Page 88 of Lennox Lane

"I mean it."

"I know."

He searched her face. "Tell me what you want."

Lane's answer should've been easy.

Her body knew what it wanted. It had known since the diner, maybe since the stage, maybe since he stood beneath those lights and called her beautiful without making it about what he wanted from her.

But what she wanted was more than sex. That was the terrifying part. She wanted closeness without performance. Pleasure without armor. Touch without having to wonder what it would cost when morning came.

She wanted him. Not the chaos. Not the chase. Not the half-truth version of him that hid behind arrogance.

This Lennox.

The one trying.

"You," she said.

The word landed between them.

Lennox's eyes darkened, but he didn't rush.

He undressed her with a patience that nearly undid her. Each piece removed like an offering, not a conquest. Hat first, set carefully on the dresser. Fanny pack. Chains. Earrings. Sweatshirt. Jeans. Sneakers. Each time, his hands paused, and his eyes returned to hers, asking without making her say the word unless she needed to.

Lane let herself be seen. When his mouth touched her shoulder, she closed her eyes. When his hands settled at her waist, she let herself lean into them. When he whispered her name like something sacred, she stopped correcting him with a joke.

"Look at me," he said, and his voice had dropped to that register that made her stomach tighten. "I want to watch your face when I make you feel good."

He guided her back onto the bed, following her down, settling between her thighs with a weight that felt like possession and permission all at once. His mouth found her neck, her collarbone, the hollow of her throat, each kiss followed by the rasp of his voice against her skin.

"You've been thinking about this, haven't you?" he murmured, his hand sliding down her stomach, fingers tracing the waistband of her underwear with infuriating precision. "Thinking about my mouth on you. My fingers inside you. Tell me I'm not the only one who's been going crazy."

Lane arched when his hand slipped lower, parting her, finding her already wet and wanting. The sound he made in response was filthy, grateful, reverent.

"Fuck, Lane. Feel how ready you are for me." He circled her slowly, watching her face with predatory focus. "This is what you do to me. All night, every night. You make me want to be inside you so deep you forget where you end and I begin."

His fingers worked her with deliberate rhythm, pressing just where she needed, drawing out soft sounds she didn't recognize as her own. When she whimpered, he leaned close, his breath hot against her ear.

"That's it, baby. Let me hear you. No more hiding. I want to know exactly how good this feels." He added pressure, sliding two fingers inside her while his thumb stayed busy, relentless. "You take me so fucking well. Look how perfect you are, taking what I give you. You want more?"

"Yes," she gasped, her hips lifting to meet his hand.

"Say it."

"I want more. I want you."

He groaned, the sound vibrating through his chest into hers. "Good girl."

He stripped off his clothes with the same care he'd shown hers, but his eyes never left her, hungry and consuming. When he settled over her again, skin to skin, the heat of him against her inner thigh made her shudder.

"Tell me if I'm too much," he said, guiding himself to her entrance, sliding through her wetness with a slow, teasing pressure that made her toes curl. "Tell me if you need me to stop. But god, Lane, I hope you don't. I hope you let me fuck you the way I've been dreaming about. Slow and deep until you're crying my name."

He pushed inside on the word, stretching her, filling her with a thickness that made her breath catch and her back arch off the mattress. He paused there, fully seated, his forehead dropping to hers, his jaw tight with restraint.

"Shit," he breathed. "You feel—fuck, you feel incredible. So tight around me. So fucking perfect."

He started moving with slow, rolling thrusts that dragged against every sensitive nerve, each withdrawal a promise of return, each push deeper than the last. His hands found hers, pinning them above her head, interlacing their fingers as he rolled his hips with devastating precision.