasn’t meant to happen,” I blurt, thoughts skidding wildly. “Actually—no. It didn’t happen.”

He stares at me. “I hate to break it to you, Sloane, but it very much did.”

Christ, why does he have to keep saying the name, each time cutting a little deeper.

My mind scrambles for something, anything. Any way out of this mess. I stop dead, clutching at the first straw I can find.

“It was the champagne...” I say, like I’m concocting some fucked up alibi. “Yes...the champagne....and the wine,” I throw in for good measure. I’m half a second away from blaming the snails or freaking Eros as panic takes over.

“So let me get this straight,” he says, voice harder now. “You’re blaming this on the champagne?” His jaw clenches so tight, I can see the pulse ticking in his neck.