Chapter 4
four
Mitch
Four days of self-imposed exile hasn't done a damn thing to get her out of my system. I've thrown myself into work, taken on extra projects, exhausted my body until I should be too tired to think. But every night, I close my eyes and feel her—soft skin under my palms, her little gasps against my mouth, nipples hardening under my touch. The guilt eats at me from the inside out. Bill trusted me with his daughter, and I betrayed that trust the moment I put my hands on her. But the hunger is stronger than the guilt now. It's a living thing inside me, growing teeth and claws, shredding what's left of my better judgment.
My phone lights up for the twelfth time today. Another text from Delilah.
I know you're avoiding me.
I set the phone screen-down on my workbench without responding. The garage is my sanctuary—tools in their proper places, the familiar smell of sawdust and motor oil, projects I can control with my hands. Unlike the chaos she's created in my head.
I focus on the cabinet doors I'm refinishing for Mrs. Peterson down the street. Sand, stain, seal. Simple, repetitive work that should occupy my mind. But all I see is red hair, wet and dripping down pale skin. All I feel are soft curves pressed against me.
"Fuck." I set down the sanding block and wipe the sweat from my forehead with the back of my arm.
Three decades of living by a code. Do honest work. Keep your word. Respect the people who've been good to you. And I'm ready to throw it all away for Bill's daughter.
No. Not just Bill's daughter. Delilah. A woman grown, with her own mind and her own wants. A woman who looks at me like I'm everything she's ever desired.
The rational part of my brain—the part that's kept me out of trouble for fifteen years—knows I should end this before it goes any further. Call Bill. Confess. Take whatever consequences come.
My phone buzzes again.
I miss your hands.
Heat floods my body, pooling low in my gut. I should delete the message. Block her number. Do the right thing.
Instead, I pick up the sanding block and attack the wood with renewed vigor, as if I can scrape away my desire along with the old varnish.
Two hours later, I'm in the shower, washing away sawdust and sweat, still battling the same war in my head. The water runs cold before I'm ready to get out, but maybe that's what I need—something to shock my system back to sanity.
I'm toweling off when I hear it—a knock at the front door. Probably UPS with those parts I ordered for the Johnson kitchen remodel. I wrap the towel around my waist and head through the house, water still dripping from my hair down my chest.
I pull open the door without checking the peephole—a mistake I realize immediately when I find myself face to face with Delilah Carter.
"Hi." She smiles up at me, those green eyes taking in my near-nakedness with obvious appreciation.
My grip tightens on the towel. "What are you doing here?"
"You weren't answering my texts." She shrugs one shoulder, the movement drawing my attention to her outfit—a tank top that clings to every curve and those cutoff shorts that make my mouth dry. In her hand is a half-eaten cherry popsicle, the kind that stains lips red.
"How do you know where I live?" I don't move from the doorway, don't invite her in. If she crosses my threshold, I'm lost.
"Dad has your address in his contacts." She takes a deliberate lick of the popsicle, her pink tongue swirling around the tip in a way that can't be accidental. "Aren't you going to invite me in?"
"Not a good idea." My voice comes out rougher than intended.
"Why not?" Another lick, slower this time. Red juice trails down her wrist, and she catches it with her tongue. "Afraid of what might happen if we're alone together again?"
Yes, is what I should say. Yes, because I can't trust myself around you. Yes, because every time I see you, I want things I have no right to want.
Instead, I step back, resignation and desire warring inside me. "Come in."
Her smile widens as she steps past me into the house. I close the door and lean against it, keeping distance between us. My house suddenly feels too small, too intimate with her in it. She glances around the living room, taking in the sparse furniture, the bookshelf in the corner, the absence of personal photographs.
"Nice place." She turns back to me, still working on that damn popsicle. "Very you. Practical. Solid."
"Delilah." Her name comes out like a warning. "Why are you here?"
She finishes the popsicle in one last, obscene suck, then tosses the stick onto the side table. Her lips are stained cherry-red, plump and wet. "You know why."
"We can't do this." The words sound hollow even to my own ears.
"We already did." She steps closer, fearless. "And then you ran away."
"I didn't run?—"
"Four days, Mitch." Another step. She's close enough now that I can smell her perfume—something sweet and floral that makes my head spin. "Four days of ignoring my texts. Four days of hiding from me. That's running."
"I was trying to do the right thing." My hands clench at my sides to keep from reaching for her.
"And how's that working out for you?" She tilts her head, studying me. "Because you look miserable."
I am miserable. Torn apart by wanting her and hating myself for it. "Your dad?—"
"Is an adult who doesn't control my life." Her eyes flash with frustration. "And I'm an adult who gets to choose who I want."
"It's not that simple."
"It is that simple." She moves closer still, until only inches separate us. "I want you. You want me. Everything else is just details."
"Details like the fact that your father would never speak to me again if he knew what happened in that basement?" The guilt resurfaces, sharp and bitter on my tongue.
"We didn't even have sex," she says bluntly. "We barely got started before Dad came home."
The reminder of how close we came to being caught makes my stomach clench. "That's not the point."
"What is the point, then?" Her hand lifts, hovers near my chest without touching. "That you're older? That you've known me since I was a kid? I'm not a kid anymore, Mitch."
"I know that." God, do I know it. Every curve of her body is a testament to that fact.
"Then what's stopping you?" Her fingers finally make contact, tracing a water droplet down my chest. "Because it's not me. I'm right here, telling you I want this."
Something inside me frays, the last thread of restraint stretching dangerously thin. "You don't know what you're asking for."
"Then tell me." Her palm flattens against my chest, right over my pounding heart. "What exactly am I asking for?"
The thread snaps. I grab her wrist, spinning us so she's the one with her back against the door. Her eyes widen, but there's no fear in them—only anticipation.
"You're asking for everything," I growl, pinning her wrist above her head. "Every dark, possessive thought I've been fighting since you showed up in those tiny shorts. You're asking me to throw away fifteen years of friendship with your father. You're asking me to risk everything I've built."
Her chest rises and falls rapidly, her pupils dilating until only a thin ring of green remains. "Yes," she breathes. "That's exactly what I'm asking."
I lean in until my lips brush her ear. "If I take you, Delilah, I'm keeping you. Do you understand? This isn't some game. This isn't some fantasy you wrote in your diary. This is real."
She shudders against me. "How did you know about my journal?"
I pull back enough to look into her eyes. "I didn't. But I'm not surprised." My free hand comes up to cup her face, thumb brushing across her stained-red bottom lip. "Tell me now if you want to walk away. Last chance."
Instead of answering, she rises on her tiptoes and presses her mouth to mine. The taste of artificial cherry explodes on my tongue as I deepen the kiss, my hand sliding from her face to her throat, feeling her pulse race under my palm.
I release her wrist to grab her thigh, lifting her against the door. She wraps her legs around my waist without hesitation, her hands fisting in my hair as she grinds against the hardness straining beneath my towel.
"Bedroom," I mutter against her mouth, already carrying her through the house. Her weight is nothing in my arms, her soft curves fitting against me like she was made for this.
I drop her onto my unmade bed, watching as she bounces slightly on the mattress, her red hair spreading across my pillow. I've imagined this too many times to count, but the reality of Delilah Carter in my bed eclipses any fantasy.
"Take this off," I command, tugging at the hem of her tank top.
She sits up, crossing her arms and pulling the top over her head in one fluid motion. No bra underneath, just perfect breasts with rosy nipples already hard and waiting for my mouth.
"Now the shorts."
She smirks, hooks her thumbs in the waistband, and shimmies them down her hips, taking her panties with them. Then she's naked on my sheets, all soft curves and pale skin, looking up at me with challenge in her eyes.
"Your turn," she says, nodding at the towel still clinging to my hips.
I let it drop to the floor, watching her eyes widen as she takes in my size. I'm fully hard, have been since the moment I opened the door to find her on my porch.
"Fuck," she whispers, licking those red-stained lips.
I knee onto the bed, crawling over her until she's caged beneath me. "Last chance to back out, Delilah."
Her legs spread wider in answer, making room for me between her thighs. "I've wanted this since I was sixteen. I'm not backing out now."
The confession sends a surge of possessive heat through my veins. I capture her mouth in a bruising kiss, one hand sliding between us to find her already wet and ready.
"So fucking wet for me," I growl against her lips, circling her clit with my thumb.
She arches into the touch, gasping. "Always. Always wet thinking about you."
I slide a finger into her tight heat, then another, working her open slowly. Her nails dig into my shoulders, leaving half-moon indentations in my skin.
"Tell me what you thought about," I demand, curling my fingers inside her. "When you touched yourself thinking of me."
Her face flushes pink, but she holds my gaze. "Your hands. Your mouth. How big you'd feel inside me."
I groan, dropping my forehead to her shoulder. "You're going to be the death of me, you know that?"
"Worth it," she gasps as I press against a spot that makes her back bow off the bed.
When she's writhing beneath me, when her inner walls are clenching around my fingers, I withdraw. She whimpers at the loss, but the sound cuts off when I position myself at her entrance.
"Look at me," I command. When those green eyes meet mine, I continue: "After this, you're mine. Do you understand? Not a game, not a fling. Mine."
She nods, reaching up to cup my face in her small hands. "I've always been yours. You're just finally claiming what belongs to you."
The words break something open inside me. I push into her slowly, watching her face as she stretches to accommodate me. Her breath hitches, brows drawing together in a mixture of pleasure and discomfort.
"Okay?" I ask, pausing halfway.
She nods, fingers digging into my biceps. "Don't stop. Please don't stop."
I sink all the way in, the tight heat of her nearly making me lose control right then. I hold still, letting her adjust, letting myself adjust to the reality that I'm inside Delilah Carter, the girl I've watched grow into a woman, the girl I've tried so hard not to want.
"Move," she pleads, lifting her hips to take me deeper. "Mitch, please move."
I withdraw almost completely before thrusting back in, setting a pace that has her gasping with each stroke. Her legs wrap around my waist, her heels digging into my lower back, urging me deeper, harder.
"This what you wanted?" I groan, driving into her. "This what you wrote about in your little diary?"
"Yes," she moans, her head thrashing on the pillow. "Better. So much better."
I hook one of her legs over my elbow, changing the angle so I can hit that spot inside her with every thrust. Her eyes fly open, a strangled cry escaping her lips.
"That's it," I encourage, feeling her start to tighten around me. "Let go for me, baby. Show me how good it feels."
Her back arches, her inner walls clamping down on me as she comes with a cry of my name. The sight of her—flushed and trembling, completely undone—pushes me over the edge. I bury myself deep one last time, my release hitting me like a freight train.
For several long moments, we just breathe together, my forehead pressed to hers, her hands gently stroking my back. When I finally pull out and roll to the side, she follows, curling against me like she belongs there. Maybe she does.
"No running away this time," she murmurs against my chest, pressing a kiss to my collarbone.
I tangle my hand in her hair, tilting her face up to mine. "No running away," I agree, dropping a softer kiss on her swollen lips. "But we need to figure this out, Delilah. Your dad?—"
She places a finger over my mouth. "Later. We'll figure it out later." Her eyes, heavy-lidded and satisfied, hold mine. "Right now, I just want to enjoy the fact that you finally admitted I'm yours."
I capture her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm. "You are mine now," I tell her, the possessiveness I've been fighting rising to the surface without resistance. "And I protect what's mine."
She smiles, snuggling closer. "I'm counting on it."
As she drifts to sleep in my arms, I stare at the ceiling, the guilt still there but muted now beneath something stronger. Something that feels dangerously like happiness. Bill will hate me for this. I'll have to face that eventually.
But with Delilah's warm body pressed against mine, her breath soft against my skin, I can't bring myself to regret it. Not anymore.