Page 30 of The Devil of Downtown

I allow a slow smile. “You don’t. But you’ll find out.”

Flashbulbs go off. Maria rises, gathering her notes, radiating satisfaction. “Beautifully handled,” she murmurs.

The beginnings of a downpour mist the skyline as we exit Westminster, Maria at my side like a shadow I can’t shake.

“Well,” she says, her tone the verbal equivalent of a champagne cork. “That went as well as we could have hoped. You were assertive but measured — just the right balance for the press. I’ve already lined up a few follow-up interviews to reinforce the narrative.”

We climb into the car just in time to miss the onslaught of rain, now hammering against the windows as we crawl through London traffic, the streetlights shimmering on the surface of the River Thames.

“And dinner tonight...,” Maria begins.

“Dinner?” I murmur, my gaze flicking to the empty seat beside her instead.

After the press briefing, Maria had suggested that Sloane stay behind at Westminster to handle ‘follow-up documentation.’ I could hardly complain without seeming obvious. I mean, there needs to be a reason I brought her with me. But I know Maria; she never likes to share the limelight.

“The Bexleys are hosting an evening at their Surrey estate,” she says. “A handful of key MPs, some media stakeholders,and investors. Very exclusive, very controlled. Felicity Bexley insisted you be there; she wants to ‘build bridges.’”

I huff out a dry laugh. “Build bridges or count casualties?”

Maria smiles thinly. “Both, probably. But it’s important that you’re seen there. They want reassurance you’re not some Wall Street marauder here to gut their legacy.”

“Who else will be there?” I ask, still watching the wet city slide past.

“Stan and Felicity Bexley, of course. A few members of their board. Sir William from the Department for Digital Affairs, he’s always eager for a photo op. Oh, and the Drakes, I believe.” She glances up from her notes. “I’ll brief you on the key talking points.”

“I’ll manage,” I say flatly.

“Ah, and I think Hugo Bexley is making an appearance.” Maria’s smile is as lethal as mine. “Apparently, he’s crawled out of his latest coke-induced stupor.”

“Yeah—and out from under a few dozen naked tits he was buried beneath at the Serpent,” I drawl.

“Perhaps don’t mention it at dinner.”

“Do you think I’m a complete imbecile, Maria?”

She chuckles lightly but thankfully keeps quiet for the rest of the journey.

By the time I’m sliding the key into the lock of my hotel suite, I’m ready to hit the gym. Anything to burn off the tension of the day. And it’s got nothing to do with the stress of the billion-dollar acquisition of a media giant and everything to do with the memory of her quiet moan crawling through my head like smoke.

Thankfully, the hotel gym is quiet. I don’t like company when I’m working out. I strip off my shirt, the sting of cold air meeting sweat-slick skin as I grip the bar and push through another set. Muscles strain, veins stand out, and the ache in my shouldersfeels clean, earned. Clearing my mind of any noise. When I’m done, I toss a towel around my neck and head to the changing room. I drag the towel over my chest and strip out of my workout gear, knotting the towel low around my hips. The fabric clings to damp skin as I step toward the sauna, the heat already misting the glass. I close my eyes and soak it up.

I rest back against the cedar slats, letting the sweat bead and slide down my skin. For a few minutes, it’s nothing but silence and the pulse in my ears until a faint beat of music threads through the glass. My eyes flick open. Through the haze on the sauna door, the gym comes into view, and it’s empty except for Sloane.

She’s alone on the floor, her body tuned to the rhythm. At first, I think she’s simply stretching—but then the motion shifts. Controlled, fluid. A turn, a sweep, a reach. It’s not a workout. It’s choreography. Her shorts sit indecently high on her thighs, the fabric tracing the curve of muscle and skin. The sports bra does nothing to hide every line of her, the fullness of her breasts, the subtle twist of her waist as she turns.

I can’t take my eyes off her as she moves with the grace of a ballerina. She’s totally lost in it. A focus I understand. The kind that owns you.

My pulse thuds, heavy like a fever dream I can’t shake, as I picture her naked, my lips and fingers tracing every curve, teasing her thighs open until she’s writhing on my tongue, begging, letting me own every inch of her. I’m fighting a losing battle as a hot pulse takes control of my body, balls fucking aching, cock swelling like a needy fucker.

It’s almost a relief when she stops, one hand braced on her knee, head bowed. I just about have my breath under control when she reappears at the sauna door, wearing only a bikini top, a towel around her waist, and my sanity hanging by a goddamn thread.

Christ almighty, someone’s fucking with me today.

She pushes through the door, freezing the second she sees me.

I raise a brow, feigning nonchalance. “What a surprise.”

“Oh, sorry,” she says, flustered, her eyes dropping between my thighs, widening when she sees the effect her little performance had on me before they jump back guiltily to mine. “I didn’t know you were in here. I’ll go.”