Page 38 of Can't Stop Watching
I'm not usually this person—bringing guys home on first dates. But there's something about the way he looks at me, like he sees straight through all my careful walls. And holy shit, thatkiss. If that was just the preview, I can only imagine what the main feature's going to be like.
At my door, I fumble with the keys, acutely aware of Dane's warmth at my back. Inside, I flick on the lights and immediately spot my ratty NYU sleep shirt crumpled on the couch arm. I snatch it up, shoving it behind a throw pillow.
"Sorry about the... everything," I say, waving vaguely at my apartment. "Wasn't exactly expecting company."
"It's nice," he says, and somehow doesn't sound like he's lying.
I dart to the kitchen, grateful for the momentary escape. "Beer, right?" My voice sounds high and strange to my own ears.
"Sure."
While I'm wrestling with the bottle opener, Dane prowls around my living room, taking everything in. His eyes catalog my bookshelf, my laptop, the stack of journalism textbooks on the coffee table. I try not to think about how those eyes might look atmein a few minutes—how they might darken, how they might strip me bare.
I hand him the beer, our fingers brushing. Even that tiny contact sends electricity skittering across my skin. He takes a sip, eyes never leaving mine, and I feel that look like a physical caress. The heat between my legs intensifies, my body already way ahead of my brain. Damn! I'm wet just from his looks.
Tonight is going to wreck me. And I can't fucking wait.
I take nervous sips from my beer, watching Dane over the bottle's edge. He takes one long swig, then deliberately sets his bottle on the counter with a soft clink. His eyes never leave mine, not for a single heartbeat.
Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit.
My internal monologue sounds like a skipping record as he walks toward me. Each step feels both agonizingly slow and way too fast. There's purpose in his movement, like a predator who's finally decided to pounce.
He's close enough now that I catch his scent—hints of leather and some amazing cologne. My heartbeat trips over itself like a drunk stumbling out of a bar at closing time.
"Lila," he says, and somehow infuses my ordinary name with something that makes my knees weak. "I've been wanting to do this from the moment I laid eyes on you at the bar."
With careful deliberation, he takes the beer from my hand and sets it beside his. Then his arm slides around my waist, tugging me against him. His other hand tangles in my hair,cradling the back of my head. The casual strength in his touch makes my breath hitch.
Get it together, Marks. This is not your first time.
Except it might as well be. I've never been with a man who exudes such confidence, who makes me feel so wanted.
When his mouth claims mine again, it's not like the gentle kiss in the car. This one has intent behind it. His lips move against mine with controlled hunger, like he's savoring something precious. There's no rush, no fumbling—just the steady, building pressure that has me clutching at his shoulders.
Then his tongue traces the seam of my lips, asking rather than demanding entrance. I open for him without hesitation, and when his tongue finally slides against mine, my entire world ignites.
Fuck.
A whimper escapes me, swallowed by his mouth. Liquid heat pools between my legs, my body already desperate for more. I'm pressing myself against him like I'm trying to climb inside his skin. My fingers grip his shirt, probably wrinkling the expensive fabric beyond repair.
I've been kissed before—plenty of times—but never like this. Never like I'm the air he needs to breathe, never like he's memorizing the taste of me.
His hand slides down to my hip, fingers digging in possessively. I arch against him, shameless and wanting. He's hard everywhere—sculpted chest, strong arms, the unmistakable ridge pressing against my thigh through his pants. He feels big, and I can't wait to have him inside me.
"Dane," I gasp against his mouth, barely recognizing my own voice. It sounds wrecked already, desperate and pleading.
Something shifts in the atmosphere between us—like a switch flipping. His breathing changes, grows heavier, moreragged. The hand at my hip tightens, and suddenly I'm being spun around.
My back slams against the wall with enough force to knock a small sound from my lungs. Before I can process what's happening, Dane's hand wraps around my throat—not squeezing, butthere—his palm hot against my hammering pulse.
"Fuck," he growls, and it's nothing like his controlled voice from earlier. This is something primal, dangerous.
His hips pin me to the wall as his free hand grabs my thigh, hiking it up around his waist. My dress rides up, bunching around my hips as he grinds his erection against my core. The friction sends sparks shooting through me, but they're tangled with something else. Something cold and sharp.
"No, stop!" I squeak, the sound small and frightened even to my own ears.
Images flash through my mind—Mr. Colton's hand around my wrist, pushing me against his desk, the feeling of being trapped, powerless.
