Page 59 of Can't Stop Watching

"You good?" I ask, brushing damp strands of hair from her forehead.

She nods, still breathless. "Very... very good."

I position myself between her legs, the head of my cock pressing against her entrance. The heat of her nearly undoes me.I have to grit my teeth against the urge to thrust forward in one brutal stroke.

Instead, I ease in slowly, inch by excruciating inch. Her body stretches around me, adjusting to my size. The moan that escapes her is half pleasure, half pain.

"Too much?" I ask, freezing in place.

"No," she whispers, her fingers digging into my shoulders. "Just... go slow."

I nod, focusing on her face, watching for any sign of discomfort. When I'm finally buried to the hilt, I hold still, giving her time to adjust. Sweat beads on my forehead from the effort of restraint. She feels like heaven around my cock.

"Jesus, Wolfe," she gasps. "You weren't exaggerating."

I can't help the smirk. "Told you."

Her hips shift experimentally beneath me, and the sensation nearly makes my eyes roll back. I start to move in long, measured strokes, fighting against every instinct to pound into her mercilessly.

"Fuck," I groan. "You feel incredible."

In my head, I'm saying much filthier things. How tight she is. How I want to make her scream my name. How I could fuck her for hours, in every position, until she can't remember her own name.

But I keep it simple. Vanilla. Safe.

Her legs wrap around my waist, changing the angle, and I slide even deeper. The sound she makes as a touch her deep—half gasp, half moan—tests my restraint to its limits.

I've had rougher sex. Kinkier sex. But something about the way Lila's green eyes lock onto mine, completely present and unguarded, makes this feel more intense than anything I've experienced before.

"You're so beautiful," I tell her, and immediately want to punch myself for such a generic line. But the words keep coming. "Can't believe you're here. With me."

Her expression softens, and she reaches up to touch my face. The tenderness of the gesture catches me off guard.

Strange, isn't it? I've killed men. I've tailed criminals through the darkest parts of this city. But this woman's gentle touch is what terrifies me most.

She starts moving with me, finding our rhythm, and soon we're both breathing harder, moving faster. Still, I keep a tight leash on the beast inside me. The one that wants to mark her, claim her, show her exactly how wild I can be.

"Dane," she moans, and my name on her lips is better than any dirty talk I've ever heard.

Maybe this is enough. Maybe it has to be. And maybe—just maybe—vanilla isn't so bad after all. Not with the right woman.

Her legs tighten around my waist, nails digging into my shoulders as I maintain the measured rhythm. Something shifts in her expression—eyes narrowing slightly, studying my face with that journalist's perception that sees too much.

"You're holding back," she says, not a question but an observation.

I don't respond, just focus on the controlled motion of my hips, the calculated depth of each thrust. My jaw clenches involuntarily.

"You are." She pushes up onto her elbows, forcing me to slow down.

Fuck. I've been made. I know how to maintain a poker face during interrogations, but Lila sees through my defenses like they're made of cellophane.

"I'm enjoying myself just fine," I deflect, leaning down to kiss her neck, trying to distract her.

She pulls away slightly. "Are you really?"

I exhale heavily, remaining buried inside her but stilling my movements. The truth is complicated—a tangle of primal instinct, protective restraint, and the echoing memory of her fear when I got too aggressive before.

"I don't want to scare you again," I finally admit.