Chapter 33
DELILAH
Hours later, I'm standing in Troy's childhood bedroom, staring at football trophies and faded posters while the warm buzz of cranberry punch makes everything feel softer around the edges.
“I can't believe your mom kept your room exactly the same,” I say, running my fingers along a shelf of books—mostly sci-fi paperbacks with cracked spines and dog-eared pages.
Troy emerges from the adjoining bathroom, hair damp from his shower, wearing only sweatpants that hang dangerously low on his hips. My mouth goes dry.
“Mom's sentimental,” he says, rubbing a towel over his head. “Dad wanted to turn it into a home office years ago, but she wouldn't hear of it.”
The mention of his father hangs briefly in the air between us, but the alcohol and the late hour make it less heavy somehow.
I've already showered, wearing one of Troy's old t-shirts that falls to mid-thigh. It smells like him—that mixture of laundry detergent and something distinctly Troy that I've grown embarrassingly fond of.
“Your turn to pick the music,” he says, tossing his phone onto the bed.
I scroll through his playlists, settling on something low and vibey.
I press play and the soft strumming of a guitar fills the room. Troy smiles, approving of my choice.
“I didn't know you were into indie folk,” he says, sitting beside me on the bed, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from his skin.
“There's a lot you don't know about me,” I reply, my eyes flicking down to his full lips.
He leans back against the headboard, eyes never leaving mine. “I'm learning, though.”
“Your family is really nice,” I say, changing the subject because the intensity in his eyes is too much right now. “I see where you get it from.”
“Get what?”
“Your you-ness. Your family is warm, open. I like your mom; she seems really relaxed.”
Troy's expression softens. “Yeah, she's always been like that.”
I pull my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around them. “It shows. In you, I mean.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Are you complimenting me, Greer? Should I be worried?”
“Shut up.” I laugh, nudging him with my foot. “I'm trying to have a moment here.”
Troy catches my ankle, his thumb brushing over the bone in a slow circle that sends shivers up my spine. “I like moments with you.”
His voice drops lower, intimate and warm in the dim light of his childhood bedroom. The combination of the familiar—his old posters, trophies—with the present—us, here, together—creates something new and strangely perfect.
“Do you?” I whisper.
He tugs gently on my ankle until I'm sliding toward him across the sheets. “More than I expected to. I want more of them. Millions of moments with you. I am greedy for moments with you, Delilah.”
My heartbeat accelerates as he leans forward, one hand moving to cup my face. His thumb traces my bottom lip, and I can't help the small intake of breath.
“Your mom's right down the hall,” I remind him, but I don't pull away.
Troy's lips quirk up at the corners. “Then I guess you'll have to be quiet.”
Before I can respond, his mouth is on mine, gentle at first, then deeper as I melt into him. His hands slide beneath the oversized t-shirt, warm against my skin.
“Is this okay?” he murmurs against my neck.
“Yes,” I respond, because it is. More than okay.
He shifts us until I'm beneath him, his weight pressing me into the mattress in the most delicious way.
There's something different about him tonight—more tender, less performative.
Like being in this house, surrounded by the memories of who he was before, has stripped away some of his usual bravado.
“You're thinking too much again,” he whispers, pulling back just enough to study my face. His eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, search mine. “Tell me what you’re thinking about.”
I swallow hard, my hands sliding up his bare chest. “I’ve been thinking about this all day, about you making me feel good.”
His smile turns wicked. “I can help with that.”
Troy's mouth captures mine again, hungrier now. His hand slips between us, fingers finding the edge of my underwear and teasing along the elastic. I arch into his touch, already embarrassingly wet for him.
“Fuck.” He breathes against my lips when his fingers slide against me. “You're already so ready for me.”
I bite my lip to keep from moaning as he circles my clit with expert precision. “Troy—”
A soft sound escapes me, and he immediately covers my mouth with his free hand, gentle but firm.
“Shh,” he whispers, eyes locked on mine. “Remember where we are.”
Something about the pressure of his palm against my lips sends a jolt of electricity straight to my core. My eyes widen, and I see the moment he registers my reaction—the way my pupils dilate, the hitch in my breathing.
“Oh,” he says, voice dropping even lower. “You like that.”
I nod against his hand, unable to deny it.
His smile is pure sin. “Good to know.”
Troy keeps his hand over my mouth, his other hand working between my thighs, and I'm lost. The dual sensations—being silenced while being pleasured—awakens something primal in me. I whimper against his palm, my hips rising to meet his touch.
With any other guy, this might feel threatening, confining. But with Troy, it feels like liberation. Like I can finally stop being Delilah Greer, the girl who has it all figured out, who never needs help, who's always in control.
Instead, I can just be the girl who falls apart under Troy Hawkins' touch.
And somehow, that surrender makes me feel stronger, not weaker.
“You're so fucking beautiful like this,” he murmurs, his voice strained with restraint. “I could watch you come apart all night.”
My hands grip his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as he slides one finger inside me, then another, curling them just right. The pressure builds, hot and insistent, and I'm close, so close—
He must feel it too, because he increases his pace, his thumb circling my clit as his fingers thrust deeper. My eyes flutter closed, but he makes a disapproving sound.
“Look at me,” he commands softly. “I want to see you.”
I force my eyes open, meeting his intense gaze. The intimacy of it—being seen, truly seen, at my most vulnerable—pushes me over the edge. My orgasm crashes through me in waves, and I would have cried out if not for his hand still covering my mouth.
As I come down, trembling, he slowly removes his hand, replacing it with a gentle kiss.
“That was...” I whisper, struggling to find words.
“Just the beginning,” he promises, shifting to remove his sweatpants.
I watch, still breathless.
Troy's eyes never leave mine as he pushes his sweatpants down, revealing his hard length. The sight of him—all lean muscle and wanting—makes my breath catch. He settles between my thighs, brushing the head of his cock against my entrance, teasing.
“I need you,” I whisper, surprising myself with my directness. “Now.”
His pupils dilate at my words. “Say it again.”
“I need you, Troy,” I repeat, my voice steadier this time. “Inside me.”
He groans softly, pressing his forehead against mine. “You have no idea what it does to me when you're like this, open for me.”
With one smooth thrust, he enters me, both of us gasping at the sensation. He gives me a moment to adjust, his muscles trembling with the effort of holding back.
“Okay?” he murmurs, searching my face.
I nod, wrapping my legs around his waist to pull him deeper. “More than okay.”
Troy begins to move, setting a rhythm that's both gentle and insistent. His hands slide under my shirt, palms hot against my skin as they move up to cup my breasts. I arch into his touch, biting my lip to keep quiet.
“I love how responsive you are,” he whispers, rolling one nipple between his fingers. “How wet you get for me.”
The combination of his words and his touch sends sparks of pleasure through me.
I reach up to trace the contours of his face, marveling at the intensity in his eyes as he moves inside me.
He captures my exploring fingers with his mouth, sucking two into his warmth, and the unexpected sensation makes my thighs clench around him.
“Fuck,” he hisses, his rhythm faltering. “Do that again.”
I deliberately tighten around him, watching his face as pleasure overtakes him. His jaw tightens, a vein in his neck standing out as he fights for control.
“You're going to be the death of me.” He groans, shifting his angle to hit that perfect spot inside me.
I gasp, my back arching off the bed. “Troy—”
He covers my mouth again, his eyes dark with desire. “Quiet, remember?”
The reminder that we're in his childhood bedroom, with his family down the hall, should be mortifying. Instead, it adds an edge of danger that heightens every sensation. His thrusts become more urgent, more demanding, and I meet each one, my body singing with pleasure.
“You feel so good,” he murmurs against my neck, his breath hot on my skin. “So tight, so perfect.”
His words send another rush of heat through me. I've never been one for dirty talk, but with Troy, everything is different. His voice alone could probably make me come.
He shifts us suddenly, rolling onto his back and pulling me on top of him without breaking our connection. The new position drives him deeper, and I have to bite my lip hard to bite back a moan as he grips my hips.
“Ride me,” he whispers, his voice strained. “Take what you want.”
I begin to move, finding a rhythm that has us both breathing hard. Troy's hands slide up my body, pushing my shirt higher until I pull it off completely, tossing it aside. His eyes darken as he takes in the sight of me above him, naked and wanting.
“Fuck, you're gorgeous,” he murmurs, his hands cupping my breasts.
The intensity builds between us, his thrusts matching mine, until suddenly—the bed creaks. Loudly.
We both freeze, eyes wide, staring at each other in the dim light. For a heartbeat, there's nothing but the sound of our breathing and the soft music still playing from his phone.