Page 98 of The Devil of Downtown

Her eyes squeeze shut. A sharp, guttural cry is torn from her throat, and her whole body seizes against me. The waves ofher orgasm ripple through her, and I feel every single one. She slumps back against my chest, boneless and breathless.

I don’t give her a moment to recover. I turn and push open the shower door. The spray is ice cold for a shocking second before it quickly warms. I back her up against the cool tiles; the water plastering her hair to her shoulders and my own to my forehead.

I kiss her. Deeply. Tasting myself on her tongue. My hands cup her ass, lifting her, and her legs lock around me again, a familiar, welcome weight. I guide myself to her entrance, and with one slow, relentless slide, I’m inside her. The fit is perfect, unbearable. She’s so warm, so tight, still fluttering from her climax.

This isn’t the frantic, driving pace from before. This is different. Softer. Deeper. I move with a slow, grinding rhythm. Our foreheads are pressed together, our breaths mingling with the steam.

I can’t drag my gaze away from her. Whatever I was holding back, the control I was clinging to.

Gone.

I tried to fight it; I’ve got no idea why. Guilt? Fear? Avoiding the fall, protecting myself against the pain of loss. She looks right back at me with a devotion that mirrors my own. I keep my pace achingly slow, drawing out every sensation, every slide of my cock, every catch of her breath. The water cascades over us, but all I feel is her heat. All I see is her. The world narrows to this tiled wall. My thrusts become a little harder, a little faster, the mounting tension in my gut becoming unbearable.

I see the moment she shatters again. Her eyes fly open wide, and a broken sob is ripped from her chest as her orgasm tears through her. The feel of her convulsing around me is my undoing. My rhythm breaks, my thrusts becoming erratic, frantic. I drive into her one last time, as deep as I can go, and my release explodes, white-hot and blinding, my body shudderingwith the force of it. We collapse, spent, burying my face in the curve of her neck, our hearts hammering against each other.

We take a few moments to compose ourselves, kissing softly before we dry off. I grab her hand as she follows me to the bedroom, sliding into the bed next to me. We face each other in the quiet dark, my fingers tracing her cheekbones, her palm pressed into my chest.

“You still haven’t told me where we are,” she says, a sleepy edge to her voice.

“Catskills,” I say, pulling her into my chest, my hand tracing lazy circles on her shoulder. “Tomorrow, I’ll show you around.”

“I’d like that,” she says, her voice trailing off as she loses the battle with tiredness.

I’m not far behind as I feel myself begin to drift under.

I watch her, my chest tight. Strangely, her pushing me away today only pulled me closer. Affirmed everything in my mind.

God, I’m not sure I deserve to feel this pathetically happy.

But I’ll take it for now.

Chapter twenty-three

Ivy

I wake to a kind of quiet that feels unreal—no Elsie giggling as she uses my bed like a trampoline, no city noise bleeding through the walls, no traffic, no sirens, nothing that normally drags me back into the world. For a moment, I blink up at the ceiling, trying to piece together where I am, until the scent of pine and fresh coffee drifts under the bedroom door and everything comes rushing back from the edges of sleep.

Dane.

His house.

Oh...and last night...

My cheeks heat at the memory.

I stretch under the thick linen sheets, soaking in the warmth and the rich scent of Dane, then push myself upright. Morning light spills through floor-to-ceiling glass, illuminating a view so stunning it knocks the breath out of me—a mirror-still lake reflecting the mountains behind it, the peaks sharp against the soft gold of the early sky. The entire scene looks like it belongs ina National Geographic spread, not outside the bedroom window of the man I’m... whatever we are.

At the foot of the bed, my dress is folded neatly, and draped over the nearby chair is a soft gray jumper that’s unmistakably his. I slip it on. It’s oversized, warm, and smells faintly like his cologne.

Padding out of the room, I follow the sound of his voice down the hallway. The house unfolds around me. Vaulted ceilings with exposed beams, a stone fireplace big enough to stand in, hardwood floors that cool my bare feet, and enormous windows that make it feel as though the mountains themselves are spilling right into the room.

I find Dane in the kitchen, leaning over the island, phone on speaker.

“...that’s not my problem,” he says, with the clipped authority of someone who is used to being obeyed. “If they want the deal, they’ll fix their end by noon.” He’s shirtless, wearing nothing but dark shorts that cling to his powerful thighs, his hair still sleep-rumpled, his muscles flexing with every shift of his stance. A plate of pancakes sits on the counter beside him, steam curling up from the stack, along with a bowl of berries and a carafe of coffee that smells like heaven.

He glances up, and the moment his eyes land on me, the hard business edge melts.

Without pausing the conversation, he reaches out with one hand, pulls me to his side, and presses a slow kiss to my mouth, soft but sure, like greeting me this way is instinct. My breath stutters.