Page 32 of The Devil of Downtown

She doesn’t.

I lift her, her legs wrapping around me on instinct. A soft sound escapes her when I grind forward, my lips skimming her cheekbone, drinking in the sweet, unsteady rhythm of her surrender.

Her lips brush mine—barely a touch—but it’s enough to set every muscle in me straining for more.

I’m seconds from losing every ounce of control when the pool door flies open.

We freeze as an elderly couple strolls in.

The man stops dead. The woman’s hand flies to her chest.

For a second, no one speaks. Just me, half-naked with the world’s largest boner, holding Sloane against the pool wall like I’m trying to grind her into the tiles.

Sloane jumps back like her ass is on fire, pulling herself out of the pool, scrambling for her towel.

“Lovely evening,” the gentleman says, trying admirably to ignore the elephant in the room—or, more accurately, in my towel.

“Hey,” Sloane mutters, avoiding all eye contact.

I wade out, whistling under my breath, clutching the towel strategically against my crotch to preserve what’s left of my dignity.

The woman clutches her imaginary pearls, her face somewhere between horror and cardiac arrest. I flash her a wink as I pass because, at this point, what’s left to lose?

Before I go, I pause, glancing back at Sloane, who now seems intent on denying my existence entirely.

“We’ll continue this discussion later, Sloane.”

She flashes me a look as if to sayChrist,will you just fucking leave already.

I chuckle to myself asI push through the double doors to the gym.

Yeah, I’ve officially lost my mind over this woman.

But the biggest surprise?

I’m enjoying every second.

Chapter nine

Ivy

I look up in awe at the Bexleys’ country estate. Three storeys of honey-colored stone, set against the deep green of the Surrey fields. Through the trees, I glimpse a maze, hedges trimmed with surgical precision, mist rising over the horizon with the aftermath of the rain, and beyond it, the long dark line of the stables. I sweep the hair from my face as the wind howls, the threat of more rain looming.

Maria’s already halfway up the steps, tablet in hand, issuing quiet instructions.

Dane is not far behind, expression carved from ice, every trace of the man from the sauna only two hours ago scrubbed clean.

“Remember, no one here is your friend,” Dane says, voice low and stern. “Tell them everything, but nothing. How much you love their fucking forty-thousand-dollar wine. How Felicity Bexley’s dress is divine. Let them believe they’re in control. Laugh at their lame jokes, smile for the fucking cameras, and we get the hell out of here.”

“Are you always this fun at parties?” I deadpan as a frigging butler, no less, opens the door, affecting a small bow like we’ve transported into a period drama.

“And stay the hell away from Hugo Bexley,” Dane mutters under his breath as a ruddy-faced woman swathed in fur and pearls sweeps down the grand staircase like she’s been rehearsing the moment all afternoon.

“Who’s Hugo Bexley?” I whisper back.

“A real piece of shit,” he murmurs without breaking stride, his mouth already curving into a dazzling smile. “Felicity!”

“Dane, how wonderful of you to come,” she booms, arms outstretched. “And don’t tell me this lovely creature is yours?”