Chapter 8 Delilah
Chapter eight
Delilah
I apply another round of lip gloss and stand back, surveying myself in the bathroom mirror of my apartment.
My shoulder-length hair is curled in soft waves, I’m wearing makeup, and I’ve donned a purple sundress.
It’s cute. Most of what I wear would be considered cute.
Not sexy or glamorous by any means. This just so happens to be the dress that hugs all my curves in the right spots and therefore, by default, is the sexiest outfit I own.
Because tonight, I’m having sex.
For the first time.
With Graham Whitaker, of all people.
I feel an odd mixture of excitement and nausea.
I’m also a bit lightheaded. I haven’t eaten all day, so that might be why.
But every time I moved a piece of food toward my mouth, I felt like I might hurl.
While I haven’t seen Graham since my humiliating proposal at his apartment last week, we have been in communication regarding the night. Tonight.
He insisted on buying me dinner first, which was oddly sweet but wholly unnecessary. Besides, we can’t exactly go out in a town as small as Cedar Ridge. Harrison would get word of it before the “date” was even over. So we compromised by him bringing over wine.
I managed to get a birth control prescription from my doctor, and Graham said he’d get condoms. I also shaved pretty much every inch of my body and spent way too much time naked in front of the mirror trying to get used to the fact that another person is going to see me like this. And not just any person. Graham.
Another wave of nerves rolls through me, and I swallow thickly.
I lean forward, staring myself down in the mirror. You are going to have sex tonight, I tell myself. And you’re going to like it. And do well. And everything is going to be great.
I wince, not feeling nearly as confident as I want to. But before I have time to spiral further, there’s a knock at my front door. I exit the bathroom just as Pickles is making a run for the bedroom. He’s never been the brave type. Part of me wishes I could hide under the bed with him.
I take a deep breath, smoothing my dress as I cross the apartment and open the door.
Graham stands outside in dark jeans, a button-down shirt, and a black cowboy hat perched atop his head. In his hands, he holds a bottle of red wine and … a bouquet of flowers.
“You got me flowers?” I breathe, confused and shocked and touched all at the same time. It takes me a second to realize Graham hasn’t responded right away, and when I look up at him, he’s simply gazing down at me … silently, his jaw slightly unhinged. “Graham?” I ask.
He blinks, clears his throat. “That dress—looks nice on you,” he says quietly, then offers a small smile.
“Thank you,” I say, stepping aside. “Come in.”
He enters the apartment, striding to the kitchen counter where he sets down the bottle—a little loudly, I might add. He sucks in a breath of air, glances around, and then turns to me. “Do you have a vase for these?” he asks, his voice a bit pitchy. Holy shit. Is Graham nervous?
“Yeah.” I breeze past him, opening up a cabinet and pulling a vase free. I spin around to fill it with water, only to have it slip from my hands and clatter loudly into the sink. “Shit,” I mutter, reaching for it. When it’s finally filled, I set the flowers inside.
“Thank you, by the way. You didn’t have to do that,” I fill the silence, not looking at him.
“It felt like the thing to do,” he says softly.
I nod.
“Do you want wine?”
“Yes,” I answer before he’s barely finished the sentence.
The corner of his mouth ticks upward. “Nervous?”
I chuckle softly. “A little,” I admit, turning to grab two wine glasses from the cabinet, but just as my hands meet the cupboard knobs, Graham is beside me, gently placing a large palm over mine.
“I can get them,” he says quietly.
“No, you’re good—” I start.
“Dee,” Graham says softly, close enough that I can feel the warmth of his breath on my temple. “Go sit down.”
My eyes meet his, and the second they do, something hot and foreign ignites within my lower belly, and I swallow. When I don’t immediately respond, he raises an eyebrow at me.
I turn on my heel and head to the other side of the room, taking a seat on the couch. I sit quietly, fidgeting softly as Graham pours two glasses of wine and carries them over to the couch, sitting beside me.
I offer him a smile that I’m worried comes off more like a grimace, and I take a glass.
“You know …” Graham says softly, his eyebrow drawing together. “We don’t have to do this. You can change your mind.”
My eyes flit to his. “I’m not changing my mind,” I say quickly, shaking my head. “Unless you don’t want to anymore, in which case—”
“I still want to.”
I swallow. “Okay. So we’re doing this.” My voice sounds tight, afraid. Fuck, how does everyone else manage to pull off sexy? To maneuver through the world smoothly and confidently.
Graham takes a sip of wine, then opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again. “So, uh … if you don’t mind my asking …” He glances at me. He’s sitting about a foot away. Close enough to touch, although we aren’t. Yet. “Why … haven’t you? Until now?”
The question doesn’t necessarily surprise me. I’ve been asked it before. Although it sends a tight knot coiling through my chest, spreading through my limbs and settling deep in my belly. It’s taken me years to finally decipher what exactly that feeling is, but I know it now.
Shame.
Deep and engrained into every facet of my being.
It’s strange. Harrison and I didn’t grow up especially religious.
Sure, we went to church on Sundays, and while purity culture floated in the air around us, it’s not like my parents drove it home.
I think it was a combination of trying to do the right thing and honestly just not caring.
I wasn’t interested in sex in high school.
I just didn’t get it. It seemed scary and gross.
And while I’d outgrown the idea of saving myself by the time I got to college, I just never truly felt ready.
And suddenly, there I was in my twenties, looking around and realizing I’d missed the bus. Everyone had already done this big, important thing, and by the time I was even remotely interested in it … it was embarrassing to admit I had no experience.
“I guess I just never got around to it,” I answer. It’s true, albeit a little condensed.
Graham cocks his head, like he’s trying to puzzle something out. “I mean, it certainly can’t be from a lack of interest.”
“Interest …?” I start.
“From men,” he clarifies.
“Oh.” I mean, yeah, I know when a guy finds me attractive. But I just never let it get to the point of sex. I’ve never even had a real boyfriend. “I don’t know,” I answer truthfully.
Graham snorts, and I’m a bit taken aback before he adds, “It’s definitely not from a lack of interest from men.”
Now it’s my turn to cock my head at him. “Why do you say that?”
Graham’s expression turns incredulous, then surprised, and then, shockingly … timid? Well, as timid as Graham Whitaker can be. “Look at yourself, Delilah.” He gestures vaguely in my direction. “No man in his right mind would turn you down.”
I smirk at that, unable to help myself. “You did, at first.”
“Yeah, and that took a stupid amount of self-control. And look how easily you changed my mind.”
That gets a laugh out of me, and for the first time since Graham stepped in here, I feel vaguely normal. Not out of my mind with nerves, not overthinking every little thing. My laughter fades, and we fall into a comfortable silence for a few heartbeats.
Then, Graham says, “So … your book.”
I crinkle my nose, an odd mixture of amusement and embarrassment running through me. “Yeah?”
He grins, raising an eyebrow. “It’s a sex book?”
I laugh again. “There’s no such thing as a sex book,” I say. “It’s a romance with sex in it.”
“So what kind of sex is gonna be in your book?”
I widen my eyes. “There’s different kinds?”
It’s Graham’s turn to laugh, but he stifles it quickly, clearing his throat. “I mean, yeah, but also no. Sex is sex …” He shrugs.
“What kind of answer is that?” I demand.
He chuckles softly. “I’m just trying to get a feel for what kind of … experience would best aid you.”
I nod slowly, suddenly feeling that familiar overwhelm again. “I guess … I don’t know.”
Graham nods, then, taking in my expression, adds, “That’s okay.”
There’s a beat of silence.
“Do you have any questions?” he asks.
I purse my lips. I do have questions. Like, so many.
But I assume most of these would be answered by simply having sex.
Although maybe not. The only problem is I don’t know what I don’t know.
I’ve always been a meticulous person. Researching before diving in.
Looking over all the pros and cons. Starting slow and seeing how it goes.
But this, for some reason, seems to defy typical procedure.
“If you don’t—” Graham starts, just as I blurt out, “Why do girls like big dicks?”
Graham halts mid-sentence, his mouth hanging open a bit. “Uh …”
I wait, biting my lip. I don’t know what constitutes a big or small dick, and I doubt a sample size of one is going to help with that, so I figure the question is valid.
Graham sputters for a moment, cocking his head. “Uh, I—I mean, I think it’s because it feels better.”
“Feels better when it’s bigger?” I clarify.
He nods, clearing his throat.
“Is yours? Big, I mean.”
Graham nearly spits out a sip of wine, leaning forward to place his glass on my coffee table. He snorts out a laugh. “That’s not typically something you ask a man, Dee.”
I frown. “But, I mean, I’m about to … see it,” I say quietly.
“Well, then you’ll see.” He’s not looking at me, instead intensely focused on the wood grain of my coffee table.
“But that’s the thing—I don’t have anything to compare it to. How am I supposed to know?” Something in the back of my mind is screaming at me to halt this topic of conversation and just shut up, but the curious part of me truly wants to know.
Graham turns to me then, his gaze meeting mine. And—holy shit, is that a hint of a blush creeping over his cheeks? Since when does Graham Whitaker blush?
“It’s …” he wags his head, eyes rolling, “decent.” I open my mouth to question him, but Graham seems to read my mind and beat me to it, sliding the foot between us to place a hand over mine that has been waving around in the air as I speak.
“It’s big,” he says so quietly that if he wasn’t inches away from me I wouldn’t hear it.
I’m suddenly very aware of how close he is, the heat of his skin over mine, the way our breaths intermingle.
I swallow. “Won’t that be a bit of a problem?
For my first time?” I manage to whisper.
While I haven’t been especially concerned about the potential pain of it all, a big dick doesn’t seem like it’ll help.
Graham’s gaze dips to my lips and back up. “Not if you’re ready for it.” He swallows. “Which I’ll make sure you are.”
Heat spikes in my lower belly, dipping down, down, down until it settles in between my thighs. “How?” I breathe, although this is a question I know the answer to.
Graham’s eyes close momentarily, his brows drawing together as if physically pained. Then he opens them. “Fuck, you’re going to be trouble,” he says and then presses his lips to mine.