Page 60 of The Devil of Downtown

“What do you think?”

Dane rises from his seat, his gaze still on me. His expression gives nothing away at first—then his jaw flexes, a tell I’ve learned not to ignore. He crosses the floor in measured strides until he’s standing just in front of me.

“Turn around,” he murmurs.

My pulse kicks up as I turn slowly. His gaze sweeps over me from head to toe.

“You want to know what I think?” His voice lowers, control drawn thin.

He closes the distance between us, one hand settling at my waist as he guides me backward until the cool mirror touches my bare skin.

“I think if you wear it,” he says, his gaze sliding down. “It won’t stay on you for very long.”

His hand comes up, brushing a lock of hair from my shoulder, fingers grazing my sensitive skin.

“Well then,” I manage, a nervous laugh slipping out, “it’s probably a bad idea.”

The mirror catches the two of us: his tall frame, my bare back. His fingers trace the jeweled line from my shoulder down to where the fabric starts. The touch is featherlight, but it’s enough to pull goosebumps from my skin.

“No, Ivy,” he breathes low against my ear. “I wouldn’t say that.”

He steps closer, swallowing every inch of space so that there’s nowhere left to retreat.

His hand hovers at my waist, not quite touching, the restraint somehow worse than if he had. His gaze drops to my mouth and stays there.

“This,” he says softly, “is improvising.”

His lips brush mine, soft at first—just enough to make my breath hitch. He eases back a fraction, then returns, mouth tilting as his lips linger, coaxing rather than claiming. His tongue slips along the seam of my mouth, gentle and patient, easing my lips apart inch by inch. I inhale sharply, my hands curling at my sides as he draws the kiss out, letting it deepen slowly, giving me time to feel every second of it.

His hand settles at the small of my back, warm through the thin fabric, steadying me there as if he senses the way my knees threaten to weaken. The kiss grows fuller, richer, his mouth shaping mine with quiet confidence, like he’s learning the way I respond—what makes me soften, what makes me ache.

“You have no idea,” he murmurs against my lips, “what you’re doing to me right now.”

My throat dries.

“Dane—”

Chills slide over my spine as he leans in, his lips a featherlight trail against my jaw, breath a warm whisper at my ear.

“Take off your panties, Ivy,” he breathes. A pause. Then, lower. “Now.”

I swallow, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as I cling to the last scrap of composure I have left.

“What if I don’t want to?” I tease, though my voice comes out thinner than I intend.

His chuckle is soft and dark, vibrating straight through me, the sound of someone entirely unconcerned with my defiance. My breath turns shallow as his mouth drifts from my jaw to my throat, following the slow curve of my neck. Each brush of his lips makes my skin prickle, my head tipping back on instinct as he traces lower, lingering at the edge of my neckline.

“You’ll want to,” he says quietly.

He sweeps the front of my dress aside, freeing my breasts; his touch confident. His thumb circles one hard nipple, slow and teasing, drawing a gasp from me before his mouth closes over it—teeth grazing, tongue flicking until the pulse between my thighs coils tight and hot, unbearable in its insistence.

A soft whimper slips out before I can smother it.

“What are you doing?” I pant, my neck arching. “They might come back.”

He answers by biting down, sucking the nipple hard enough I know it’ll leave a mark.

“Then do as you’re told,” he rasps against my skin, “and take off your panties.”