Page 26 of The Devil of Downtown

“Discretion, I promise,” Julian says, pausing before a hint of mischief seeps into his tone. “By the way...someone told me you brought Sloane with you to London.”

“And?” His reply is so clipped, so chilling, it makes goosebumps race up my arms.

“Nothing,” Julian says quickly, though curiosity curls under the words. “We’ll talk when you’re back.”

The line clicks dead.

Dane exhales slowly, the sound like a warning growl, and pushes to his feet. His pants hit the chair, leaving him in nothing but black boxers that cling indecently well to his hips.

I should shut my eyes, think about anything else, but I can’t. Not when he’s right there, all bronze power and raw intensity, close enough to touch if I dared crawl out.

Without a glance around, he strides toward the bathroom. The light snaps on, spilling a sliver of gold across the carpet. A hiss follows as the shower kicks to life, steam already whispering out through the gap in the door. I hear the scrape of glass, the muted thud of his footsteps inside.

Now or never.

I slide out from under the bed as quietly as humanly possible, heart pounding so loud I’m half-convinced he’ll hear it over the water. My palms press into the carpet as I crawl forward, knees protesting every inch until I reach the dresser. Rising slowly, I angle my body away from the bathroom door, praying he won’t glance out at exactly the wrong second.

The door’s ajar, only an inch or two—but it feels like a spotlight. I time my steps, heel-to-toe, gauging that I can slip past without him noticing. Almost clear. Almost —

Until I make the mistake of looking.

Through the sliver of space, I catch a glimpse of him stepping under the spray. Broad shoulders flexing as water sluices over tan skin, tracing the deep grooves and curves of his back. Thick thighs anchor him in place. There’s ink there too, dark against flesh, a tattoo splayed across his defined shoulders, I can’t quite make out before the steam obscures it.

I should move. I should bolt. Instead, I’m frozen, watching like some depraved tourist who’s stumbled into the Vatican of male physiques. Every shift of his body, every rivulet of soapy water slipping lower, drags heat straight through me. My breath hitches, and I curse under it when my gaze slips lower, tracing the sharp cut of his V.

Fuck. He’s kind of huge.

No—scratch that. There’s nokind ofabout it. Heishuge. Like, how would that evenwork? The thought alone has me pressing my thighs together, pulse jumping.

And ... holy shit...not only huge, but hard.

I choke on a dry swallow as his hand slicks with soap, sliding lower, closing around himself. The other braces against the wall, muscles straining as his fist drags slowly at first, savoring the stroke. He grips tight, thumb working over the swollen head before he pumps faster, harder, the rhythm raw and hungry. Water beads and glides over him, catching in the flex of his abs, racing down to where his hand moves in punishing strokes. His head tilts back, every line of him strung tight with pleasure. A voice inside roars at me to leave. But I can’t. I just stand there, transfixed, pulse hammering in my ears. A low groan tears from his chest, wrecked and guttural, vibrating through the steam, arrowing straight to my clit.

I take a sharp inhale of breath, a whisper of a moan slipping out before I can rein it in. It all happens so fast; it’s a blur. I slap a hand over my mouth, panic detonating just as he spins, turning toward the door.

Before his eyes catch me, I launch into motion, bolting for the exit. The door groans as I ease it open and shut, as if the entire hotel will collapse if it creaks. Then I’m sprinting down two flights of stairs, key card already in my sweaty grip, fumbling into my room like a fugitive on the run.

I drop face-first into the pillow, heart pounding hard enough to bruise my ribs. I suck in ragged breaths, every nerve screaming one question:Did he see me?

I crawl beneath the duvet, braced for a thump at the door. Any second now—he’ll storm down here and fire me on the spot. I stare into the dark, every creak of the floorboard setting me on edge. Minutes crawl by. Nothing. Maybe I’m safe. Maybe I’ll live to tell the tale. But my body doesn’t get the memo.

Because after seeing Dane Black in all his glory, how the hell I’m supposed to look him in the eye... without remembering the way his hand moved, or the way I wanted it to be mine.

Chapter seven

Dane

Baby-blue eyes, wide and innocent, blink up at me through a curtain of dark lashes. Her hands part my thighs, slow and sure, as her tongue glides across her lips.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Black,” she whispers. “I’ve been a bad girl.”

A groan rips from my chest as her fingers curl around my cock. Her tongue teases the head, then those soft, sinful lips swallow me whole—deep, tight, perfect. She milks me, her breasts pressed against my thighs, nipples like razors, those eyes never leaving mine.

F-U-C-K.

I jolt awake, breath sawing through my chest, her name a raw plea on my lips. My cock’s so hard it hurts.

Oh, she has no idea what she’s started.