Page 106 of The Devil of Downtown

“Can I... try yours?” I ask all of a sudden, nodding toward his glass. “The whiskey?”

One of his brows lifts. “You want to try it?”

“Just a sip,” I say, though my pulse jumps when he turns toward me fully.

He doesn’t hand it to me.

Instead, he holds the glass near my mouth, tilting it carefully, his other hand steadying the bottom.

“Here,” he murmurs. “Slowly.”

I lean forward, meeting the rim, and he tips it slightly, letting the whiskey touch my lips. It burns immediately—sharp and warm—but before I can react, his eyes flick to my mouth, and the moment stretches, thickens, grows a little too dense to be innocent.

I lick the drop from my lower lip, heat pooling low in my stomach. “I like it,” I say, my voice softer than I intend.

Dane’s exhale is almost a groan. “Do you?”

I nod, and something heats in his expression.

“Do you want more?” he asks.

“I... yeah.”

But he doesn’t lift the glass to my mouth again.

Instead, he dips his finger—just the tip—into the whiskey, lifts it, a single amber bead clinging to his skin.

“This might be better,” he says, voice smooth, like he’s testing something, like he’s waiting to see what I’ll do.

He brings his hand closer, and my breath falters as his finger hovers near my lips.

I part them, just slightly, and his breathing changes—barely, but I hear it.

He touches his finger lightly to my lower lip, smearing the warm whiskey across it.

I close my mouth around the taste—around the warmth of him—and his eyes go dark enough that I feel heat curl through me in one long, liquid wave.

“Well?” he says, though the word is roughened, like it costs him effort to keep it steady.

I smile, slow and a little wicked from the wine. “I like that even more.”

A quiet, disbelieving sound leaves him, a low, hushed, almost-laugh that feels like it presses straight against my skin. His gaze drops to my mouth again, lingering there, and the playfulness between us thickens, tightens, turns into a slow heat beneath my ribs.

“Careful, Ivy,” he says, his fingertip still resting against my lips. “You’re playing with fire.”

“Pretty sure you started it,” I whisper.

His fingertip lingers against my lower lip, the faint burn of the whiskey warming my mouth, my breath, my pulse.

Then he draws his hand back slowly, eyes never leaving mine, and lifts his glass again. He swirls what’s left, considering something. Considering me.

“What?” I murmur, because the silence between us almost feels like a held breath.

He shakes his head once, a small, rough sound escaping him. “Nothing.”

But it’s not nothing.

It’s absolutely not nothing.