Page 40 of Can't Stop Watching
We stand in crackling silence, neither of us moving. The apartment feels too small, the air between us charged with something dangerous and electric. I toy with my ear cuff, buying time while my brain and body wage their civil war.
What the fuck do I do?
13
DANE
Ifucked up. Royally. The look in Lila's eyes—fear mixed with disappointment—hits me like a sucker punch to the gut. I've seen that look before, in the faces of women who delt with my father. It doesn't belong on her.
Knowing what happened to her in high school… I told myself to go slow, not to scare her. Not all women like it rough. Some prefer gentle, slow—the kind of lovemaking I've always found boring. But Lila? She deserves that. I promised myself I'd ease her into things if she gave me a chance. Take it slow, teach her to trusts me.
Damn it.
"Lila, I—" The words catch in my throat. What can I possibly say to fix this? 'Sorry I manhandled you like some amateur meathead who can't control himself'? Yeah, that'll go over well.
She's still standing there, hand on her throat. The green silk of her dress catches the dim light, making her look ethereal and untouchable. Christ, I want to touch her. Even now, after I've gone and scared her half to death, the pull is there. Insistent. Undeniable.
It's fucked up. I'm fucked up.
"Look," I start again, forcing my voice to stay steady. "I know I crossed a line. I let myself get carried away, and that's on me. But this thing between us—" I gesture vaguely, searching for words that won't sound like complete bullshit. "It's not something I can just walk away from."
Her eyebrow quirks up, skepticism written all over her face. "So what, you're saying you can't help yourself?" The sarcasm in her voice could cut glass. "Because that's not exactly reassuring, Dane."
"No, that's not—" I run a hand through my hair, frustration building. "I'm saying I don't want to help myself. Not from you."
The words hang in the air between us, heavy with implication. I watch her process them, see the conflict play out across her face. She's intrigued, despite herself. Good. I can work with that.
"I've spent my whole life keeping people at arm's length," I continue, taking a careful step closer. She doesn't back away. Another good sign. "It's safer that way. Easier. But you—" I shake my head, a humorless laugh escaping. "You make me want to burn all that shit to the ground."
Lila's eyes widen slightly, her breath catching. I've got her attention now.
"I know I fucked up tonight," I say, voice low and intense. "But I'm asking for a chance to make it right. To show you that I'm a man you can trust, not some animal who can't control himself."
She's quiet for a long moment, her gaze searching mine like she's trying to read the truth written there. I force myself to stay still, to let her see whatever it is she needs to see.
"And if I say no?" she finally asks, voice barely above a whisper. "If I tell you to leave and never come back?"
The thought sends a spike of panic through me. The idea of walking away from her, of never seeing those green eyes or hearing that laugh again—it's like contemplating cutting off a limb.
"Then I'll go," I say, the words tasting like ash. "I'll respect your decision. But Lila—" I take another step closer, close enough now that I can smell her perfume. "I don't think you want that any more than I do."
Her breath hitches, pupils dilating slightly. Yeah, she feels it too. This crackling intensity between us, like a live wire just waiting to spark.
"You're dangerous," she murmurs, but she doesn't move away.
I can't help the smirk that tugs at my lips. "Sweetheart, you have no idea."
The air between us is electric, charged with possibility. I've laid my cards on the table. Now it's her move.
I watch the war play out on her face—desire fighting reason, instinct battling memory. I recognize that battle because it's the same one I've been waging since I first saw her. The rational part of my brain knows I should walk out that door and never look back. But there's this other part—the part that's been starving for something real—that can't make my feet move toward the exit.
She's like a feral cat ready to bolt. One wrong move and she'll disappear, retreating back into whatever safe little world she's built for herself. And fuck if I don't want to see that world, to be part of it.
I take a slow step toward her. Then another. Moving like I'm approaching a bomb that might detonate with the wrong breath.
"Stay right where you are," she says, but her voice wavers. Her body betrays her—pupils dilated, pulse visibly hammering at her throat.
"Trust me." The words come out rougher than I intended.
