Page 107 of The Devil of Downtown

Before I can ask again, he brings the glass to his mouth, tilting it to take a small sip. His throat works as he swallows, the firelight brushing along the line of his jaw.

And then he leans in, so slowly I’m almost panting.

He stops just shy of my lips, close enough that I can feel the heat of his breath, the faint scent of whiskey.

“Here,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. “Taste it again.”

My breath catches.

He closes the last inch, his lips brushing mine—just a whisper of contact—before he deepens it, coaxing me forward, letting the warmth of the whiskey pass from his mouth to mine. It’s soft at first, exploratory, his lips capturing mine with a slow, consuming need that makes my toes curl.

I answer without thinking, leaning in, my hand lifting to his shoulder for balance—or maybe to pull him closer.

The kiss builds gradually, heat curling through me like a slow burn rather than a spark, his mouth patient but intent. The kiss deepens, his tongue stroking mine so I’m not sure whether I’m breathing him in or he’s breathing me. When he finally eases back, just barely, our foreheads brush, both of us breathing harder than a single kiss should warrant.

His thumb grazes my cheek, a quiet stroke that somehow makes everything worse, in the best way. Then his mouth trails down the side of my throat, leaving a trail of whiskey scent, slow enough to make every inch of me hot.

“Dane,” I breathe, as his mouth nips a path back to my lips. “More whiskey.”

He answers with a low groan against my skin. His hands slide under the hem of the fleece, palms finding bare skin. My breath shudders as his thumb brushes the underside of my ribcage. His mouth claims mine again, his hands mapping my body like he’s memorizing everywhere I tremble for him.

“This,” he murmurs against my pulse as he unzips the fleece and slides it over my shoulders, “needs to go.”

He reaches for the glass again, and takes another sip, but this time he doesn’t come to my mouth. He leans down, his body a warm shadow over me, and lowers his head to my breast, tugging the lace of my bra aside. His tongue, now cold and wet from the whiskey, flicks over my tight nipple.

I cry out.The shocking chill of the alcohol followed instantly by the devastating heat of his mouth. He lavishes attention on one breast, then the other, painting them with whiskey and worshiping them with his lips and tongue.

“Someone is thirsty,” he rasps, watching me over the slope of my breast. He takes one last, deliberate sip from his glass. Then he moves down my body, his hands skating over my hips, shoving my leggings and panties down, pushing my thighs apart. The first touch of his whiskey-wet tongue against my clit is electric.

My back arches off the sofa, my fingers tangled in his hair, a sharp cry tearing from my throat as sensation after sensation crashes over me in a wave. His tongue circles, flicks, and sucks until pleasure burns through every nerve. I come hard and fast, my hips jerking uncontrollably as my orgasm rips through me.

When he eventually tears himself away, I’m blinking up at him like someone switched the world off and on again.

He stands and slides an arm beneath my legs, the other behind my back, lifting me easily as he turns toward the stairs. On his way past the bar, he swipes the whiskey bottle with two fingers.

His mouth grazes the shell of my ear as he shifts me higher in his arms.

“Bedtime, Ivy,” he growls, the sound rough enough to melt my bones, “and I suggest you don’t pretend sleep is anywhere on the agenda.”

Holyfuckingshit.

If this is how I die.

Cradled in the arms of a six-foot-something menace with a whiskey habit and a body that should be illegal.

I have to admit, there are worse ways to go.

Chapter twenty-four

Ivy

The city has barely stirred when I’m sliding my key into the lock. Dane had his driver, Kent, pick us up at stupid o’clock as he has an early start today. I slept for the entire journey, snoozing, my head nestled on Dane’s shoulder, who looked entirely too tempting in his navy bespoke suit and crisp white shirt.

And true to his word... sleep was nowhere near the top of his priorities last night. I genuinely don’t understand how the man is still upright. Machine is the only acceptable explanation.

I tiptoe toward the kitchen, rehearsing my quiet ninja skills so I don’t wake Elsie, but the moment I turn the corner, I freeze. Sloane is already at the table, a mug of coffee steaming between her hands, her hair scraped into a messy bun that says she’s been up for a while.

“Sloane,” I breathe, guilt shooting straight down my spine. “What are you doing here?”