Page 105 of The Devil of Downtown

“There’s something I can’t miss,” Dane says, eyes drifting to me in a lazy sweep that makes my stomach somersault. “You’ll live.”

Julian mutters a string of complaints, then hangs up.

Dane tosses his phone aside with a scowl. “Tomorrow’s going to be a long damn day.”

“The Bexleys?” I ask, my fingertip tracing the rim of my wineglass.

“Yes, unfortunately. They’re in town to renegotiate terms that are no longer negotiable.”

I laugh softly, swirling my wine. “Sounds like a blast.”

He glances over at me, curiosity sparking in his eyes. “What about you? What are you working on in rehearsals?”

“First, we’re doing some vocal work and then fine-tuning some lifts,” I say, stretching my toes against the rug. “The choreography’s getting more complex.”

His head tilts. “Who lifts you?”

I narrow my eyes, confused. “Another dancer.”

“Anothermaledancer?” His voice goes a shade deeper. Not angry—just that possessive Dane curiosity that always feels like a hand sliding up the inside of my thigh.

“Well, yeah,” I answer, fighting a smile. “Usually. Unless the laws of physics change and Tina from Ensemble can suddenly bench-press me.”

The line in his brow deepens. “And he puts his hands on you?”

I bite my lip because teasing him is becoming my new favorite sport. “That’s what a lift is, Dane.”

“Hm.” He picks up his glass and takes a slow drink, eyes dark. “Does he lift you high?”

“Oh yeah,” I say, mouth curved with amusement, letting the tip of my tongue touch the rim of my glass. “Really high. He has to hold me real tight.”

He pauses mid-sip. “You enjoy it?”

Oh, this is too easy.

“It’s choreography,” I say with a shrug. “And he’s good at it.”

A muscle jumps in Dane’s cheek. “I don’t like the thought of someone else’s hands on you.”

“Jealous?” I ask with mock innocence.

“No,” he says, leaning closer, voice low and wicked. “Possessive.”

Heat skitters up my spine. “That’s not any better.”

“It’s honest,” he murmurs, eyes dropping to my mouth. “And in case you haven’t noticed, sweetheart... I protect what’s mine.”

“It’s not romantic,” I say more softly. “You have nothing to worry about.”

He holds my gaze for a long moment, and his expression softens. “Good.”

I drain what’s left in my glass to steady myself, pulse thudding.

He reaches for the bottle again.

A flutter moves through my chest. I’m warm now, from the wine, the fire, the way he’s watching me like he’s cataloguing every breath I take.

We fall into easy conversation, and by the time I realize I’m tipsy, he’s moved closer, one knee angled toward me, his wrist resting casually on the back of the sofa, his fingers brushing my shoulders every so often.