12. Spencer
Chapter 12
Spencer
I ’m pacing in the foyer, waiting for the doorman to bring up our food. It feels weird having a guest stay. I rarely have people here … I like my solitude. Apart from my mother, and occasionally Simone, my assistant—if she has paperwork she needs to drop off—I don’t have women here ever.
Why I suddenly thought this was a good idea, I’ll never know. All my common sense seems to go out the window where Delilah St. James is concerned.
I hadn’t planned on having her stay here when I went to her parents’ house. I was simply there to get the information her daughter refused to give me. But after speaking with her mother, I felt backed into a corner. Especially when I found out she was travelling on the bus alone at that time of night. Delilah may technically be an adult, but they seem to have a reckless disregard for their daughter’s safety and well-being, and I consciously could not turn my back on that.
When I asked her why her husband wasn’t collecting their daughter when she was finishing so late, she simply said, “She never asked us to.”
“Did you not think to offer?” I’d countered.
That’s when I came up with this hairbrained scheme to bring Delilah here. I’ll probably live to regret this decision, but until I can figure out an alternative arrangement, this was my only option.
I almost popped a damn artery when I arrived at the restaurant to collect her only to find she’d already left. When I found her sitting alone at that bus stop, looking like the young woman I first met—sweet, innocent, and all doe-eyed and fresh-faced, with her long hair pulled into a messy bun on the top of her head—my heart squeezed in my chest. She appeared so vulnerable and ripe for the picking. A crime of opportunity just waiting to happen, and all the fucked-up scenarios that flashed through my mind are going to keep me up tonight, I’m sure.
I’m pulled from my thoughts when the elevator dings. I retrieve a fifty-dollar note out of my pocket and give it to the doorman as I take the two large brown paper bags out of his hand.
“Thank you, Mr Prescott. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”
I nod my head once. “You too, Derek.”
When the doors close, I turn and make my way back into the apartment. I’m only a few steps into the room when I almost trip over my own two feet. The last thing I’m expecting to see is Delilah standing in my kitchen practically naked.
My eyes involuntarily move down the length of her body, and thankfully, I have enough sense to move the bags I’m holding in front of me because my dick seems to like what I see as well.
Delilah’s dressed in a tiny pair of pink silk pyjama shorts paired with a matching camisole. The entire ensemble is trimmed with an inch of delicate black lace, and despite her short stature, her smooth, bare legs appear to go on for days.
“I’m sorry,” I hear her whisper, and when my eyes move back to her face, I notice her cheeks are the same colour as her pyjamas. “My mum isn’t aware that we broke up, so I guess she packed the sexiest pair of PJs I own.”
I can’t help but chuckle when she adds the last part. “Like I said earlier, I was unaware that we split.”
“You realise we were never technically together?”
“I believe your status said otherwise, Miss St. James.”
Her eyes narrow as I continue towards the kitchen and place the bags of food on top of the island. “Do you have a T-shirt or something I can put on? My mother only packed these, some clean underwear, socks, my toiletries, and a denim skirt for me to wear tomorrow.”
A part of me wants to deny her request, but I’m unsure if I can trust myself to remain in the same room as her when she’s dressed in next to nothing. Even the sweet-smelling shampoo from her freshly washed hair is playing havoc with my senses. I have to physically restrain myself from wrapping my arms around her tiny waist and burying my nose in her hair.
I clear my throat before saying, “I’ve ordered a variety of things since I was unsure what you wanted. Why don’t you unpack the food and I’ll grab something for you to wear.”
The moment I’m out of sight, the first thing I do is adjust my aching cock. “What were you thinking by bringing her here, Prescott?” I mumble under my breath.
Tomorrow, I’m going to make it my mission to find her an alternative arrangement.
Delilah headed to bed over an hour ago, once her work shirt was finished drying, but I’m too buzzed to sleep. I’m sitting outside on the balcony, my legs propped up as I gaze up at the stars, smoking a cigar and drinking my second glass of bourbon. I’m trying to make sense of the clusterfuck that’s raging inside me.
I thought covering her up would help, but seeing her draped in my clothing, just a simple T-shirt that swam on her and almost reached her knees, only seemed to heighten my desire to claim her. It had me wanting to beat on my chest like a caveman. That, combined with the sight of her pillowy lips closing around the fork as she ate, or the slight muscle movements in her neck as she swallowed, had my dick wanting to burst through the zipper of my jeans.
Never in my life have I craved a woman as much as I did her earlier. It was maddening … she’s maddening , and I need her gone. I don’t think I could withstand the torture that would come with a repeat of tonight. Where can I house her? I know she won’t allow me to put her up in her own apartment. Maybe my mother could take her in. Hmm. Yes, that could work.
Now that I have a solid plan in place, I stub out my cigar, down the rest of my drink, and stand. I’ll call my mother first thing tomorrow and organise it.
After turning off all the lights, I head towards the hallway that leads to my room. I try not to think about Delilah sleeping behind the first door as I pass, but the scent of her damn shampoo still lingers in the air, which has my dick instantly swelling again.
A deep, primal groan bubbles in the back of my throat as I close my eyes and tilt my head towards the ceiling.
As soon as I enter my bedroom, I close the door behind me and lock it before heading towards my en suite. I lean into the shower cubicle and turn on the taps before stripping out of my clothes. Once the water is warm, I step under the spray and wet my hair, all the while trying to ignore my throbbing cock.
I need to take care of this monstrosity because I’ll never be able to sleep if I don’t. My problem is, how do I do it without having impure thoughts of Delilah St. James?
I try to conjure up a non-Delilah image, and Candice Swanepoel is the person who comes to mind. She’s a South African supermodel, and when I was eighteen, my father took me to a Victoria’s Secret fashion show, and she was the first model to catch my eye. I thought little of it at the time, but when my father’s true colours surfaced a few years later, I concluded the trip was more for him than it was for me.
Candice may be age-appropriate for my fantasy, but with her long blonde hair and striking blue eyes, it only takes a moment for her face to morph into the one person I’m trying not to think about.
Wrapping my hand around my rock-hard cock, I squeeze it as I try to push that image from my head. It’s no use. The moment I stroke myself, I’m suddenly picturing Delilah in front of me on her knees. Her pretty blue eyes stare up at me—eyes that I could seriously fucking drown in—as she nibbles on the corner of her plump bottom lip.
Fuck, I’m going to hell for this.
The room has now filled with steam as I pump body wash into my right palm and rest my forehead against the cool grey tiles. I wrap my hand tightly around the base of my dick as an image of hardened nipples poking through that flimsy silk camisole takes over. Her fingertips brush the thin spaghetti straps over her shoulders, and I groan loudly when the material drops to her waist and her perky tits pop free. It’s like an erotic striptease and I want more … I want it all .
My heart is beating furiously against my ribcage as my movements quicken. “Yes,” I grunt when she cups her tits in her delicate hands and pinches the stiff peaks between her forefinger and thumb.
“Spencer,” she moans, and when that sexy fucking mouth of hers forms a perfect little ‘O’, I almost blow my load then and there. But I’m not ready yet. If this is the only time I’m going to allow myself to cross that invisible line I’ve drawn between us, I plan on dragging it out as long as I can.
My blood is running hot when she pushes the soft flesh of her tits together, creating a snug, warm haven for my cock.
“Delilah,” I murmur as my strokes become sluggish.
One of her hands drops away, skating south over her toned stomach. When the tips of her fingers disappear behind the elastic of her sleep shorts and between her slightly parted legs, I feel my balls draw up.
“Oh God,” she breathes as she works herself over. What I wouldn’t give to witness this in real life. “I’m so wet for you, Mr Prescott.” My hand is moving at a furious pace now, and I know I can’t hold back much longer. When she arches her back and moans loudly, a tingle runs down the length of my spine. “I’m coming, Spencer … I’m coming so hard,” she whimpers, and I am right there with her.
My fist is now flying as a wild, uninhibited roar rips from deep inside me. “Delilah,” I cry out. My legs threaten to give out from underneath me as long ropes of hot cum spurt into my free hand.
I stand there panting as I try to get air into my lungs, and it’s only once I wash up and climb into bed ten minutes later that the shame of what I just did takes hold.
Thankfully, my back is to Delilah when she finally emerges from her room. I’m in the kitchen making myself a second cup of coffee, and I don’t need to turn around to know she’s wheeling her suitcase as she approaches.
“Where are you going with that?” I ask.
“Good morning to you too,” she retorts.
I continue making my coffee, taking my sweet time, before facing her. I bring the mug to my mouth as my eyes briefly skim over her, and I’m pleased to see she’s dressed for the day and no longer in my clothes or that damn pink silk … although, that barely there denim skirt doesn’t leave much to the imagination.
“What does your boss think about you wearing that to work?”
“What?” she says, glancing down at herself. “This is a work-issued top.”
“I’m referring to that,” I reply, flicking my pointed finger towards her lower half. “That poor excuse for a skirt.”
She lifts one shoulder. “He doesn’t mind.”
He.
“I bet he doesn’t … go and change.”
Her hands move to her hips as her sass comes out to play. “Into what exactly? My pyjama shorts?”
“There’s nothing else in your suitcase?”
“No.”
“What about the tights you were wearing yesterday?”
“They’re dirty. ”
I blow out an exasperated breath. “Why do you have your suitcase?”
“Because I’m taking it to work with me. I don’t have any clothes for the office tomorrow, so I need to go home when my shift is over.”
“Hmm,” I hum. I should feel relieved that she’s leaving, but surprisingly, I don’t. “Leave it here, and I’ll bring it with me when I pick you up tonight.”
“I don’t expect you to drive me all the way home, Spencer.”
“It’s non-negotiable, Delilah.”
“Ugh.” She abandons her suitcase from where it sits and enters the kitchen. When she comes to a stop in front of me, she reaches up and takes the coffee out of my hands. “Can I have one of these?” she asks, bringing my mug to her lips and taking a sip.
If anyone else dared to pull that move on me, I’d be livid, but this isn’t just anyone … it’s Delilah .