Page 22 of The Devil of Downtown

Hot fury charges through my veins at the insinuation. For a second, I forget who I’m supposed to be and let Ivy explode out of her cage.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Mr. Black,” I bite out, chin raised, voice laced with mock sincerity. “I wasn’t aware. I’ll cancel the sex marathon I penciled in for later.”

I regret the words the second they leave my mouth.

Dane doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even blink. He just stands there for a beat, like he’s deciding what to do with me.

Then he moves.

Not in a rush. Not in anger. In control.

My breath catches, my heel drifting back a half-step before I can stop it.

The distance between us shrinks until the glass behind me feels less like a view and more like a trap.

By the time he stops, he’s close enough that I have to tip my chin to keep meeting his eyes.

“You better be joking.” His jaw locks, the words forced out like he’s keeping something far worse behind his teeth.

“Are you being serious right now?” I snap, clinging to my bravado even as something hot and stupid hums through me.

“Deadly.”

“Well, maybe you need to redefine your definition of flirting,” I spit.

His gaze drags slowly over my face before settling back on my eyes. One hand settles against the glass beside my head, the other lifting, a finger slipping beneath my chin to tilt my face up.

The touch is light. Almost intimate. Heat slides down my spine before I can stop it.

“I’ll be happy to explain,” he says quietly.

“Don’t smile at him. Don’t look at him. Don’t even fucking breathe on him.”

The corner of his mouth shifts—not quite a smile.

“Or I’ll rip his eyeballs from his head and shove them down his throat.”

Sweet Jaysus. Remind me never to make an enemy of this guy.

“That’s ridiculous,” I mutter, biting my lips closed as I try to ignore the reckless voice in my head daring me to slam my mouth on his.

His finger slides along my chin, drawing my face closer until the warmth of his breath brushes my lips.

“What’s ridiculous,” he says softly, “is you thinking you have any say in this.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” I clap back with a syrupy sweetness that I pray hides my racing breaths. “I’ll try to control myself in the future.”

His gaze flicks to my lips again before his eyes slide closed, chest rising as he drags air through clenched teeth. He holds it, then exhales as though pulling himself together by sheer will.

Finally, he steps back, one hand raking through his hair; the cold veneer snapping into place so neatly it almost feels like I hallucinated the whole thing.

“I have a meeting now,” he says flatly, refusing to look at me. “The driver will take you to the hotel. An important document is being delivered this afternoon—reception will call and hand you the key card to my suite. Put it in the safe. Combination is 1807.”

With that, he sweeps out of the room, slamming the door behind him, leaving me to compile the world’s most humiliating checklist:

Panties: wrecked.

Nipples: on high alert