Chapter 12
LILA
T he engine purrs as we wind through late-night Manhattan streets. I'm hyper-aware of Dane's presence—the way his hands rest on the steering wheel, how his profile cuts against the streetlights sliding past.
"Which way from here?" he asks at a stoplight, voice low.
"Left at the next light, then three blocks down." I fidget with my ear cuff, suddenly conscious of my shabby apartment building waiting at the end of this drive. "It's not exactly a luxury high-rise."
"You have nothing to feel bad about. You're a college student," he says
As we approach my street, my stomach ties itself into increasingly complicated knots. What happens now? The goodnight-at-the-door dance is awkward enough without adding the whole I-know-you-watched-my-friend-spy-on-us element.
He finds street parking—a minor miracle in this neighborhood—and kills the engine. The silence feels thick enough to touch.
"Here we are," I say brilliantly. Good job, Lila. Truly earth-shattering conversational skills.
Dane turns toward me, and the streetlight catches his face just right—highlighting those impossibly sharp cheekbones, the slight shadow along his jaw. His eyes hold mine, and I forget my next breath.
"I had a good time tonight," he says, his voice a low rumble that makes my shiver.
"Even with amateur surveillance hour included?"
His mouth quirks. "Especially that part."
Then he's leaning in—so slowly I could count each heartbeat between us—giving me every chance to pull away. But I don't want to. God help me, I don't want to.
His lips touch mine, tentative at first, then with gathering certainty.
His hand comes up to cup my face, thumb brushing my cheek like I'm something precious.
The kiss is gentle but confident—no pushing, no demanding, just the warm press of his mouth against mine.
The taste of him floods my senses—wine and mint and something uniquely Dane, something that makes my heart slam against my ribs like it's trying to escape.
Heat spreads through my body, starting from my lips and radiating outward until it pools low in my belly, a liquid warmth that makes me shift in my seat.
A soft sound escapes me—embarrassingly needy—as electricity zips down my spine.
My fingers find their way to his shirt, gripping it like I might float away if I let go.
I can't remember the last time a simple, closed-mouth kiss turned my brain to static like this.
Hell, I can't remember if it's ever happened.
It's just a kiss, for Christ's sake, but my body's lighting up like Times Square on New Year's Eve.
Every nerve ending tingles, every thought evaporates except for more and please and Dane .
When we finally break apart, I'm breathless and dizzy.
"Do you want to come up?" The words tumble out before I can overthink them. "I have beer. And... stuff."
And stuff? Jesus, I sound like an awkward teenager.
Dane studies me for a moment, his expression unreadable. "Are you sure?"
It's the way he asks—not assuming, not pushing—that makes me certain.
"Yeah," I say, surprising myself with how much I mean it. "I'm sure."
I jab at the keypad like I'm typing a ransom note—the thing's finicky as hell, and my fingers are suddenly useless. The lock finally clicks, and I catch Dane's half-smile in my peripheral vision.
"It's temperamental," I mutter. "Like everything else in this building."
We climb the stairs in loaded silence, our footsteps echoing in the narrow stairwell. My heart hammers so hard I swear he must hear it, like some Edgar Allan Poe nightmare. Five flights feel like forty with Dane right behind me, his presence almost a physical touch on my skin.
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, that kiss . 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 at me in 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, more ragged. 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, but there —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.
Dane freezes instantly. One moment he's pressed against me like he wants to devour me, and the next he's backing away so fast he nearly trips over my coffee table. The transformation is jarring.
"Shit. Shit." He scrubs a hand over his face, not meeting my eyes. "I'm sorry. Jesus Christ, I'm so sorry, Lila."
My heart still races, but now from confusion as much as anything else. I tug my dress down, trying to gather myself. My throat feels strange where his hand had been—not hurt, just... marked somehow.
"It's okay," I say automatically, though I'm not entirely sure it is. The whiplash of going from turned on to terrified to confused has my head spinning.
"No, it's not." He turns away, hiding his face from me. His shoulders rise and fall with deep, controlled breaths. "I shouldn't have—I got carried away. That's not... That's not how I wanted this to go."
I adjust my dress, buying time while my brain tries to catch up.
Part of me wants to run to the bathroom and lock the door.
Another part wants to tell him it's fine, that I overreacted.
The most fucked-up part still wants him, even after that moment of fear, which would be unjustified if not for Mr. Colton.
Anger fills me from so dark corner I haven't visited in a long time.
"Do you always manhandle women like that?" The words come out sharper than I intended, my default sarcasm kicking in as a defense mechanism.
"It's not… I..." He turns back, face grim. "I can be intense, but never the first time. Never without asking."
Something about the absolute certainty in his voice makes me believe him. His eyes look tortured, like he's seeing something terrible reflected in mine.
"You…" He shakes his head. "It's no excuse, but you drive me crazy, Lila. But I realize I crossed a line," he says, voice low. "I went too far. I didn't—" He stops, shakes his head. "It doesn't matter. I scared you."
"You did," I admit, hand moving to my throat. "For a second there."
We stand in awkward silence, the air between us thick with unspoken things. The mood has curdled, turning what was hot and electric into something uncomfortable and strange.
"I should go," Dane says finally.
Part of me wants to agree. The smart part. The self-preservation part that's gotten me through worse situations than this.
But another part—the part that saw how quickly he backed off, how genuine his remorse seems—wants to understand what just happened.
"Why did you do that?" I ask, voice steadier than I feel.
Dane stands there, mouth opening then closing without sound, like he's searching for words in a language he doesn't speak. His eyes avoid mine, fixed somewhere over my left shoulder.
"I don't know if I can explain it right," he finally says, voice rough.
I wait, hand still at my throat, giving him the rope to either pull himself up or hang himself with. My heart's still hammering like I've just sprinted up all five flights of stairs.
"I normally know how to control my… urges, but the way I want you..." He trails off, running a hand through his hair. "It's different. Something I've never felt before."
"Different how?" I press, not letting him off the hook with vague bullshit. Different like all men say when they're trying to justify acting like animals? Different like Mr. Colton said I was special?
Dane finally meets my eyes, and the raw honesty there catches me off guard.
"It's primal," he says. "I've been with women, obviously. But this..." He gestures between us. "I've never felt this kind of pull. It's like you flipped some switch I didn't even know I had."
Under different circumstances, those words might have melted me. Now, they just make me wary.
"So what, I'm supposed to be flattered that you lost it?" A hint of bartender-Lila meanness creeps in, the version of me that deals with drunk frat boys and handsy businessmen.
"Fuck, no." He shakes his head sharply. "That's not—I know I fucked up. Badly." His voice drops. "I would understand completely if you never wanted to see me again."
The sincerity in his tone makes my chest tighten. He's not making excuses or trying to minimize what happened. He's owning it.
God, I'm so screwed up. Because part of me—the deeply damaged part that should know better—still wants him. Still remembers how good his hands felt before fear crashed the party.
"I should probably be kicking you out right now," I say quietly.
"You should," he agrees.
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?