Page 67 of The Devil of Downtown

“Like you’re about to lure me into your dungeon and kill me.”

His mouth twitches—half amusement, half warning.

“Believe me, Ivy, killing you is the last thing on my mind.”

His tone dips, playful but edged.

“Kidnapping, maybe. Locking you in my sex dungeon.”

I blink. “You have a sex dungeon?”

That earns me a genuine laugh, deep and warm in a way that catches me off guard. It’s rare to see him like this, his usual armor loosened enough to let the man beneath show through.

He studies me for a heartbeat longer, the corner of his mouth still curved. Then something in his expression slips, darkening.

“If you really want to know,” he murmurs, pushing off the wall.

In two steps, he’s on me, pinning me to the cool metal of the elevator. The chill bites into my back. I don’t move. I can’t. His fingers trace my jaw, tilting my face until I’m forced to meet his gaze.

“My only thought,” he says quietly.

“Is you...”

His mouth hovers just shy of mine. I can feel the heat of it, feel myself leaning in without meaning to.

“These beautiful lips...”

His teeth snag my lower lip, stretching gently.

“—how they’ll taste when I fuck you...”

“So if there’s any confusion,” he breathes against my mouth. “You better run now—while you still can.”

Before I can react, his mouth crashes onto mine, tongue sweeping past my lips, stealing my breath and any illusion of control. He pins my wrists above my head as he devours me, licking a slow path up my throat before returning to my lips hungrily.

For a moment, I can’t speak. I can hardly breathe.

“Christ,” I manage on a swallow, “have you ever thought about easing into things slowly?”

That draws another laugh from him. And God help me—I really enjoy being the reason for it.

“Not with you,” he says, his thumb ghosting along my swollen lips.

The elevator chimes. He steps back, giving me space to breathe again, but the fire in his eyes promises I won’t get much of that inside.

“After you,” he says softly.

My heart pounds as he unlocks his apartment to unveil a space that’s pure, effortless luxury. Everything is clean lines and deep tones—black leather, dark wood, soft light spilling over steel and glass. It’s masculine, expensive, Dane Black carved out of bricks and mortar.

Then I see the view.

One entire wall is glass, Manhattan sparkling beyond like something out of a dream. I press my fingers against the cool surface, transfixed by the East River below and the endless sea of lights beyond it, my reflection merging with the skyline.

I don’t realize he’s moved until I feel him—the warmth of his chest at my back, his breath skimming my neck, the unsteady rhythm of his heartbeat matching mine.

“Wow,” I murmur. “The view is stunning.”

“There’s only one view I’m interested in,” he breathes, his knuckles brushing slow, idle paths on the bare skin of my back.