Chapter 7
seven
Delilah
Dad thinks I'm getting the last of my summer clothes to take to "Jasmine's apartment" where I'm supposedly staying. The lie tastes sour on my tongue every time I repeat it, but it buys Mitch and me time to figure out how to break the truth to him. It's been four days since our lake date, four days of Mitch promising he'll talk to Dad "soon" without setting an actual date. I get it—you don't casually bring up that you're sleeping with your best friend's daughter. But the secrecy is starting to wear on me, like a too-tight dress that chafes with every movement. I want to be able to hold Mitch's hand in public. I want to stop fabricating reasons to be at his house. I want my father to know that I'm in love with a good man who treats me like I'm precious.
I fold another sundress into my suitcase, trying to appear casual as Dad leans against my doorframe.
"You sure you're okay staying with Jasmine? You know you can always come home." His voice carries genuine concern. "No need to rush into finding your own place."
"I'm fine, Dad," I assure him, summoning a smile. "Just want to have my own space, you know? Figure out what's next."
What's next is already happening—waking up beside Mitch every morning, cooking dinner together in his kitchen, building a life with him one shared moment at a time. But I can't say any of that.
"Well, Mitch should be here soon to help me with the deck railing. It's gotten loose again." Dad checks his watch. "You said you were meeting Jasmine at noon?"
My heart jumps at Mitch's name. I hadn't known he was coming over today. "Yeah, but I might hang around a bit. Haven't seen much of you lately."
Or Mitch, at least not where Dad can see. Last night, Mitch had me pressed against his shower wall, his hands leaving bruises on my hips that I can still feel when I sit down.
"That'd be nice, kiddo." Dad smiles, oblivious to my thoughts. "Missed having you around."
Guilt twists in my stomach. Not just for lying, but for the knowledge that when the truth comes out, I'll be hurting him. Dad's face falls every time I mention my "apartment hunting" progress. He's not ready for me to leave home, and he's definitely not ready for me to move in with a man—especially not his best friend.
The doorbell rings, and Dad pushes off from the doorframe. "That'll be Mitch."
I wait until he's halfway down the stairs before checking my reflection in the mirror. I'm wearing a simple tank top and jean shorts—nothing overtly provocative, but the shorts are shorter than what I'd normally wear around Dad, and the tank dips low enough to show a hint of cleavage. My hair is loose the way Mitch likes it. I pinch my cheeks for color and follow Dad downstairs, my heart racing with the anticipation of seeing Mitch while pretending we're nothing more than old acquaintances.
He's standing in the entryway, a tool belt slung low on his hips, looking so painfully good in a worn gray t-shirt that molds to his broad shoulders. His eyes find mine over Dad's head, and something hot and electric passes between us before he carefully schools his expression.
"Morning, Bill," he says, clapping my father on the shoulder. Then, with practiced casualness: "Hey, Delilah. How's the apartment hunting going?"
"Slowly," I reply, leaning against the banister. "But I'm staying with a friend from college for now."
Dad gestures toward the back door. "Railing's gotten wobbly again. Probably just needs the screws tightened, but I figured you'd spot anything else that needs fixing."
"Happy to take a look." Mitch follows Dad toward the back door, throwing one heated glance my way when Dad's back is turned. I feel that look like a physical touch, warming me from the inside out.
I busy myself in the kitchen, pretending to make a sandwich while eavesdropping on their conversation through the open window. They talk about the deck, the weather, some mutual friend's new truck—the easy chatter of men who've known each other for years. It's so normal, so ordinary, that my chest aches with the knowledge of how we're deceiving him.
Twenty minutes later, Dad pokes his head into the kitchen. "Dell, I've got to run to the hardware store. Mitch needs some different screws for that railing. You good here for a bit?"
My pulse quickens. "Sure, Dad. Take your time."
The moment his truck pulls out of the driveway, I'm moving toward the back door. Mitch is kneeling on the deck, his back to me, muscles shifting beneath his shirt as he works. I stand in the doorway, just watching him for a moment, desire coiling in my belly.
"Did you really need different screws?" I ask, stepping onto the deck.
He turns, his eyes darkening as they take me in. "No."
The simplicity of his answer, the honesty of it, makes heat flood my cheeks. "You sent my dad to the hardware store on purpose?"
Mitch stands, closing the distance between us in two long strides. "Needed to see you. Touch you." His hand cups my face, thumb brushing across my bottom lip. "Been thinking about your mouth all morning."
I lean into his touch, my body responding instantly to his proximity. "We've got twenty minutes, max."
"That's nineteen more than I need to make you come," he murmurs, backing me through the door into the kitchen.
The moment we're inside, his mouth is on mine, hungry and demanding. I clutch at his shoulders, rising on tiptoes to get closer, opening for him instantly when his tongue seeks entrance. He tastes like coffee and mint and desire.
"Missed you," I gasp against his lips, though we were together just hours ago. "Hate pretending."
"I know." His hands slide down to grip my ass, lifting me onto the kitchen counter. "Gonna talk to him this week. Promise."
I've heard that before, but I can't focus on skepticism when he's trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down my throat, his beard scraping deliciously against my sensitive skin. My legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer until I can feel him hard against my center.
"We shouldn't," I say, even as my hands slide under his shirt to feel the warm skin beneath. "Not here."
"Tell me to stop." His teeth graze my collarbone, making me shiver. "Tell me, and I will."
But I can't. Not when his hand is sliding up under my tank top, cupping my breast through my bra. Not when he's looking at me like I'm everything he's ever wanted.
"Upstairs," I manage, pushing him back just enough to slide off the counter. "My room. Hurry."
We stumble up the stairs, unable to stop touching each other, stealing kisses on every other step. It's reckless and stupid—Dad could come back early, could catch us at any moment—but the danger only heightens the urgency between us.
In my bedroom, Mitch kicks the door shut behind us, already tugging my tank top over my head. I fumble with his belt, desperate to feel his skin against mine. We fall onto my childhood bed, the frame creaking in protest beneath our combined weight.
"God, I want you," he growls, unclasping my bra with practiced ease. "Always want you."
His mouth closes around my nipple, and I arch off the bed with a gasp, tangling my fingers in his hair to hold him there. His hand slides into my shorts, finding me wet and ready for him.
"So responsive," he murmurs against my breast. "So perfect."
Two thick fingers push inside me, curling to hit that spot that makes me see stars. His thumb circles my clit with just the right pressure, and I have to bite my lip to keep from crying out.
"Mitch," I pant, rolling my hips against his hand. "Please."
He shifts, positioning himself above me, his eyes dark with desire. "Please what?"
"Fuck me," I whisper, beyond shame, beyond restraint. "Right here in my childhood bed."
Something primal flashes in his expression. He tugs my shorts and panties down in one swift movement, then unzips his jeans just enough to free himself. The head of his cock presses against my entrance, teasing, promising.
"This is so wrong," he murmurs, but he's already pushing inside, filling me inch by delicious inch.
"Feels right to me," I gasp, wrapping my legs around his waist to pull him deeper.
He begins to move, setting a rhythm that has the headboard tapping lightly against the wall. Each thrust pushes me higher, closer to the edge. His hand covers my mouth when I start to moan too loudly, his eyes locked on mine.
"Quiet, baby," he warns, though his own breathing is ragged. "Don't want your dad walking in on this."
The mention of Dad should be a bucket of cold water, but instead, the forbidden nature of what we're doing only intensifies the pleasure coiling in my belly. I'm close, so close, my inner walls beginning to clench around him.
That's when we hear it—the unmistakable sound of a car in the driveway.
"Shit," Mitch hisses, freezing mid-thrust. "He's back early."
For one wild moment, I consider telling him to keep going, to finish what we started regardless of the consequences. But rationality prevails. We spring apart, frantically reaching for discarded clothing.
"My shirt," I whisper-shout, scanning the floor.
Mitch grabs it from where it landed near the door, tossing it to me as he yanks up his jeans. I pull my clothes on with shaking hands, trying to smooth my hair at the same time.
The front door opens. "Dell? Mitch? They didn't have the right size. Gonna have to order them."
"Fuck," Mitch breathes, his face pale beneath his beard. "I look like I just?—"
"Rolled around in bed with his daughter?" I finish for him, unable to suppress a slightly hysterical giggle. "Yeah, you do."
He glares at me, but there's no heat in it. "Not funny."
"Kind of funny," I counter, tugging my shorts into place. "Go splash water on your face or something."
As Mitch slips into the hallway bathroom, I quickly remake my bed, then check my reflection in the mirror. My lips are swollen, my cheeks flushed, my hair a tangled mess. There's a red mark on my collarbone from Mitch's beard. I adjust my tank top to cover it and run my fingers through my hair in a futile attempt to tame it.
"Dell?" Dad calls from the bottom of the stairs. "You up there?"
"Yeah, Dad!" I call back, my voice only slightly breathier than normal. "Just finishing packing!"
I hear Mitch turn on the bathroom tap, the splash of water. A moment later, the bathroom door opens and he emerges, his face damp but his expression carefully neutral.
"Act normal," I whisper, squeezing his hand briefly before stepping away.
We make it downstairs just as Dad enters the kitchen, holding a paper bag. "Stopped for donuts since the hardware store was a bust," he says, setting the bag on the counter. "Mitch, you get a look at that loose board on the far end?"
"Not yet," Mitch replies, his voice remarkably steady. "Was just helping Delilah carry down a box."
Dad nods, accepting the lie without question, and my heart twists. He trusts us both so completely. Every lie we tell digs the hole deeper.
As Dad turns to get plates for the donuts, Mitch's eyes meet mine across the kitchen. There's guilt there, but also determination. He gives me a slight nod, and I understand the silent message: He's ready. He's going to tell Dad.
Relief floods through me, followed quickly by anxiety. This fragile balance we've maintained—the secret touches, the stolen moments, the double life—is about to end. For better or worse, everything is about to change.
And despite the fear, despite knowing how much it might hurt my father, I'm ready. Ready for Mitch to be mine openly, ready to stop living in the shadows of our own making.
As we gather around the kitchen table, as Dad chatters about the neighbor's new car and Mitch responds with appropriate interest, I watch the man I love and make a silent promise: Whatever happens when the truth comes out, we'll face it together. Because some things—this thing between us—are worth fighting for.