Chapter 15
Chapter fifteen
Ivy
The beat hits hard enough to rattle my bones; the rhythm flowing through me like we’re one and the same. I catch my reflection in the mirror—sweat-slicked, flushed, legs burning—and push harder. The number is supposed to look effortless, but Rita, our choreographer, doesn’t believe in ‘effortless’.
“Again from the top! Sharper arms, Ivy—remember you’re leading the line!” she bellows.
My lungs sting as I take the cue, hitting the diagonal, toes snapping against the wood. Around me, we move as one—heels striking in sync, like rain against glass. The music surges, a big brass band blasting from the speakers.
I burst into the center, spin, lift, and when I land, my heart almost stops. Dane is leaning against the glass outside the rehearsal room, a ghost of a smile on his lips and his focus razor sharp.
I flash him a look as if to say What the hell are you doing here, but his smile just widens.
“Okay, better. One more time!” Rita’s voice snaps me back. I take a few deep breaths and get myself into position. Jennie briefly moves away from the ensemble and sidles up behind me, whispering, “Is that Dane fucking Black eyeing you like a juicy snack?”
“He’s a big fat complication, is what he is,” I mumble.
“If he’s a complication, I’ll take two,” she breathes out before the trumpets blare through the studio. I straighten my spine and go again, harder, cleaner, every line precise. If he’s going to watch, he’s damn well going to see what I can do.
When the final note hits, Rita claps once.
“Yes! That’s the energy I want people. That’s it for today.”
Jennie jogs over, her hair stuck to her forehead.
“Jesus, Ivy, he’s even hotter in real life.”
“Don’t,” I groan, cheeks heating.
I hurry to the changing room and take a quick shower.
The steam clings to my skin, washing away the ache of rehearsal but not the buzz of knowing he’s here.
I told him to meet me here at 5 pm, but I didn’t tell him to damn well come inside.
I towel off and do some light makeup in record time, a skill honed as a performer between curtain calls.
Finally, I pull on some loose jeans and a white tank and comb out my wet hair.
The studio door swings shut behind me as I step outside, my legs still burning from today’s grueling session. Jennie spots him before I do. “God, Ivy, I kind of hate you right now. Would you take a look?”
Dane is leaning against a matte black sports car with tinted windows, the kind of expensive that makes the building behind me look secondhand.
He’s half-dressed for tonight’s gala: a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled, black pants that fit like sin.
No jacket or tie yet, just a watch gleaming gold against his tan skin.
Sunglasses hide his eyes, but I feel them on me.
When he sees me, the edge in his stance melts into something disarmingly real.
A smile that looks like it’s broken more hearts than it’s bothered to mend.
My stomach twists until I remind myself what this is—his stupid version of payback.
I don’t notice Brody until Jennie whispers, “Damn, here comes trouble.”
Brody is parked at the curb, straddling his motorbike, helmet in hand. His grin falters when it slides past me to Dane. He pushes off his bike, jaw tightening.
“Yo, Ivy, thought I’d swing by and give you a ride home. Tonight, a few of us are grabbing drinks.” Brody stands a bit too close as I glance at Dane, who hasn’t moved. Just watches in that unnerving way that feels more dangerous than any outburst.
“You coming?” Brody asks.
Before I can answer, Dane straightens and pushes off the car, closing the distance in slow strides.
“She’s already got plans,” Dane says, voice smooth but sharp enough to cut.
Brody blinks, thrown for a moment. “Yeah? And you are? Ivy’s never mentioned you before.”
“You don’t need to know.” Dane’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “But if it helps, I’m the one she’s leaving with.”
Holy cheese balls.
Jennie, ever the lifesaver, slips in quickly, sensing the standoff. “Brody, I need a ride if you’re offering? Shall we go? Ivy can join us another day.”
Brody takes a step closer, like he’s unsure of leaving me. He pulls a cigarette out of his pocket, lights it, and takes a long pull, blowing out a thick ribbon of smoke.
“I’ll catch you later, Ivy. Text me if you need anything.”
“She won’t.” Dane’s voice hardens. The muscle near his temple ticks once.
“We’re still on for my opening night?” Brody asks, ignoring Dane. “I put you both on the guest list.”
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “See you then.”
Brody tosses Dane a triumphant look and heads off with Jenny, revving his motorbike extra hard before he roars off.
Dane opens the passenger door for me, his gaze never leaving Brody. I slide into the low seat, heart thudding as Dane rounds the car.
“Who is he?” Dane asks, eyes fixed on the road as he pulls away.
I hesitate. “A friend.”
“Try again.”
I exhale. “He’s an ex from a while back. We’re friends now.”
He pauses, gripping the steering wheel tight. “He’s behaving like a man who doesn’t want to be an ex.”
I roll my eyes and steady my pulse. “It’s not your concern; it’s not like we’re even together.”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, the car surges forward, engine growling as he shifts gears, cutting through traffic at a speed that is equal parts thrilling and terrifying.
I grab the side of the seat, and he smirks.
“Relax, I know what I’m doing.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“Wasn’t meant to be.” He smiles, his gaze flicking to me for a split second before returning to the road. I can’t help smiling back. Despite the cold veneer he presents to the public, there’s a playful side to him that is revealing itself the more time I spend with him.
“So,” I say, forcing calm into my voice. “What exactly am I supposed to be doing tonight?”
He shoots me a quick look over his sunglasses. “Standing beside me, looking like you belong there.”
“That’s it.”
He cocks his head. “Improvise if necessary; you’re good at that.”
I arch a brow. “Touché.”
His mouth twitches. “You were convincing enough to fool me. That takes talent or nerve.”
“Not for long, though,” I shrug, my guilty eyes drifting to the window.
“I’m surprised it was so long,” he goes on, obviously enjoying the sight of me squirming. “In hindsight, you were a terrible assistant.”
“Hey!” I fold my arms.
“But a brilliant dancer,” he adds. “And no, I’m not just saying that. You are.”
Ugh, I hate the way my stomach does a little happy dance at his compliment. I need to keep reminding myself what this is. And who he is. He can charm women when he wants to; I’ve seen him do it, so I know it means nothing.
The car glides to a stop in front of an exclusive boutique, the doorman planted at the entrance like a final checkpoint between this world and another.
Dane steps out first, handing the keys to the valet before circling around to open my door.
He reaches out to help me up. I take his hand, expecting him to let go the second I’m steady.
He doesn’t. His grip firms as he walks me to the door.
A woman in a chic black dress greets us instantly, locking the door behind us. “Mr. Black. Miss Vale. Welcome.”
Dane gives a brief smile, his hand settling at my lower back as we follow her into a private salon.
It’s spacious, everything swathed in soft ivory and champagne tones with mirrors everywhere.
Racks of gowns shimmer under the light, fabrics too delicate to belong anywhere near my usual life.
It’s the kind of place that doesn’t bother with price tags.
Two attendants rush forward the moment we step inside.
“Mr. Black,” one says. “We’re so pleased—”
He cuts her off with a polite nod. “She’s the one you’re dressing.”
Their eyes flick to me—damp hair, faded jeans, old sneakers. I feel heat creep up my neck.
“If you’ll allow,” the woman says to me, “our stylist and makeup artist will assist you while you choose. Mr. Black, we have refreshments prepared.”
The staff descend on me with gentle efficiency, ushering me into a dressing room scented with jasmine and hairspray.
One of them takes my bag; another brings champagne like I’m walking into a dream.
A stylist coils my damp hair into soft, glossy waves while another dusts powder across my cheekbones, blending light until my skin glows.
Lipstick, the color of crushed berries, follows.
Someone guides me toward a fitting suite while Dane settles into a low velvet chair near the mirrored wall.
He’s instantly absorbed in his phone, with non-stop business calls.
But every so often, he looks up. A glance that lingers half a second too long.
Sometimes it’s just his eyes flicking to meet mine in the mirror, other times a faint curve to his mouth like he’s not even aware he’s doing it.
Hard one moment, softened the next, and I can’t tell which version is more tempting.
They bring dress after dress, but none of them feel right. Too much sparkle, too stiff, too bare. I’m starting to think maybe I’ll just tell them to stop, escape home, and watch Bluey with Elsie when the manager appears with a flash of red.
“This one,” she says, eyes shining.
It’s a deep wine-red gown that slips over my body as if it’s been waiting for me.
The neckline plunges deeper than anything I’d normally wear; the fabric clinging to every curve before sweeping into a narrow train.
The back is bare, except for a single trail of jeweled links tracing my spine.
I stare at myself for a moment, almost not recognizing the woman in the mirror.
When I step out, the staff coo over me like they do with every dress, but this time it feels genuine.
Dane looks up from his phone, mid-sentence—and goes still. His eyes find mine and don’t move.
After a pause, he says something low to whoever’s on the other end, then sets his phone aside. “That’s the one.”
One of the attendants beams. “Shall I fetch accessories—”
“No,” Dane’s voice cuts through, smooth but absolute. “We’ll take it. Can you give us a minute?”
The staff scatter like trained birds, doors clicking shut behind them.
“What do you think?”
Dane rises from his seat, his gaze still on me. His expression gives nothing away at first—then his jaw flexes, a tell I’ve learned not to ignore. He crosses the floor in measured strides until he’s standing just in front of me.
“Turn around,” he murmurs.
My pulse kicks up as I turn slowly. His gaze sweeps over me from head to toe.
“You want to know what I think?” His voice lowers, control drawn thin.
He closes the distance between us, one hand settling at my waist as he guides me backward until the cool mirror touches my bare skin.
“I think if you wear it,” he says, his gaze sliding down. “It won’t stay on you for very long.”
His hand comes up, brushing a lock of hair from my shoulder, fingers grazing my sensitive skin.
“Well then,” I manage, a nervous laugh slipping out, “it’s probably a bad idea.”
The mirror catches the two of us: his tall frame, my bare back. His fingers trace the jeweled line from my shoulder down to where the fabric starts. The touch is featherlight, but it’s enough to pull goosebumps from my skin.
“No, Ivy,” he breathes low against my ear. “I wouldn’t say that.”
He steps closer, swallowing every inch of space so that there’s nowhere left to retreat.
His hand hovers at my waist, not quite touching, the restraint somehow worse than if he had. His gaze drops to my mouth and stays there.
“This,” he says softly, “is improvising.”
His lips brush mine, soft at first—just enough to make my breath hitch.
He eases back a fraction, then returns, mouth tilting as his lips linger, coaxing rather than claiming.
His tongue slips along the seam of my mouth, gentle and patient, easing my lips apart inch by inch.
I inhale sharply, my hands curling at my sides as he draws the kiss out, letting it deepen slowly, giving me time to feel every second of it.
His hand settles at the small of my back, warm through the thin fabric, steadying me there as if he senses the way my knees threaten to weaken. The kiss grows fuller, richer, his mouth shaping mine with quiet confidence, like he’s learning the way I respond—what makes me soften, what makes me ache.
“You have no idea,” he murmurs against my lips, “what you’re doing to me right now.”
My throat dries.
“Dane—”
Chills slide over my spine as he leans in, his lips a featherlight trail against my jaw, breath a warm whisper at my ear.
“Take off your panties, Ivy,” he breathes. A pause. Then, lower. “Now.”
I swallow, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as I cling to the last scrap of composure I have left.
“What if I don’t want to?” I tease, though my voice comes out thinner than I intend.
His chuckle is soft and dark, vibrating straight through me, the sound of someone entirely unconcerned with my defiance.
My breath turns shallow as his mouth drifts from my jaw to my throat, following the slow curve of my neck.
Each brush of his lips makes my skin prickle, my head tipping back on instinct as he traces lower, lingering at the edge of my neckline.
“You’ll want to,” he says quietly.
He sweeps the front of my dress aside, freeing my breasts; his touch confident.
His thumb circles one hard nipple, slow and teasing, drawing a gasp from me before his mouth closes over it—teeth grazing, tongue flicking until the pulse between my thighs coils tight and hot, unbearable in its insistence.
A soft whimper slips out before I can smother it.
“What are you doing?” I pant, my neck arching. “They might come back.”
He answers by biting down, sucking the nipple hard enough I know it’ll leave a mark.
“Then do as you’re told,” he rasps against my skin, “and take off your panties.”
His eyes darken, green diminished by black, as I peel them down, mortified at how wet they are.
“Give them to me,” he growls, like he’s barely holding on.
He pockets them, then catches my jaw in his hand, forcing my gaze to his.
“Every time I look at you tonight, I’ll know your bare pussy is wet and ready for me. And if you’re a really good girl...” his thumb traces my lower lip, “I’ll let you fuck my tongue. Do you understand?”
A shaky breath escapes. “Yes.”
He releases me, slides my straps back into place, and tucks a stray strand of hair behind my ear like he didn't just talk me out of my underwear.
“Good girl, then we’re ready to go.”
Holy Fuck.
Someone send me oxygen. I think I’m about to pass out.
.