Page 149 of The Devil of Downtown

Desire coils low and hot as she moves, every line of her body a quiet provocation. I don’t just want her. I want to pull her close and remind her where she belongs. I want my hands on her, my mouth on her, my name on her lips. I want her to come back to me flushed and breathless, carrying that fire with her.

When I first fell in love with her, I thought it was strong.

I had no idea it could keep growing like this.

When the curtain finally falls, the noise is deafening. Flowers appear everywhere. People are crying openly. I stand with everyone else, clapping hard, watching her take her bows. She finds me in the crowd—she always does—and her smile shifts. Becomes something just for me.

That look still ruins me.

Charlotte turns to me, eyes bright, applause still rolling through the theater. “Ivy was phenomenal,” she says, breathless. “Absolutely unreal.”

I nod, my gaze never leaving the stage. “She always is.”

Elsie wriggles out of Sloane’s arms and climbs straight into my lap, small and warm and vibrating with excitement. I steady her, tapping the tip of her nose until she grins.

“Did you see Ivy?” she asks, eyes huge. “She was flying.”

“She was,” I tell her.

Sloane leans in. “She’s never looked happier.”

People around us are starting to stand, gathering coats and programs, but I stay seated a moment longer, letting the feeling settle.

“I’m going backstage,” I say. “I’ll meet you all at the bar for the after party.”

Charlotte smiles. “We’ll be there.”

“Kent’s waiting outside,” I add, glancing at Sloane. “He’ll take you and Elsie home and then bring you back to the bar.”

Elsie frowns. “But there’s a party.”

“There is,” Sloane says gently, “but you’re too young for closing-night parties, sweetheart.”

“But—”

“Lara’s babysitting.”

Elsie’s whole face lights up. “Lara?”

Sloane nods. “Mm-hmm.”

“Well... okay then,” she decides, satisfied.

Charlotte laughs. “That was easy.”

Sloane squeezes Charlotte’s arm. “I’ll see you there.”

I stand as the last of the audience finally move, but my focus is already elsewhere.

A security guard steps in front of me as I reach the stage door.

“I’m looking for Ivy Black,” I say.

Recognition flickers across his face. He steps aside without another word.

Backstage is a narrow spine of corridors, the walls scuffed and crowded with call sheets and fading show posters. Performers move past in loose waves, still flushed from the stage, bouquets tucked under their arms, laughter and relief spilling everywhere. Someone brushes past me, trailing glitter.

I move through it without slowing.