Chapter 23 #3
Charlotte leans closer, her voice dropping enough to be discreet. “I don’t want to interfere, or put weird pressure on anything,” she says, sliding garlic into the pan, “but... he never brings anyone here. Ever.” Her gaze warms. “So he must like you. A lot.”
Heat crawls up my neck, but in a strangely pleasant way. “We’re still figuring things out,” I mumble.
“Sure,” she replies, but the knowing look says she’s already decided what she thinks.
Dinner is relaxed and surprisingly fun—Charlotte’s easy, teasing Dane the same way I’ve only recently dared to.
She tells me about all the hikes they’ve done around here, including one where Julian insisted they were being stalked by a bear, which resulted in an hour-long detour and a confrontation with an extremely aggressive turkey.
Dane rolls his eyes. “You’re exaggerating the turkey part.”
“Oh my God,” Charlotte fires back, “it chased us.”
“That thing was eight pounds,” Dane counters.
“And full of murder.”
“Yeah, and so was I by the time we got home,” Dane drawls. “Honestly, it’s like hanging around with a couple of ten-year-olds.”
Charlotte throws a piece of bread at him, and some of the tension drains out of me. This easy, affectionate energy feels... normal. Human. Like stepping into a family I didn’t realize I’d missed.
Charlotte, with her quick wit and warm energy, already feels like someone I could genuinely like
After we finish eating, Dane stands and collects the plates. “I’ll get us drinks.”
He disappears into the kitchen, and the moment he’s out of earshot, Charlotte leans in again, her voice lowering, gentler now.
“You know,” she says, watching me with a soft smile, “I haven’t seen him look this... settled. Or this happy. Not in a long time.”
A quiet flutter stirs in my chest, so tender it almost aches.
I glance toward the kitchen, hearing the clink of glass as he moves around.
“I’m happy, too,” I admit, the truth slipping out before I can tame it.
Charlotte’s smile widens. “Good,” she murmurs. “He deserves that.”
And for the first time since stepping into Dane’s world...
I start to feel like I might actually belong.
“You know,” she adds, a thoughtful smile on her face. “I’m going to go now, give you two some space.”
“Oh, you don’t have to,” I’m quick to say.
“I’ve got a long drive ahead of me, anyway. I’ll go tell Dane.” She surprises me, reaching over for a hug, holding me for a second before she lets go. “I’m pretty sure I’ll be seeing you again, Ivy.”
“I hope so,” I manage as she pulls herself to her feet. “Oh, and sorry about wearing your clothes,” I laugh, half-embarrassed, thumbing her fleece.
“Damn,” she smiles back. “I thought it looked familiar. Any time.”
I hear laughter and a few quiet mumbles as she says goodbye to Dane.
The door clicks softly behind him before he returns a moment later, a glass of red wine in hand. The firelight catches on the glass as he crosses to me and sets it gently on the low table in front of the sofa before sinking down beside me.
“I didn’t scare her off, I promise,” I say, trying for lightness even though my voice tightens a little with nerves.
His mouth lifts just enough to count as a smile. “It’s fine. I would’ve done it, anyway.”
“She’s great,” I insist, curling my legs beneath me. “I really like her.”
“Yeah,” he murmurs, eyes softening in a way he probably doesn’t notice, “me too.”
I take a sip of the wine, letting the warmth settle in my chest before glancing at his empty hands. “You’re not drinking?”
“I am.” He pushes to his feet. “I prefer whiskey.”
He crosses to the bar in the corner, shoulders broad enough to blot out half the fire as he selects a bottle and pours himself a measure.
When he returns, he pauses by the hearth, bending down to stoke the fire; the flames leap higher, heat blooming across the room, brushing my skin as he straightens.
He joins me on the sofa again, and for a while we just sit there, drinking in the warmth of the fire and the wine. I lift the glass for another sip, and his gaze drops.
“You’ve got wine here,” he says. His thumb drags over my lip, slow enough to feel deliberate, his eyes staying on mine the whole time.
Somewhere nearby, a phone starts buzzing. He ignores it, reaching for the bottle to top up my glass. The sound cuts out for a beat, then starts up again, more insistent.
Julian’s name flashes across the screen just as Dane is pouring me more wine. He mutters something under his breath and answers.
“Where the hell are you?” Julian snaps loud enough for me to hear.
“I’m out of the city,” Dane says, leaning back on the sofa, tone flat.
“You’re kidding. We’re supposed to have dinner with the Bexleys in—”
“No,” Dane cuts him off. “I’m spending all day in meetings with them tomorrow. I’m not giving them my evening too.”
Julian groans dramatically. “You’re ditching me to babysit the Bexleys alone?”
“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.”
“Another male dancer?” 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.
“Can I... try yours?” I ask all of a sudden, nodding toward his glass. “The whiskey?”
One of his brows lifts. “You want to try it?”
“Just a sip,” I say, though my pulse jumps when he turns toward me fully.
He doesn’t hand it to me.
Instead, he holds the glass near my mouth, tilting it carefully, his other hand steadying the bottom.
“Here,” he murmurs. “Slowly.”
I lean forward, meeting the rim, and he tips it slightly, letting the whiskey touch my lips. It burns immediately—sharp and warm—but before I can react, his eyes flick to my mouth, and the moment stretches, thickens, grows a little too dense to be innocent.
I lick the drop from my lower lip, heat pooling low in my stomach. “I like it,” I say, my voice softer than I intend.
Dane’s exhale is almost a groan. “Do you?”
I nod, and something heats in his expression.
“Do you want more?” he asks.
“I... yeah.”
But he doesn’t lift the glass to my mouth again.
Instead, he dips his finger—just the tip—into the whiskey, lifts it, a single amber bead clinging to his skin.
“This might be better,” he says, voice smooth, like he’s testing something, like he’s waiting to see what I’ll do.
He brings his hand closer, and my breath falters as his finger hovers near my lips.
I part them, just slightly, and his breathing changes—barely, but I hear it.
He touches his finger lightly to my lower lip, smearing the warm whiskey across it.
I close my mouth around the taste—around the warmth of him—and his eyes go dark enough that I feel heat curl through me in one long, liquid wave.
“Well?” he says, though the word is roughened, like it costs him effort to keep it steady.
I smile, slow and a little wicked from the wine. “I like that even more.”
A quiet, disbelieving sound leaves him, a low, hushed, almost-laugh that feels like it presses straight against my skin. His gaze drops to my mouth again, lingering there, and the playfulness between us thickens, tightens, turns into a slow heat beneath my ribs.
“Careful, Ivy,” he says, his fingertip still resting against my lips. “You’re playing with fire.”
“Pretty sure you started it,” I whisper.
His fingertip lingers against my lower lip, the faint burn of the whiskey warming my mouth, my breath, my pulse.
Then he draws his hand back slowly, eyes never leaving mine, and lifts his glass again. He swirls what’s left, considering something. Considering me.
“What?” I murmur, because the silence between us almost feels like a held breath.
He shakes his head once, a small, rough sound escaping him. “Nothing.”
But it’s not nothing.
It’s absolutely not nothing.
Before I can ask again, he brings the glass to his mouth, tilting it to take a small sip. His throat works as he swallows, the firelight brushing along the line of his jaw.
And then he leans in, so slowly I’m almost panting.
He stops just shy of my lips, close enough that I can feel the heat of his breath, the faint scent of whiskey.
“Here,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. “Taste it again.”
My breath catches.
He closes the last inch, his lips brushing mine—just a whisper of contact—before he deepens it, coaxing me forward, letting the warmth of the whiskey pass from his mouth to mine. It’s soft at first, exploratory, his lips capturing mine with a slow, consuming need that makes my toes curl.
I answer without thinking, leaning in, my hand lifting to his shoulder for balance—or maybe to pull him closer.
The kiss builds gradually, heat curling through me like a slow burn rather than a spark, his mouth patient but intent.
The kiss deepens, his tongue stroking mine so I’m not sure whether I’m breathing him in or he’s breathing me.
When he finally eases back, just barely, our foreheads brush, both of us breathing harder than a single kiss should warrant.
His thumb grazes my cheek, a quiet stroke that somehow makes everything worse, in the best way. Then his mouth trails down the side of my throat, leaving a trail of whiskey scent, slow enough to make every inch of me hot.
“Dane,” I breathe, as his mouth nips a path back to my lips. “More whiskey.”
He answers with a low groan against my skin. His hands slide under the hem of the fleece, palms finding bare skin. My breath shudders as his thumb brushes the underside of my ribcage. His mouth claims mine again, his hands mapping my body like he’s memorizing everywhere I tremble for him.
“This,” he murmurs against my pulse as he unzips the fleece and slides it over my shoulders, “needs to go.”
He reaches for the glass again, and takes another sip, but this time he doesn’t come to my mouth. He leans down, his body a warm shadow over me, and lowers his head to my breast, tugging the lace of my bra aside. His tongue, now cold and wet from the whiskey, flicks over my tight nipple.
I cry out. The shocking chill of the alcohol followed instantly by the devastating heat of his mouth. He lavishes attention on one breast, then the other, painting them with whiskey and worshiping them with his lips and tongue.
“Someone is thirsty,” he rasps, watching me over the slope of my breast. He takes one last, deliberate sip from his glass.
Then he moves down my body, his hands skating over my hips, shoving my leggings and panties down, pushing my thighs apart.
The first touch of his whiskey-wet tongue against my clit is electric.
My back arches off the sofa, my fingers tangled in his hair, a sharp cry tearing from my throat as sensation after sensation crashes over me in a wave.
His tongue circles, flicks, and sucks until pleasure burns through every nerve.
I come hard and fast, my hips jerking uncontrollably as my orgasm rips through me.
When he eventually tears himself away, I’m blinking up at him like someone switched the world off and on again.
He stands and slides an arm beneath my legs, the other behind my back, lifting me easily as he turns toward the stairs. On his way past the bar, he swipes the whiskey bottle with two fingers.
His mouth grazes the shell of my ear as he shifts me higher in his arms.
“Bedtime, Ivy,” he growls, the sound rough enough to melt my bones, “and I suggest you don’t pretend sleep is anywhere on the agenda.”
Holy fucking shit.
If this is how I die.
Cradled in the arms of a six-foot-something menace with a whiskey habit and a body that should be illegal.
I have to admit, there are worse ways to go.