Page 70 of The Devil of Downtown

“Me too,” I murmur, caught up in the pull of his gaze. “And birth control,” I add quietly, although I sense he’s barely listening now. His fingers slip into my hair, drawing me closer until the space between us thins to nothing.

“Good to know,” he breathes, his thumb already guiding my chin up.

His mouth finds mine in a soft, lingering kiss like he’s settling into the feel of me. I melt into it before I realize I’ve moved at all.

Warm water cascades over us as the kiss turns desperate, his mouth devouring mine, hands everywhere at once, like he can’t decide where he wants me most.

“Dane.” My head drops back onto the wet tiles as he breaks the kiss to drag his mouth down my neck, teeth grazing my pulse point.

He groans, the sound vibrating against my skin as he nips my collarbone. One hand slides down my stomach, teasing, parting my folds. “All fucking mine,” he croaks. I whimper as his fingers toy with me, hips riding his touch.

His other hand tangles in my hair, tilting my head back to claim my mouth again. This time the kiss is slower, deeper, his tongue sliding against mine in a rhythm matching his fingers.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmurs against my lips, fingers curling just right. “Come for me again.”

My body shudders, pleasure ripping through me as I arch into him. He doesn’t stop until I’m shaking, breathless.

But he’s not done.

He slips his fingers free and wraps his hand around his cock. He strokes it slowly, looking down at me,

“Show me,” he rasps, pure need in his tone, “what you wanted when you watched me in the shower.”

I let his grip guide me. The veins on his strong hand pop as it covers mine, fisting his cock with hard, fast strokes. His eyes stay locked on my face as he loses control—jaw tight, the muscles on his abdomen flexing. When he finally comes, it’s with a raw, guttural groan, release splashing over my stomach and breasts like he’s branding me.

“Come here, Ivy,” he says, cupping my face, smothering his lips over mine with a soft kiss.

We stare, lost in each other, chests heaving, bodies humming. His green eyes are bright beneath wet lashes, something unguarded flickering there — and it lands in my chest with unsettling clarity.

Me falling, even as I try desperately to hold on.

I swallow hard, forcing the feelings away.

“Well,” I manage, heat creeping up my neck, “thanks for the house tour.”

A laugh bursts out of him, a low rumble that lights up his entire face, and I watch him like an idiot, heart pounding as if I’m barreling toward a cliff with no brakes. He soaps his hands and washes me with surprising care, hands slipping over me until I’m breathless. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t fantasized—far too many times—about having sex with this man. But this? I never envisioned how tender he’d be after.

God, I kind of hate him right now. If he’s trying to mess with my head, he’s doing an excellent job.

Eventually, he turns off the water and hands me a towel, amusement curling his lips. “Damn. I didn’t even offer you a drink.”

“Yeah,” I say, wrapping myself in the towel, suddenly shy. “You’re a terrible host. I’m thinking of filing a complaint.”

He doesn’t seem to have the same problem flaunting that perfect body, cock hanging thick and heavy between his thighs. Or maybe it’s just all part of his mind-fuckery.

He turns toward the bedroom with a crooked grin. “I had other things on my mind.”

I trail behind him, my eyes snagging on the tattoo etched between his shoulder blades—wings unfurling across his back, the initialsHTresting at the center. A quiet pang hits me before I can stop it. Helena. His ex.

The jealousy is instant and absurd. I barely have any claim on him, and yet there it is—a tiny, irrational twist in my chest I wish I could pretend I didn’t feel.

His bedroom is calm and dark, and stupidly beautiful. Dove gray walls, a bed that looks like it was imported from a cloud factory. A towering window stretches across the far wall. The city glows beyond it, lights shimmering against the glass.

He opens a built-in closet and pulls out a black T-shirt. “Here.”

I reach for it, but he steps closer.

“Arms up,” he says, like it’s the most normal request in the world.