Chapter Forty-Five
Delilah
This is supposed to be Rhys-melts-on-sight time.
Hour of the Slut Siren. My shining moment.
He’s supposed to walk in, see me bare and dewy under those godawful lights, and forget every boundary he’s ever white-knuckled through.
He’s supposed to quietly lose his fucking mind, just a little, behind those pretty lashes and that composed therapist jaw.
Instead, I’m on display like a live-action porn exhibit, and he’s brought the boys for group viewing.
Do they talk about me when I’m not there? Trade war stories? Group jerk like a frat cult?
Benji’s grinning like Christmas morning.
His whole giant body radiates pride, like I’m some masterpiece he painted himself and hung up for the world to envy.
His eyes don’t waver. He’s glued to me. I feel it, thick and molten in the space between us.
It’s love. It’s devotion. It’s hunger, bubbling slow and sweet like molasses over fire.
And I love this for us. I do. I can’t wait to see what he’s drawn, bet it’s reverent and sweet and absolutely filthy under the sweetness. Bet I’ll cry. Bet I’ll come.
Jett’s pissed, but not break-furniture pissed.
Not stab Chad with a palette knife pissed.
No, this is angry because he wants me pissed.
Angry because I’m naked and other men are seeing me pissed.
That murder-me/fuck-me line is always razor-thin with Jett, and I’d crawl across it on my tongue if he asked.
But Rhys... Rhys is the whole reason I’m here. Rhys hasn’t taken his eyes off me. He’s tense. Jaw clenched, hands a study in professional restraint. I know that look. It’s the same one he wore the first day we met, trying to stay clinical while something inside him howled.
I want to rub his shoulders. Sink my teeth in.
Lick up his neck and whisper every filthy, desperate thing I’ve ever imagined doing to him while he held me accountable with that deep voice and those big, ethical hands on my throat.
I want to know if he’ll ever be able to look at me in session without remembering this, my bare skin, my chain, my thighs spread just enough for suggestion but not indulgence.
He probably always saw me naked.
I wonder if he’ll jerk off to this tonight. I hope he does. I hope he feels guilty and hard and too wrecked to sleep.
But why are they all here together? Did he drag them here? Is this therapy for Jett? A surprise test? Benji doesn’t even go to therapy.
When class wraps up, the artists slink out without a word. No eye contact, no awkward goodbyes, just a bunch of quietly boned-up strangers packing their little drawing pads like we didn’t just collectively eye-fuck in a silent, reverent group jerk session.
It’s weird. And kinda hot.
They saw me, gloriously naked, and now they’re just...going to Chipotle?
Rhys pulls Jett off to the side like he’s about to debrief him for a war crime. Benji beelines straight for me like his soul is magnetized to my nipples.
“You were amazing,” he breathes.
“Did you draw me?” I ask, shimmying like a Vegas showgirl. “With boobs and everything?”
He blushes so hard I think I see steam puff out of his collar. “Yes, ma’am. But it probably looks like something a toddler drew during a fever dream. It’s not gonna do you justice. No one could.”
My whole chest flutters. I want to lick his dimples. “When you said you were hanging with Jett, I didn’t realize that meant Rhys too.”
“We’re layered, complex men. Even got a group chat,” he says, hand gliding down my glitter-slick side. “You’re shimmering.”
“It’s lotion,” I purr, pressing against him. “Now you’re shimmering too. You’re welcome.”
Then Jett appears like an angry shadow. “Your clothes?” he growls.
“Did you draw me?” I ask, all faux-innocence and come-fuck-me eyes.
“I drew something. Clothes?” he repeats.
“I have a coat,” I sing, just as Rhys strolls over and drapes it across my shoulders like he’s trying to convince himself he’s still in control. “You were a lovely subject,” he says, voice slightly strangled.
Benji snorts. “Translation: ‘I jizzed in my pants and now I’m emotionally compromised.’”
Jett shakes his head. “Doc’s still pretending he didn’t nut like a freshman in a strip club.”
Rhys closes his eyes, probably praying for death. “We were...thinking about dinner.”
“A date?” I gasp, bouncing on my toes. “Are you asking me on a real live date?”
“She’s gonna come,” Benji says.
Rhys just sighs and buttons my coat, muttering something about public decency like he wasn’t eye-fucking me across a classroom half an hour ago. “Where are we going?” he asks.
“Should we take them to our place?” Benji asks me, casual like he’s not inviting two thirds of my obsession harem for afterglow snacks.
“Really?” I squeal, throwing my arms around him. “Isn’t he the best ever?”
“Yeah,” Jett says. “The best ever. Does it have whiskey?”
“Yep,” Benji says. “And pizza. And pool. Or darts.”
I grab Rhys’s arm and loop it with mine. “Do you like darts? Or are you more of a... corner-of-the-room-and-stare-while-the-rest-of-us-pretend-we’re-not-performing-for-you kinda guy?”
His eye twitches.
God, I love this game.
Are Benji and Jett gonna help me seduce Rhys now?
Because that’s the kind of teamwork I can get behind.
Or sandwiched between.
Or pinned under.
Hell, maybe on top of. Rhys looks like he’d like to press me down and Jett looks like he’d like to hold me open. Benji? My sweetheart? He’d whisper affirmations through the whole goddamn thing while I spiral.
We make the sexiest convoy to ever grace a Friday night sports bar.
Me, glowing like a freshly fucked goddess in nothing but coat and glitter.
Rhys walking like he’s headed to his own execution.
Jett stalking beside him, murdery and hard in his jeans.
And Benji, my golden boy, carrying the weight of this whole fever dream on his broad-ass shoulders like it’s nothing.
This is our place. Mine and Benji’s. Where he taught me I could be more than feral want. Where I realized someone could see me and not run. And now he’s sharing it. With them.
Benji is my heart. And he’s fucking sharing.
He scores us a table in the back near the dart boards, tucked just behind the pool table. It’s busier than our lunch date, loud and warm, and the Friday crowd feels more us. Darker. Messier. Hornier, maybe. Perfect for a night of very poor decisions.
Benji and I order our usual: one large pizza to share. My half sausage, pineapple, hot peppers. His banana peppers, sundried tomatoes, and pepperoni. And a side of cheese sauce for illegal dipping.
Rhys and Jett both wrinkle their pretty noses like we just pissed on their childhoods.
Jett grunts and orders the meat monster, every single animal they’ve got back there, all murdered and fried into one pizza.
Rhys, predictably, places the most Rhys-ass order I’ve ever heard. White sauce. Mushrooms. Zero joy. He has no right to wrinkle his nose at me and Benji.
“Bring them a side of cheese too,” Benji says helpfully. “And a pitcher of draft.”
“Round of whiskey shots,” Jett adds.
The server leaves.
I bounce a little in my chair, squirmy and smug.
“So we were talking about body paint,” Benji says, all sunshine and sin.
“You were talking about body paint,” Rhys corrects, sipping his water.
“Let’s not dismiss body paint so quickly,” Jett says. “It’s artistic.”
“Edible,” Benji adds, squeezing my thigh under the table.
I purr. “Are you two corrupting my sweet man?”
“His idea,” Rhys says dryly.
“He used to do naked finger painting as a kid,” Jett says.
“Apparently it was formative,” Rhys says, and I swear I hear the tiniest shred of envy. “Might be why he’s so well-adjusted.”
Benji chuckles and tugs me closer, my chair scraping until I’m pressed flush to his side. His palm lands hot and heavy on my lap. “Sweet and innocent are not the same thing,” he says, eyes on me. “I’m sweet.”
I slide into his lap without breaking eye contact. “And I know you’re not innocent.”
Rhys looks like he might pass out.
Jett’s gripping his pint glass like he wants to throw it or fuck it. “Keep your hands above the coat,” Jett warns, voice gravel.
Benji raises both hands like a goddamn saint. “So. Arts and crafts. Chocolate paint. Maybe some stencils.”
“Rhys is a white chocolate kind of guy,” I add, batting lashes at him while imagining licking melted cocoa off his abs.
The server returns with our drinks. I grab a shot, toast no one in particular, and knock it back.
Rhys follows suit. Downs his like it’s medicine and I’m the disease.
Jett laughs and pushes his toward Rhys. “Have mine. You’re gonna need it.”
I’m drunk on it. Not the whiskey. Not even the thrill of being naked in front of them earlier.
I’m drunk on the way they look at me like I’m the center of gravity.
Benji’s got his hand on my thigh, staking a claim.
Jett’s watching it, jaw tight.
And Rhys is avoiding my eyes so hard I think he might combust. He’s thinking things he’s not supposed to. Drawing lines in his mind just to fantasize about crossing them.
I’m winning. I think.
How could I not be, I’m perched in Benji’s lap, full of pizza and dirty ideas, surrounded by my gorgeous, broken chaos boys.
And I’m shimmering.