Page 56 of Can't Stop Watching
Dane's hands slide under my shirt, leaving trails of fire on my skin. I shiver, pressing closer. His body is all hard planes and tension, coiled energy barely contained.
"You sure about this?" he murmurs against my neck.
Instead of answering, I grab the hem of his shirt and yank it over his head. "Does that clear things up for you, detective?"
His eyes rake over me, heated and intense. "Crystal."
The man's built like a damn tank—all lean muscle and latent power. I want to trace every scar, every line of him. And those tattoos—the stark "death before dishonor" etched across his right shoulder, so perfectly him it almost makes me laugh. But it's the snarling wolf on his left ribs that really gets me, fierce and solitary, stretched over muscle in a way that makes my fingers itch to touch it. Something about seeing those hidden marks on him, these pieces of himself he doesn't show anyone, makes my heart beat faster than just the physical attraction. Like I'm seeing the real Dane Wolfe, not just the hard-ass detective he shows the world.
But then his hands are on my shirt, pulling it over my head with that same deliberate slowness. His fingers skim up my ribs. He's watching my face, gauging my reaction as he unhooks my bra. The straps slide down my arms, and suddenly I'm bare in front of him.
For a second, I feel exposed. Not just physically, but like he can see all the messy parts of me I usually keep locked down, the way I just saw his. My stomach flips as his gaze darkens to near black as it rakes over me.
Then his hands are on my breasts, calloused palms rough against my skin. I gasp at the contact, my back arching slightly. His touch is reverent almost, like I'm something precious. It's a far cry from the last time someone touched me like this—all fumbling hands and cheap beer breath.
"God," I breathe, because his thumb is rolling over my nipple and it's sending sparks straight between my legs.
"Too much?" he murmurs, but his voice is rough, strained.
I shake my head, biting my lip. "Don't you dare stop."
He doesn't. If anything, his touch gets bolder, his fingers pinching my nipple just hard enough to make me whimper. Then his mouth is there, hot and wet, and I'm pretty sure my knees are going to give out.
"Dane," I manage, my fingers tangling in his dark hair. It's shorter than I usually like, but damn if it doesn't feel good between my fingers. "Bed. Now."
He doesn't argue, just scoops me up like I weigh nothing and lays me down on the sheets. They're cool against my bare back, a stark contrast to the heat of his body over mine.
"Last chance to run," he murmurs, his lips against my collarbone.
I tilt his face up to mine, kissing him hard. "Shut up and fuck me already."
Dane makes a restrained sound in the back of his throat, something between a growl and a groan that sends shivers racing across my skin.
"Be careful what you say to me, Lila," he warns, voice rough as gravel. "My control is hanging by a mere thread. I need to go slow or I'll lose it."
I want to sass him back, tell him maybe I want him to lose it—but the intensity in his eyes stops the words in my throat. There's something dangerous there, something barely leashed that both thrills and intimidates me.
Instead, I just nod, my breath hitching as his mouth returns to my skin. He trails kisses down my throat like he's mapping territory, each press of his lips deliberate and scorching. When he reaches my breasts, his tongue circles my nipple before drawing it into his mouth, and holy shit, my back actually arches off the bed.
"Oh, God," I gasp, fingers digging into his shoulders.
His answering chuckle vibrates against my skin. "Patience."
Easy for him to say. He's not the one currently melting into a puddle.
Dane's hands move to the waistband of my jeans, his fingers teasing along the sensitive skin just above it. I squirm underneath him, trying to hurry him along, but he just pins my hips with one large hand.
"I said slow," he reminds me, and the command in his voice makes something liquid pool low in my belly.
He takes his sweet time unzipping my jeans, sliding them down my legs inch by torturous inch. I'm pretty sure this is what going insane feels like—every nerve ending in my body is screaming for more contact while he's treating this like some kind of tantric meditation exercise.
"You know, at this rate," I pant, "I'll be collecting social security before we actually?—"
His fingers press against me through my underwear, and whatever smartass comment I was about to make dissolves into a moan.
"You were saying?" he asks, and I can hear the smirk in his voice.
"Smartass," I breathe, but it comes out more like a gasp as Dane's fingers continue their maddening exploration through the thin cotton of my underwear. Each stroke sends lightning up my spine, and I'm fighting to keep my hips still.
