Chapter 3
three
Delilah
Three days of playing it cool, and I'm going out of my mind. The look on Mitch's face when I cornered him in the basement haunts me—desire warring with restraint, his big body so tense I thought he might snap in half. I know he wants me. His eyes give him away every time I catch him looking. But Mitch Lawson is nothing if not stubbornly principled, and that means I need to fight dirty. Which is why I've spent the morning convincing Dad that we absolutely need Mitch's help with the basement storage shelves today—and why I'm wearing a thin white t-shirt with no bra underneath.
"You sure you don't want me to stick around and help?" Dad asks, keys already in hand. He's heading to Uncle Ray's to watch some baseball game that I pretended to have zero interest in.
"I'm good," I say, waving him off. "Mitch and I can handle a few shelves. Besides, Uncle Ray's expecting you."
Dad hesitates in the doorway. "Mitch should be here any minute. You'll tell him I said thanks, right? Feels like I'm always asking him for favors."
"I'll make sure he feels very appreciated," I say, fighting to keep my expression innocent.
Once Dad's truck disappears down the street, I dash upstairs to make final preparations. I wet my lips with cherry gloss, the kind I've noticed makes Mitch stare at my mouth. I check my reflection in the mirror—the white t-shirt is thin enough that my nipples are visible if I'm cold... or aroused. The cutoff shorts are the same ones that made his jaw clench last time. My hair is loose today, falling in waves down my back the way I've described in my most explicit journal entries.
The doorbell rings, and my heart leaps into my throat. Game time.
I take the stairs two at a time but pause at the bottom to catch my breath. Can't look too eager. When I open the door, Mitch fills the frame like he always does, a mountain of a man with those piercing blue eyes that see too much.
"Hey," I say, stepping back to let him in. "Dad got dragged to Uncle Ray's for the game. It's just us today."
Something flickers across his face—wariness, desire, resignation. He steps inside, careful to maintain distance between us.
"Bill mentioned shelves?" His eyes flick over me, catching briefly on my chest before he forces his gaze to my face.
"In the basement." I close the door behind him, deliberately brushing against his arm as I move past. "I'll show you."
I lead him downstairs, feeling his eyes on my back, my hips, my legs. The basement is cooler than upstairs, and I suppress a shiver as we reach the bottom of the stairs. The air conditioning does exactly what I hoped it would—my nipples harden visibly beneath the thin cotton of my shirt.
"Dad wants to organize all this junk," I say, gesturing to the cluttered space. "Thought shelves along this wall would help."
Mitch nods, all business as he surveys the area. He's wearing a faded blue t-shirt today, stretched tight across his chest and shoulders. His forearms are exposed, thick with muscle and dusted with dark hair. I want to feel those arms wrapped around me, pinning me down.
"Should be straightforward," he says, kneeling to examine the wall. "Need to make sure we avoid the water pipes."
"What pipes?" I ask, crouching next to him, closer than necessary.
He points to a section of wall where copper pipes are partially visible. "These run to the upstairs bathroom. Don't want to drill into them."
"That would be a mess," I agree, leaning in to look where he's pointing. My shoulder presses against his, and I feel him tense at the contact. "So where should we start?"
For the next twenty minutes, we work side by side, him measuring and marking the wall, me handing him tools when he asks. I make sure to brush his fingers with mine every time I pass something to him. Each touch sends electricity up my arm, and I can tell by the tightness around his mouth that he feels it too.
"Hold this end for me?" he asks, positioning a level against the wall.
I step in close, our bodies nearly touching as I hold the level steady. His scent surrounds me—sawdust, soap, and something uniquely Mitch that makes heat pool low in my belly.
"Like this?" I ask, my voice deliberately breathy.
"That's good." His voice is strained. "Keep it there while I mark the drill points."
As he works, I let my gaze wander over him—the strong column of his throat, the way his jaw clenches in concentration, the slight tremor in his hands that betrays his composure isn't as solid as he wants me to believe.
When he finishes marking, I don't move away. "What next?"
"Need to drill pilot holes." He steps back, putting space between us. "You might want to stand back. Dust gets everywhere."
"I don't mind getting dirty," I say, the double meaning hanging between us.
His eyes darken, but he says nothing, just turns to retrieve his drill from the toolbox. I watch him work, mesmerized by the play of muscles under his shirt as he drills into the wall. Dust indeed sprinkles down, settling on his hair, his shoulders, the floor.
"Can I try?" I ask when he finishes the first hole.
He gives me a skeptical look. "You've used a drill before?"
"I'm not completely helpless," I say, moving in to take it from him. "Show me."
Reluctantly, he hands over the drill. "Keep it steady. These walls are old—hit a weak spot and you could puncture something you don't mean to."
I position myself in front of the next mark, and he steps behind me, his big body surrounding mine as he guides my hands.
"Like this," he says, his voice a low rumble near my ear. His chest presses against my back, his hands covering mine on the drill. "Not too much pressure."
I push back slightly, my ass brushing against him. I hear his sharp intake of breath.
"Sorry," I murmur, not sorry at all. "Just getting my balance."
The drill whirs to life, vibrating in my hands as Mitch guides the motion. The combined sensations—the tool's vibration, his body heat at my back, his breath on my neck—make my knees weak. I shift again, deliberately this time, and feel something hard press against my lower back for a brief second before he adjusts his stance.
That's when it happens—whether by accident or my subconscious design, I'm not sure. The drill slips, skidding across the wall and hitting one of the copper pipes with a metallic screech. Water erupts from the puncture, spraying across my chest and face.
I shriek, dropping the drill as cold water soaks my shirt. Mitch curses, lunging for the main water valve in the corner. The spray diminishes to a trickle, then stops completely as he shuts it off.
"Are you okay?" he asks, turning back to me, concern written across his face.
I stand there, water dripping from my hair, my shirt plastered to my skin and completely transparent. His eyes drop to my chest, where my nipples stand hard and visible through the wet fabric.
"I'm fine," I say, looking down at myself. "Just wet."
His throat works as he swallows. "You should go change."
Instead, I reach for the hem of my shirt and peel it upward, revealing inch by inch of my stomach, my ribs, the undersides of my breasts. "No point going upstairs dripping wet."
"Delilah." Her name is a warning on his lips, but he doesn't look away.
"What?" I pull the shirt over my head, standing before him in just my cutoff shorts, water droplets running down my bare chest. "Nothing you haven't seen before, I'm sure."
His eyes blaze as they travel over me, lingering on my breasts, my waist, the button of my shorts. "This isn't appropriate."
"Why?" I step closer, water dripping from my hair onto my shoulders, trailing down between my breasts. "There's no one here but us."
"Your father?—"
"Isn't here," I finish for him. "And I'm an adult, Mitch. I know what I want."
"You don't know what you're asking for," he says, his voice rough with restraint.
I close the distance between us, tilting my head back to meet his gaze. "Then show me."
Something snaps in him—I see it happen, the precise moment his control breaks. His hands grip my waist, fingers digging into my skin as he backs me against the wall. His mouth crashes down on mine, hungry and demanding. The kiss is nothing like I imagined and everything I've ever wanted—brutal and tender all at once, his beard scratching my skin as his tongue pushes past my lips.
I moan into his mouth, my hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer. He tastes like coffee and mint, and he kisses like a man starved. One of his hands slides up to cup my breast, thumb brushing over my nipple, and electric pleasure shoots straight to my core.
"Fuck," he growls against my mouth. "Been trying not to think about how perfect you'd feel."
His confession makes me bold. I arch into his touch, my nails scraping along his scalp as I tangle my fingers in his hair. "Tell me what you've thought about. Tell me everything."
He drops his head to my neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. "Thought about these tits." His hand squeezes my breast, rough and possessive. "Thought about your mouth." His thumb traces my bottom lip. "Thought about how wet you'd get for me."
His words send heat flooding between my thighs. I drag his face back to mine, kissing him with everything I have. His hands seem to be everywhere—squeezing my breasts, gripping my hips, sliding down to cup my ass and lift me against him.
I wrap my legs around his waist, gasping at the feel of his hardness pressing against me through our clothes. He grinds against my center, the friction delicious even through the layers separating us.
"Wanted this for so long," I breathe, rocking against him. "Dreamed about your hands on me."
He groans, pressing me harder against the wall. "Shouldn't be touching you at all. Should stop right now."
"Don't you dare." I bite his lower lip, tugging gently. "Don't you fucking dare, Mitch Lawson."
Something dark and possessive flashes in his eyes. "Watch your mouth, little girl."
The name sends a thrill through me. I grin wickedly. "Make me."
His hand tangles in my wet hair, tugging my head back to expose my throat. "You've been playing with fire," he says, his voice a dangerous rumble. "Pushing me, teasing me. You think I haven't noticed?"
"I wanted you to notice." I roll my hips against his erection, delighting in his sharp inhale. "Wanted to make you crazy."
"Mission accomplished." His teeth scrape along my collarbone, making me shiver. "Can't think straight with you around. Can't sleep without seeing you."
Water still drips from my hair, running down between our bodies. Mitch follows one droplet with his tongue, tracing it from my throat to the swell of my breast. When his mouth closes around my nipple, I cry out, my head thunking back against the wall.
"So responsive," he murmurs against my skin. "So fucking perfect."
The sound of a car door slamming upstairs freezes us both.
"Dell?" My father's voice calls from the front door. "Left my wallet! You and Mitch making progress down there?"
Mitch sets me down so quickly I stumble. I grab my wet shirt, yanking it back over my head as panic flares in his eyes.
"Yeah, Dad!" I call back, my voice surprisingly steady. "Just had a little accident with a pipe!"
"Everything okay?" Footsteps approach the basement door.
"Fine!" I straighten my clothes, running fingers through my wet hair. "Don't come down—water everywhere. We're handling it!"
Mitch has backed away, his face a mask of guilt and horror. His chest rises and falls rapidly, and there's an obvious bulge in his jeans that he can't hide.
"Alright, I'm heading out again! Got my wallet!" The front door closes, and we both exhale.
For a long moment, we just stare at each other. My lips feel swollen from his kisses, my skin tender where his beard scratched me. I'm soaked, disheveled, and more turned on than I've ever been in my life.
"That," I say finally, a smile spreading across my face, "was worth getting wet for."
Mitch runs a hand over his face, conflict written in every line of his body. But when his eyes meet mine again, I see the resignation there. The dam has broken, and there's no rebuilding it.
"This is a mistake," he says, but there's no conviction in his voice.
I step toward him, placing a hand on his chest. "No. This is inevitable."
His hand covers mine, warm and rough and so much larger. "You don't know what you're getting into, Delilah."
I rise up on my tiptoes, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Then I guess you'll have to show me."
The war in his eyes tells me everything I need to know. He's mine now. He just doesn't fully realize it yet.