Page 55 of Can't Stop Watching
"Damn," I breathe. "That from the corner bodega?"
"You wound me," Dane says, mock-offended. He pulls out a spoon—just one, I notice—and scoops up a bite. "Try it."
I eye the spoon, then his face. "You're not going to, like, airplane it into my mouth, are you? Because I draw the line at baby noises."
He rolls his eyes. "Just eat the damn cake, Lila."
I lean forward, letting him feed me the bite. The moment the chocolate hits my tongue, I can't help the little moan that escapes. It's rich, decadent, with hints of espresso and something darker. My eyes flutter closed as I savor it.
When I open them again, Dane's watching me intently, his gaze fixed on my mouth. The air between us feels charged, electric.
"Good?" he asks, his voice rougher than before.
"Adequate," I manage, but my breathlessness gives me away.
Dane sets the spoon down, his movements deliberate. "Lila," he says, and the way he says my name makes my heart stutter. He pushes a strand of hair behind my ear. "Can I kiss you?"
Part of me wants to make a joke, deflect with sarcasm like I always do when things get real. But the look in his eyes—hungry, yes, but also uncertain, like he's half-expecting me to bolt—makes me pause.
"You can," I say softly. "But if you try to airplane your tongue into my mouth, I'm leaving."
He laughs, a quick huff of air, before closing the distance between us. His hand cups my face, thumb brushing my cheek, and then his lips are on mine.
It's nothing like our last kiss. That was all heat and urgency, barely contained wildfire. This... this is slow. Deliberate. Like he's savoring me the way I savored that cake. His other hand settles on my waist, not grabbing or pulling, just a steady presence.
I taste chocolate and him, feel the rasp of stubble against my skin. My fingers find the soft cotton of his shirt, curling into the fabric.
When we break apart, I'm breathless. Dane's eyes are dark, pupils blown wide.
"Adequate?" he asks, a hint of a smirk playing at his lips.
I pretend to consider. "Might need another data point. For science."
"Tongue allowed?"
I nod.
This time when he kisses me, I don't think about running. I don't think about anything at all.
Dane's kisses are like a thunderstorm, all crackling energy and barely contained power. But there's something held back, like he's keeping the full force of himself in check. It's both frustrating and thrilling, making me want to push further, to see what happens when that control snaps.
When he pulls away, his eyes are darker still, searching mine. His fingers intertwine with mine, warm and calloused. Without a word, he starts guiding me towards what I assume is his bedroom. The question hangs in the air between us. His eyes lock with mine, one eyebrow slightly raised—a silent "Is this okay?" that doesn't need words.
I swallow hard, my heart doing a gymnastics routine in my chest. This is it, Lila. Point of no return.
"Yes," I breathe.
As we cross the threshold into his room, I can't help but quip, "Let me guess, the sheets are military corners too?"
Dane's lips quirk. "You'll have to find out for yourself."
The bedroom is as sparse as the rest of his place, a California king with crisp white sheets (and yes, military corners), a sleek dresser, and not much else. No photos, no knick-knacks. It's like a really fancy hotel room, minus the weird abstract art.
"Wow, did you raid a Scandinavian prison for decorating tips?" I ask, deflecting my nervousness with the quip.
He doesn't respond, just pulls me close again, his hands settling on my hips. The kiss this time is deeper, hungrier. I feel it all the way down to my toes.
When we break for air, I'm dizzy. "Okay, forget the décor critique. Carry on."
