CHAPTER 27 DELILAH #2
“Look at you,” he says. He cups my breasts with both hands, thumbs rubbing over my nipples.
We’ve hardly done anything and I already feel electric.
Like I’m dancing along the edge of a live wire, each spark connected to Jackson’s fingertips.
He rubs another slow circle. Again and again until I’m making bitten-off noises.
He buries his face in my neck, teeth bared against my skin.
“Fuck. Delilah. I don’t know if—”
“I’m going to need more than this,” I beg, body rolling, chasing the maddening friction.
It’s too slow. Too intentional. There’s a hollow heat between my legs and no friction.
I need more. “You don’t have to worry, okay?
Whatever it is that’s holding you back, stop.
You’re safe with me, Jackson. I promise, I promise, I pro—”
He rolls me over until I’m pinned with my belly against the mattress, his big body pushing down against my back. One hand sinks into my hair and pulls my head back while the other thrusts into my absolutely ridiculous pants.
“You can’t say things like that to me, Delilah.”
I wiggle in his hold, trying to spread my legs to give him more room. “Why not?”
He swipes his fingers across the front of my underwear, groaning when he feels how wet it is. “Because I’ll want to keep you,” he mutters.
“Good,” I groan, my fingers fisting in the sheets. “I want you to keep me.”
I don’t even feel the cold anymore. Just Jackson at my back and flannel against my front, my nipples rubbing against the material with every shift of my body.
“Stop talking,” he grunts as his fingers clumsily tuck my underwear against my thigh, the material of my snow pants making it awkward. But Jackson perseveres, his thumb rubbing short, hard circles at the very top of my clit. “You’re driving me crazy.”
I bite down on the edge of the pillow with a little whine, hips rocking, chasing the friction he’s giving me.
I can barely move at all with the way he’s holding me down, and that’s another rush of liquid heat, right where he’s stroking just a shade too rough.
His thumb keeps catching against me and my breath hiccups every time, a filthy and indecent soundtrack in the otherwise silent room.
“The way you sound,” he grinds out, yanking at my pants, trying to see more of me.
He’s impatient now. Just as impatient as I am.
Finally. With his hand pinned between me and the bed, it’s the perfect angle for me to work my hips.
He lets me rock against his fingers and it’s exactly what I need. Messy and delicious. Rough. Perfect.
“The way you look. Christ, Delilah. You’d let me do whatever I want, wouldn’t you?”
I nod into the pillow. “I trust you.”
“Good,” he breathes, and then he shifts his hand. The pressure, the angle, the slow glide of two fingers inside of me . . . I press one knee up on the bed and chase it. How quickly we went from bare skin to this.
Flecks of gold dance at the edge of my vision.
My face is half buried in the pillow, half turned toward Jackson, just the line of his shoulder visible, bunched with tension as he works me over.
The pleasure is so sharp I almost don’t want it.
But I lie there and let Jackson take exactly what he wants from my body.
I let it build. I take it. I take it and I revel in it.
“So good.” He leans more of his weight against me, the hand in my hair planted flat against the bed. I turn my head and sink my teeth into his wrist, grinning when he hisses. “Delilah.” A sharp roll of his hand as punishment. “Don’t push me.”
I laugh, breathy and high. “But look what happens when I do.”
His attention between my legs focuses, slows—heavy, thorough thrusts of his hand that shove me over the edge before I can find anything to hold on to.
I free-fall into orgasm with my forehead pressed against his wrist, my lips pressed together, a sharp breath through my nose.
I feel like a feather in gale-force winds; tossed up, up, up before the winds cut out and I drift lazily down.
I sink into the mattress, a boneless puddle. I am suffused with heat. Sweat at my temples and between my bare breasts. Deliciously warm.
But I want more. I want to see him unravel too.
I prop myself up on my elbows and glance over my shoulder, Jackson still above me with his knees on either side of my hips. I’m caged in, but protected, his body a shelter over mine.
It’s the first time I’ve gotten a good look at everything those button-downs have been teasing at. Jackson’s body is lean but strong. A wide chest and narrow hips. Strong arms with solid muscles that flex and release as he twists his hands in the bedsheets.
I reach back and touch his bare hip. Right where his sweatpants are pulled low. He shies away from my touch, chest heaving.
“I don’t know if I can—” His head drops back, his face toward the ceiling, eyes pinched closed. I watch the line of his throat flex with his heavy swallow. “I don’t know if I can, Delilah.”
“It’s okay to take something for yourself,” I whisper.
His jaw clenches. “I don’t know.”
“You do.” I curl my hand around his hip, tracing the cut of muscle there with my thumbnail. He shivers. “I know you do. And it’s okay. You can have it.”
I watch his face change in the muted shadows. How his eyes grow heavy with want. The peek of his tongue at the corner of his mouth. His hand rubs at the middle of his bare chest, like he’s trying to push away whatever is happening inside of him.
But I want to be the one who does that for him. I want to ease that ache.
“You can have it,” I say again. “Whatever it is you want . . . I want it too. I promise.”
His hand inches down his chest toward the hem of his sweatpants. I bet he runs every morning. Or swims, maybe. Something that requires dedication and routine. Something where he can keep pace.
“Are you sure?” he asks, and his hand sinks into his pants. He grips himself with a shuddered breath, his head rolling back along his shoulders. His forearm flexes as he moves and he tips his head forward again so he can watch me while he touches himself.
He looks so good like this, on his knees above me. His hair an absolute mess and his glasses slightly crooked.
“Yes,” I breathe. I turn beneath him, my hands at his sweatpants, urging them down. “But let me see.”
He’s gripping himself so hard it looks like it hurts, but his breath comes faster as I inch his pants down his thighs.
“Oh,” I whisper.
His eyebrows pull together. “What?” he pants.
“Nothing.” I shake my head, then catch my bottom lip between my teeth. “You’re just—you look good.” The smooth, practiced roll of his hand around his thick cock. How he rubs at himself with the two fingers that are still wet from being inside of me. “What do you want me to do?”
Jackson groans and laughs at the same time. “You don’t have to do anything, Delilah.” His eyes grow serious again, pleasure making his mouth twist. “Just let me look at you,” he says.
But I want him to be selfish. I want to make him as mindless as he’s made me.
So I let myself fall back into the pillows, my arms above my head.
My bra is still twisted around my middle, pushing everything up, my breasts spilling obscenely over the material.
I drift my fingertips over them, moaning lightly when a soft bloom of warmth unfurls in my belly.
I won’t come again tonight, but I bet I could. Just from watching Jackson like this.
He lets his body curl over mine with a heavy groan, one hand braced against the headboard over my shoulder. The wood creaks as his other hand picks up speed, his knuckles brushing my stomach with every rough stroke. I lean up and press my mouth to the hollow of his throat.
“On me,” I whisper, and he grunts. I drift my fingers between my breasts. Lower, down over the curve of my belly. “It’s what you want, isn’t it?”
He nods, his temple pressed to mine. He feels feverish. So warm and solid above me.
“Yes,” he breathes.
“I want it too.” I press my palms to his sides. “Won’t you give me what I want, Jackson?”
“Fuck,” he whispers and his hand slows down.
I feel the blunt press of his thick length against my belly and the smooth, easy friction of Jackson moving against me.
Fucking me down into the mattress without fucking me at all.
He murmurs nonsense as he chases his relief and I sink my hands into his hair, holding him tight.
When he finally comes, it’s with his teeth bared against the side of my neck, his release warm against my belly. He falls to my side with a huff, his palm flat against the middle of my chest.
We stay there like that, tangled together, our hearts thundering. It isn’t until I shiver again that Jackson leverages himself up on one hand. I watch as he takes careful inventory. My eyes, the curve of my chin. My bare breasts and the mess he’s made of me.
His gaze stays there for a while.
“Feel warmer?” I whisper.
“I don’t know.” Satisfaction hitches one side of his mouth up in a lazy grin. “I can’t really feel my legs, to be honest.”
A loud laugh bursts out of me. Jackson’s grin grows. He pulls his sweatpants back over himself, bashful, but makes no move to clean up the mess across my middle. I bite my lip at the way he keeps staring at it—at me.
He walks his fingers over my shoulders, carefully fixing my bra. His hands brush against me while he does and that little kernel of warmth that’s heavy in my belly thrums wildly. I make a soft sound and Jackson gives me a chastising look.
“Bedtime, troublemaker.”
“Trouble? Me?”
“We’ll be warmer skin to skin,” he mimics, voice feigned in some approximation of mine.
It makes me laugh again and he rolls his eyes to the ceiling, slipping from the bed.
For a second I’m disappointed, but then I hear the sink in the bathroom.
Jackson comes back to me with a wet washcloth, brushing my hands away when I try to take it.
He eases it over my belly in gentle swipes, cleaning me off so carefully it makes a lump lodge in my throat.
I watch him, curved over me, bare skin and his hair sticking up at odd angles, some pink still clinging to the base of his throat.
Something tender and delicate unfurls beneath my rib cage the longer I watch him touch me—so, so gently.
I shiver, and his eyes find mine.
“Cold?”
I nod, even though that feels like a half-truth.
He bundles me back beneath the quilts with quick, efficient movements.
I grab his arm before he can hesitate, dragging him into my little cocoon with me.
I lie there like a lump while he rearranges pillows and situates blankets, then hum happily when he curls himself against my back.
His arm is a delicious, heavy weight over my hip.
Maybe, still, a little bit like a harness. But one that keeps me safe.
“Better?” he asks.
I smile into my pillow that smells like him. “Much.”