Chapter 28
DELILAH
“Ithink I might even be falling in love with you, Delilah.”
And for a second, I forget how to breathe.
Not because I didn’t think he felt something. I’ve seen it in the way he looks at me.
I know.
I’ve known.
But hearing it? Out loud? Without a joke cushioning it, or a dare wrapping it up in plausible deniability? I hate how much I want to believe him. I hate how soft his voice is. I hate how warm he looks even in the freezing air, standing there like he’d stand there forever if I asked.
I cross my arms tighter over my chest. “You can’t just say that.”
His brow furrows. “Why not?”
“Because it’s unfair,” I snap, louder than I mean to. “You can’t throw feelings at me like they don’t have consequences.”
“I’m not throwing anything. I’m telling you how I feel.”
“Yeah, well, maybe don’t,” I bite out. “Because you’re not supposed to—you don’t get to say things like that. You’re—”
“What?” he cuts in. “I’m what?”
Effortless. Charming. Safe in the exact ways I never have been.
“You don’t get to… make me want something I can’t trust.”
His face shifts, just slightly, but I see it. He steps forward, slowly, like he’s approaching something breakable.
“You don’t trust me?”
“I don’t trust anyone,” I whisper.
The wind rustles between us. My throat burns.
He is right in front of me now, but not crowding me.
“You think I’m trying to hurt you?”
I shake my head, eyes stinging. “No. That’s the problem.”
“Then, what is this?” he asks, voice lower now, like the truth is holy.
I don’t answer right away. Because I don’t know how to explain the war going on inside me. Every time he gets close, something in me screams run. Not because I don’t want this, because I do. That’s the part that’s killing me.
This is what I do. I push people away. I make it ugly so they don’t stay long enough to see the parts of me that are worse.
But he’s still here. Even now.
And suddenly, I hate how badly I want him to keep standing there. How much it terrifies me that he might.
My hands are shaking.
So I say it. The thing I haven’t said to anyone in years.
“I’m scared.”
Troy exhales.
“Of what?” he asks.
I lift my eyes to his. My voice comes out hoarse.
“Of how much I want this.”
His jaw flexes. His whole body goes taut, like I’ve just flipped a switch inside him.
“I don’t do this,” I say, each word scraping my throat raw. “I don’t let people in. I don’t rely on anyone. Because they always leave. Or they lie. Or they fuck it all up and expect me to be the one who sweeps up the pieces. And the fucked up thing is I get it. I would leave me too.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” he says, no hesitation. Like it's a fact. Like he already decided that weeks ago.
I shake my head.
“Delilah Greer,” he says, and there’s something about the way he says my name that makes my heart feel like it’s about to burst. “I’m not saying you need to plan our wedding. I’m not saying we have to label anything right now.”
He steps closer, eyes dark and fixed on mine.
“We can take this slow. Or fast. Or sideways, I don’t care. But I want to try. I want to see where this goes. And if I’m being completely honest…” He grins, just a little. “I really, really want to fucking kiss you again. Please ask me to ki—”
I don’t let him finish another word.
I close the space between us and kiss him—hard. My bike crashes to the ground next to us, but I don’t care. I don’t even blink. My hands are on his chest, his arms wrapping around me like he’s scared I’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold me tight enough.
I kiss him like I mean it. Like I believe him.
His hand slides behind my neck, thumb grazing my jaw, pulling me in deeper. The way he kisses me makes my knees weak like he’s chosen me.
Heat blooms in my chest, coiling tight.
“Let’s go back to your room,” I whisper, breathless, lips brushing his.
He pauses, just long enough to look in my eyes. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” I breathe out the word. “Troy, yes.”
He grabs my hand and starts walking me up the driveway, urgency in every step.
“Shit—the bike!” I blurt out, turning to look.
“Got it,” he says, sprinting back and lifting it like it weighs nothing, then disappearing around the side of the house to stash it in the backyard.
I stand just inside the door, heart pounding, still trying to catch my breath. I can hear laughter from the lounge. Voices. Music. I pray no one hears us sneak back in.
The door opens behind our back, his lips already finding mine again, his hands greedy and sure as he pushes me against the inside of the door. The air leaves my lungs like I’ve been hit. But in the best possible way.
The lounge door swings open.
“Oops.” Ethan’s voice is way too casual.
I freeze, lips still parted. Troy doesn’t even flinch.
Ethan blinks at us for a moment, I swear I see his face drop but then he smirks.
“For the record,” he calls over his shoulder, “our lovebirds are very much back on good terms!”
A chorus of cheers and teasing shouts echoes from the lounge.
I groan, hiding my face in Troy’s shoulder. How does he smell so freakin’ good?
Troy just yells, “Get a life, Ethan!” over his shoulder, before scooping my hand.
His hand is warm in mine, pulling me up the stairs like he already knows I won’t change my mind.
We pass the hallway light, and for a second, I see our reflection in the dark glass of a picture frame—his impressive biceps, my hand tight in his, my mouth already swollen from his kiss. We look like we’re crazed.
He pushes his bedroom door open with one hand, letting me go only to shut it behind us. The soft click of it closing feels louder than it should.
The room is dark. Troy turns, eyes on me.
And suddenly, I feel the weight of this.
He crosses the room slowly, but not like he’s hesitating.
He’s giving me time.
And God, that somehow makes it worse.
Better.
Hotter.
He stops in front of me, so close our toes are touching.
“I keep thinking I’m gonna wake up and this would have been some insane dream,” he murmurs.
“You dreaming about me, Hawkins?”
He smirks. “Maybe.”
I place a hand on his chest. “And what am I doing in these dreams?”
He sucks in a breath. “I fear you will not like me if I tell you.”
I laugh. “Are they that good?”
“No. They’re that bad, miss Greer.” His eyes darken and he holds my cheek in his hand guiding my lips to his.
His hands slide down my arms, his fingers curling around my waist. His mouth lingers at the corner of mine, teasing. He pulls back just slightly, resting his forehead against mine.
“You sure?” he asks, voice rough.
I nod. “I’m sure.”
His hands slip beneath my shirt—warm, certain—but he doesn’t push. Doesn’t tug. Just lets them rest there against my skin like he’s waiting for permission he technically already has.
My breath catches.
Not because I’m nervous.
But because I’ve never been touched like this.
Like he wants to learn me, not consume.
I curl my fingers into the fabric of his t-shirt, fisting it, anchoring myself. His lips find my neck, slow and reverent, and I swear I feel it in my spine.
“Troy,” I call out his name.
“Yeah?”
His voice is low and hoarse and it takes all my will power not to reach for him like a caged animal.
“You’re really… taking your time.”
He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, a grin tugging at the edge of his mouth. “Gotta earn the good stuff, Greer.”
I narrow my eyes. “You think this is your reward?”
“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, dragging his knuckles along my waist. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”
My whole body goes still. Not out of fear—but because I’m afraid if I move, I’ll melt.
His hands ease under my shirt again, this time gliding higher—across my ribs, up my back, fingers splaying wide. I shiver when he touches the clasp of my bra.
“Still sure?” he asks, voice like gravel and silk.
“Still sure.”
“Good.”
And then he kisses me.
Not the way he has before.
This one is filthy. Desperate. His mouth claims mine like he’s starving, like he’s finally been allowed a taste of something he thought he’d never have.
And I give it to him.
Gladly.
I moan into him when he walks me backward toward the bed, hands mapping me like cartography. Like he wants to memorize every line of me, every curve, every place that makes me gasp.
When my knees hit the edge of the mattress, he stills.
“Lie down,” he says, low and ragged.
I don’t even hesitate.
The second I do, he crawls over me like he belongs there—shoulders broad, eyes dark, jaw clenched like he’s holding himself together with everything he has left.
“Tell me to stop,” he says, even as his hands slide along my thighs, “and I’ll stop.”
I lift my hips to meet his.
“Don’t you dare.”
He growls.
His mouth finds mine again, more urgent now, and I arch under him like gravity no longer applies. My shirt’s gone, tossed somewhere I don’t care to find. His follows. His skin is warm, solid, every line of him pressed against mine.
“You feel like a fucking fever dream,” he mutters into my neck.
I dig my nails into his back. “Then don’t wake up.”
His mouth trails lower—jaw rough against my skin, his large hands steady me in place.
My thighs part instinctively when he shifts between them, the weight of his body pressing down, grounding me.
My head tips back against the pillows as his touch deepens. It’s not rushed. It’s not messy. It’s him. Steady, focused, present.
I bite my lip, trying to keep quiet—the sound that escapes isn’t exactly polite.
He grins against my skin. “Let me hear you.”
And I do, because with Troy Hawkins, I can’t seem to hide.
“I want to make you feel good,” I whisper against his ear, my voice trembling. “Let me...”
His eyes darken as he pulls back to look at me, pupils blown wide with want. “Not yet. What do you need, Delilah?”
I swallow hard, fingers tracing the hard planes of his chest. The words stick in my throat—admitting this feels like revealing a secret I've kept even from myself.
“Take control. Please.”