Chapter 5
five
Delilah
The first lightning strike splits the sky like a jagged wound, illuminating my bedroom in stark white for half a second before plunging it back into late-afternoon gloom. I count—one Mississippi, two Mississippi—until the thunder rolls, deep and threatening. My fingers tighten around my coffee mug. Two seconds. The storm is close and getting closer. I've never outgrown this childish fear, this quick-pulse dread that comes with darkening skies and electric air. Another flash. One Mississippi—the boom crashes overhead, rattling the windows in their frames. I set down my mug before I can drop it. The storm is here.
Dad's voice echoes up the stairs. "Dell, I'm heading over to Uncle Ray's before this gets worse! His back's acting up again!"
I hurry to the landing, peering down at him as he shrugs into his raincoat. "Now? It's already pouring!"
"He can't get out of bed," Dad calls up, jangling his keys. "Promised I'd check on him. Might stay the night if the roads flood. Will you be okay alone?"
No, I think, as another lightning strike makes me flinch. But I'm twenty-two, not twelve, so I nod. "I'll be fine. Be careful driving."
He gives me a distracted smile, already halfway out the door. "There's candles in the kitchen if the power goes out. Love you, kiddo!"
The door slams behind him, and I'm alone in the house with the storm. I wrap my arms around myself, trying to calm the irrational fear that's plagued me since childhood. It's just weather. Just air and electricity and water. Nothing to be afraid of.
Another crash of thunder, and the lights flicker once, twice, then die completely.
"Perfect," I mutter, feeling my way carefully back to my room to find my phone. The screen's blue glow is oddly comforting as I navigate downstairs to locate the candles Dad mentioned.
I've just lit the third one, creating a small island of warm light in the dark kitchen, when my phone buzzes in my pocket. Mitch's name on the screen makes my heart stutter in a way that has nothing to do with the storm.
"Hey," I answer, unable to keep the smile from my voice. It's been a week since that first time in his bed, a week of stolen moments and secret texts and his hands on me whenever we can get away with it.
"You okay?" His voice is tight with concern. "Power's out all over town."
"Yeah, just me and some candles having a party." I try for lightness, but another thunderclap betrays me, making me gasp involuntarily.
"You're scared," he says immediately. It's not a question.
I close my eyes, leaning against the counter. "I don't like storms."
There's a pause, and I can almost hear him thinking. Then: "Get in your car and come to my place."
"What?"
"I have a generator," he says, as if that explains everything. "And the roads are only going to get worse. Your dad home?"
"No, he's at Uncle Ray's. Probably staying the night."
"Then there's no reason for you to be alone and scared. Come here, Delilah."
The command in his voice sends a different kind of shiver through me. "Okay," I agree softly. "I'll be there in fifteen minutes."
I throw together an overnight bag quickly—toothbrush, change of clothes, the lacy underwear I know drives him crazy—and dash to my car through the downpour. By the time I slide behind the wheel, I'm soaked, my thin t-shirt clinging to my skin, hair plastered to my face.
The drive to Mitch's house feels longer than it should, rain hammering the windshield faster than the wipers can clear it, visibility reduced to just a few feet ahead. By the time I pull into his driveway, my knuckles are white from gripping the steering wheel.
He's waiting at the door before I even kill the engine, a large black umbrella in hand. He jogs to my car, opening my door and holding the umbrella over me as I step out.
"You're drenched," he observes, his free arm wrapping around my waist to guide me quickly toward the house. "Should have waited for the rain to ease up."
"Didn't want to be alone," I admit, pressed against his side.
Inside, his house is an oasis of warmth and light. Lamps glow in the living room, the refrigerator hums its steady rhythm, and the sound of rain against the roof feels cozy rather than threatening in here.
Mitch sets the umbrella aside and turns to me, his hands coming up to frame my face. "You're shivering."
"Cold." It's only half the reason. Being near him still makes me tremble, even after everything we've shared.
"Let's get you dry." He leads me to the bathroom, flipping on the light and reaching for a towel. "Take those wet clothes off."
There's nothing sexual in the command, just pure caretaking, but heat flickers low in my belly anyway. I peel off my sodden shirt and jeans, standing before him in just my bra and panties, both transparent from the rain.
His eyes darken as he takes me in, but he simply wraps the towel around my shoulders, rubbing gently to warm me. "I'll get you something to wear," he says, voice rougher than before.
When he returns, he's carrying one of his flannels and a pair of sweatpants with a drawstring waist. "These will swallow you whole, but they're warm."
I let the towel drop to dry myself more thoroughly, aware of his gaze tracking my movements. When I reach behind to unhook my wet bra, his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows hard.
"Need help?" he asks, stepping closer.
I shake my head, smiling. "If you help, I'll never get into those dry clothes."
A reluctant smile tugs at his lips. "Fair point." He turns to give me privacy, a gentlemanly gesture that's almost funny considering he knows every inch of my body by now.
I pull on his clothes, rolling the sweatpants at the waist several times and letting the flannel hang to mid-thigh. Everything smells like him—sawdust and soap and that indefinable Mitch-scent that makes me feel safe.
"Done," I say, and he turns back, his expression softening at the sight of me in his clothes.
"Come here." He extends a hand, and I take it, letting him pull me against his chest. His arms wrap around me, solid and secure. "Still scared of the storm?"
As if on cue, thunder booms overhead, and I press closer to him, nodding against his shirt. "Since I was little. Dad says it's because Mom and I were in a car accident during a thunderstorm when I was three. I don't remember it, but..." I shrug.
His hand strokes my damp hair, gentle and soothing. "You're safe here."
The simple statement, delivered in his deep, certain voice, makes something in my chest unravel. This powerful, steady man who could snap a two-by-four with his bare hands will let nothing hurt me—not a storm, not anything.
"I know," I whisper.
He leads me to the kitchen, his hand engulfing mine. "Hungry? I was about to make dinner when the storm hit."
I nod, settling onto a barstool at his kitchen island while he moves around the space with easy familiarity, pulling ingredients from the refrigerator.
"You ever going to tell your dad about us?" I ask, the question that's been hovering between us for days finally escaping my lips.
Mitch's hands pause briefly over the cutting board where he's dicing an onion. "Been thinking about it," he admits. "Just trying to figure out how to do it without him putting a bullet in me."
"He wouldn't—" I start, then stop myself. Dad might not actually shoot Mitch, but he's going to be furious. "He'll get over it eventually."
"Maybe." Mitch doesn't sound convinced. "He trusted me with you, Delilah. Being with you feels like betraying that trust."
"You're not corrupting an innocent," I point out. "I pursued you, remember?"
A smile tugs at his lips. "Hard to forget." He resumes chopping, the knife a blur in his capable hands. "Still. A man has a certain understanding with his friends about their daughters."
"That understanding assumes the daughter has no agency," I argue, leaning forward on my elbows. "I'm a grown woman who made a choice. You're the one I want. Dad will have to accept that."
Mitch sets down the knife, turning to face me fully. "You sound very sure about this. About us."
There's vulnerability in his eyes that I've never seen before—uncertainty beneath the strength. It hits me then that despite his size, his age, his apparent confidence, Mitch Lawson is as new to this as I am. Maybe not to sex, but to this—to caring about someone enough that losing them would matter.
"I am sure," I say softly. "I've been sure since I was sixteen."
He comes around the island, pulling me to my feet and into his arms. His kiss is different this time—not demanding or desperate, but searching, like he's trying to taste the truth of my words on my tongue.
When he pulls back, his eyes are serious. "This isn't just physical for me, Delilah. You understand that, right?"
My heart stutters. "It's not just physical for me either."
The admission hangs between us, neither of us quite ready to name the feeling more specifically, but both acknowledging its presence.
Another crack of thunder makes me jump, breaking the moment. Mitch chuckles, pressing a kiss to my forehead.
"Let me finish dinner before the power decides to follow the rest of the town."
We eat at his small dining table, spaghetti with a rich tomato sauce that he admits he learned to make from my father years ago. The irony isn't lost on either of us. The storm continues to rage outside, but in here, with food and warmth and Mitch's steady presence, my fear recedes to a distant concern.
After dinner, we curl together on his couch, a blanket thrown over our legs, some action movie playing on his TV that neither of us is really watching. I'm too aware of his body pressed against mine, of his hand absently stroking my hip through the borrowed flannel.
When a particularly violent burst of thunder shakes the house, rattling the windows in their frames, I bury my face against his chest. His arms tighten around me, protective and secure.
"I've got you," he murmurs into my hair. "Always going to keep you safe, Delilah."
I lift my head to look at him, finding his eyes dark and intent on my face. "Promise?"
"Promise." He brushes a strand of hair from my face, his touch so gentle it makes my heart ache. "For as long as you want me."
"That might be a very long time," I warn him, my fingers tracing the line of his jaw, rough with evening stubble.
He turns his head, pressing a kiss to my palm. "I'm counting on it."
When the movie ends, Mitch yawns and stretches, his shirt riding up to reveal a strip of hard abdomen. "Getting late. You must be tired after that drive."
I nod, suddenly nervous. I know we’ve had sex before, but it was in the heat of the moment, never with the deliberate intention of sharing a bed for the night.
He leads me to his bedroom, turning on a small lamp beside the bed. The room is simply furnished—a large bed with dark blue sheets, a dresser, a nightstand. No photographs or personal touches except for a stack of paperback books beside the bed.
"I can take the couch," he offers, rubbing the back of his neck. "If you'd be more comfortable."
"Don't be ridiculous," I say, though my heart pounds at the thought of a full night beside him. "We've literally been inside each other. I think we can share a bed."
His lips twitch at my bluntness. "Wasn't sure if you wanted space to sleep."
"Do you?" I challenge, stepping closer to him.
He shakes his head slowly. "Wouldn't be able to sleep with you in the next room anyway. Not without coming to check on you every five minutes."
"Then stay." I begin unbuttoning the borrowed flannel, holding his gaze as I slip it from my shoulders. His sweatpants follow, pooling at my feet, leaving me naked before him.
His breath catches, eyes darkening as they travel over me. "How am I supposed to just sleep beside you?" he asks, voice rough.
I reach for him, my hand finding the hem of his t-shirt. "Who said anything about 'just' sleeping?"
He helps me tug his shirt over his head, revealing the broad expanse of his chest that still makes my mouth go dry. When he strips off his jeans, his arousal is obvious, straining against his boxer briefs.
We come together like magnets, my body melting against his as his mouth finds mine. But this kiss is different from the ones we've shared before—slower, deeper, less desperate but somehow more intense. His hands sweep down my back to cup my ass, lifting me easily. I wrap my legs around his waist as he carries me to the bed, laying me down with surprising gentleness.
"I don't think I can be gentle tonight," he warns, his voice a low rumble against my throat.
"I don't need gentle," I assure him, arching up as his mouth maps a path down my neck to my breast. "I need you."
He groans, his beard scraping deliciously against my sensitive skin as he takes my nipple into his mouth. I tangle my fingers in his hair, holding him against me as pleasure spirals through my body.
"Been thinking about this all day," he murmurs against my skin. "About you in my bed."
His confession sends heat pooling between my thighs. "Show me," I urge, spreading my legs wider in invitation.
He works his way down my body, his large hands gripping my thighs as he settles between them. The first touch of his tongue against my center makes me cry out, back arching off the bed. He holds me down with one forearm across my hips, the other hand spreading me open for his mouth.
"Mitch," I gasp, clutching at the sheets as he sucks and licks with devastating precision. "Oh god?—"
He hums against me, the vibration sending new waves of pleasure through my core. When he slides two thick fingers inside me, curling them to hit that perfect spot while his tongue works my clit, I shatter. My thighs clamp around his head as I come with a cry that barely sounds human to my own ears.
Before I can recover, he's moving up my body, positioning himself between my legs. "Need to be inside you," he growls, his cock pressing against my entrance. "Need it like I need air."
"Yes," I breathe, lifting my hips to meet him. "Please."
He pushes inside in one long, slow thrust that has us both groaning. He fills me completely, stretching me in a way that borders on pain but tilts decisively toward pleasure. When he starts to move, it's with a deliberate rhythm that builds the tension inside me all over again.
"Look at me," he commands, one hand cupping my face to ensure I obey. "Want to see your eyes when you come around me."
The intensity in his gaze nearly undoes me. There's something new there, something beyond desire, beyond possession—something that looks dangerously like love.
I wrap my legs higher around his waist, changing the angle so he hits that perfect spot with every thrust. "Don't stop," I plead, feeling my second climax building. "Don't ever stop."
"Not stopping," he promises, his pace increasing as his control frays. "Not leaving. Not letting you go."
The possession in his voice, the promise of permanence, sends me hurtling over the edge again. I come with his name on my lips, my inner walls clenching around him, pulling him deeper.
He follows moments later, his hips jerking against mine as he pulses inside me, my name a prayer on his lips. He collapses beside me, gathering me against his chest, his heart thundering under my ear.
For several long minutes, we just breathe together, his hand stroking my back in slow, soothing circles. Outside, the storm continues to rage, but I barely notice the thunder now, too wrapped up in the afterglow and the man holding me.
"Stay with me," he murmurs into my hair, his voice rough with something that might be vulnerability. "Not just tonight. Stay."
I lift my head to look at him, finding his blue eyes serious in the dim lamplight. "Are you asking me to move in with you?"
He nods slowly. "I know it's fast. I know your dad will lose his mind. But I sleep better with you here. Everything's better with you here."
My heart swells almost painfully in my chest. This is faster than I expected, more than I dared hope for when I first came home with the intention of seducing him. But there's no hesitation in my answer.
"Yes," I whisper, pressing a kiss to his chest, right over his heart. "I'll stay."
His arms tighten around me, and I feel his exhale of relief against my hair. "We'll tell your dad together," he promises. "I won't make you face that alone."
I nod against his chest, too overcome with emotion to speak. As sleep begins to claim me, I register two things: the storm outside has finally begun to abate, and for the first time since I was a little girl, I'm not afraid of the thunder anymore.