Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Delaney
By the time Ivy drops me off at the ranch, it’s after midnight. The air is cool and clean, that late fall kind of cold that whispers across bare skin and sneaks under hemlines. My heels seem to clatter on the porch as I climb the steps, tugging my jacket tighter around myself.
I’m still warm from the night. Warm from the laughter, the drinks, the music, the feeling of finally being a person again instead of a walking anxiety coil. But underneath it, something unsettled has been slowly curling, dragging its claws along my ribs.
I turn the knob slowly, easing the front door open so it doesn’t squeak.
The house is dark.
Mostly.
There’s a faint golden beam coming from the living room, warm and flickering, and the moment I step inside, I see why.
Silas is still awake.
He’s sprawled across the couch like he was poured there, legs long and loose, one arm thrown along the back, boots propped on the coffee table. A soft amber lamp is lit beside him, casting warm shadows over his tattooed forearm and the long, easy line of his throat.
He looks up as soon as the door clicks shut behind me.
And he smiles.
Not the lazy grin he trots out for half the town, or the smirk he used to hide nerves that first week I lived here, but a slow, warm, private smile, just for me.
“Well, damn,” he says, low and honey rough, “look who’s tryin’ to kill me at nearly one in the morning.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “I wasn’t… I didn’t think anyone would be awake.”
“Oh, I’m very awake.” His eyes trace me. Down my legs, up the line of my dress, lingering where the neckline dips. Mischief gleams in them. “You had fun tonight?”
I nod. “Yeah. It was… nice. Really nice, actually.”
“Good.” He sits forward, elbows on his knees. “You deserve that.”
The way he says it hits me low in the stomach. I glance toward the kitchen, pretending like I’m looking for water.
“You want a drink?” he asks, already standing before I can answer.
“I… sure?”
“It’s either wine or the good whiskey,” he calls over his shoulder as he disappears into the kitchen. “And since you’re dressed like a sin-tinted goddess, I’m guessin’ whiskey.”
My face goes hot. “Can you behave for two minutes?”
“Nope.”
His voice is bright and wicked, but when he comes back, his expression is softer. Almost thoughtful. He hands me a glass, two fingers of an amber and warm-smelling liquid, and motions for me to sit.
Thunder rolls low in my chest when I ease down beside him, still feeling the buzz of the night on my skin. He sits close. Not touching, but near enough that I feel his heat.
“So,” he says, swirling his drink, “you gonna tell me why you look like you just walked out of trouble?”
“I don’t look like trouble.”
“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, leaning back to take me in fully, “you look exactly like trouble. The kind a man thanks God for.”
My breath stutters.
It shouldn’t.
I should be used to Silas. He’s always been like this. Gentle flirtation wrapped in sharp humor, playful and warm and bold. But tonight feels different. Like the space between us has been rewired.
Maybe it’s the whiskey.
Maybe it’s the dress.
Maybe it’s the way the lamp light paints his throat in gold, making me think of what that skin tastes of.
I take a sip. Too big of one.
“You okay?”
“Yeah. I just… needed a night out.”
He studies me for a long moment, and the teasing fades.
“You looked like you needed it,” he says quietly. “Been runnin’ yourself ragged between the kitchen and Sadie and trying to handle every damn feeling alone.”
My shoulders stiffen. “I don’t—”
He cuts me off gently. “Delaney. It’s me. I see you.”
And I hate how easy it is to believe that.
I look at my hands, twisting the glass. “It’s just been a rough week.”
“Because of Caleb?”
I flinch.
He notices. Of course he does.
“I didn’t mean to pry,” he says softly, leaning slightly closer. “Just sayin’ you can talk to me if you want.”
I shake my head quickly. “It’s nothing like that. Not really. I just… messed things up with him a little. Or he thinks he messed things up with me. I don’t know.”
Silas hums. “Caleb worries too much. Feels too much. But he always means well.”
“I know.”
“And Boone—”
“Silas.” My voice sharpens before I can pull it back.
Silas lifts his hands in surrender. “Alright. I’ll shut up.”
But everything has shifted. I can feel his gaze tipping toward hunger.
And I feel myself tipping too.
Which is stupid.
And dangerous.
And exactly what I should not be doing.
He reaches out and brushes a strand of hair from my cheek. His knuckles graze my skin, feather light, warm enough to make my breath catch.
“You look so damn beautiful tonight,” he says quietly. “Can’t stop staring at you.”
“Silas…”
“Yeah?”
“This is a bad idea.”
He nods. “Probably.”
We sit in that.
Then he murmurs, “Can I kiss you anyway?”
My heart slams against my ribs.
I should say no.
I should get up, walk to my room, lock the door, and rethink every choice that led me here.
Instead, I whisper, “Yes.”
One hand comes to my jaw, warm and firm, guiding my face up to his. The other slides to my waist, fingers spanning almost the whole thing, pulling me closer with a slow, hungry certainty.
His mouth finds mine, and everything in me goes molten.
Silas kisses like he wants to taste every thought I’ve ever had. His thumb strokes my cheek, his other hand glides up my spine, leaving heat in its wake. When his fingers reach the back of my neck, he tips my head slightly, angling me exactly how he wants, and my knees nearly give out.
I make a small sound, and he swallows it with a low groan of his own.
“Come here,” he murmurs against my mouth, shifting us both, and suddenly I’m in his lap, straddling his thighs, dress riding up, his hands sliding confidently to my hips like he’s been waiting years to put them there.
My breath catches, sharp and involuntary.
“Yeah,” he whispers, eyes darkening as he takes me in. “That’s it.”
He kisses me again, deeper this time, hungrier, and my fingers slide into his hair like they’re meant to live there. He groans, pulling me tighter against him, chest to chest, heat meeting heat. His lips trail down my jaw, my throat, the curve of my neck.
“Delaney…” My name is a broken sigh against my skin as his fingers edge further down. “You’re killin’ me.”
His hands bunch up my dress and slide, rough calluses scraping heat up my thighs, fingers digging hard enough to say this is not a careful night, one hand spanning my thigh as it pushes under the hem.
His thumb traces higher.
And higher.
The first brush along my inner seam makes me gasp. I’m wet already, so ready it’s almost pitiful. His mouth finds my earlobe, laughter rumbling into my neck as he notices.
“You’re fuckin’ soaked, Delaney. Been thinking about this all night?”
I dig my nails into his scalp, pulling him harder against my mouth.
“Can’t help it,” I hiss, “not with how you look at me. Not with how you…”
His fingers slide the last inch, under the edge of my underwear, and I bite his lip when he finds me. He laughs, soft and dark, working me with slow, teasing strokes, almost like he wants to see how long I’ll beg.
But I won’t beg. I refuse.
I rock against him, breathless, using every muscle in my thighs to roll my hips into the heel of his palm.
His jaw clenches. That makes me grin.
“Tell me what you want,” he demands, shaking just enough to let me know I’m not the only one trembling.
“I want you to…” I bite down on the word, cheeks flushed, because holy hell, I don’t know how to say it. I’ve never been this blunt with anyone before. The sentence unspools in my mind, unspeakable and unraveling, and I barely get out, “I want your fingers in me.”
The tips of his fingers twitch in surprise, just a hitch, just a moment’s hesitation, like he’s stunned I said it aloud. Then his laugh is a pant, and his mouth is at the corner of mine, his breath all over me.
“Damn, woman.”
It’s a gasp and a growl in the same moment, and then he’s sliding his fingers deep inside, two at once, his palm pressed so hard against my clit I see fractals.
I choke on his name, grabbing his shoulder with both hands to keep my balance. His other arm wraps around my back, anchoring me to him, holding me so tight I feel the indent of his teeth in my shoulder through the velvet haze between my ears.
It’s frantic in a way I never let myself be. I meet every push and curl of his hand like my body’s answering a dare, heat flaring up through my belly and down my legs, muscles tightening, sweat popping at my hairline.
His mouth is at my ear, murmuring, “Just like that, Delaney, you’re fuckin’ gorgeous.”
It snaps through me like an electric current, the dirty permission I always daydreamed of but never ever said. He switches from slow to fast, mixing up the rhythm, making my breath stutter in my chest.
I want to say something clever, to be in control, but all I can manage is a series of yes, yes, yes, and a string of every curse word I’ve ever learned.
My climax shreds through me, violent and mean, and I come so hard I see sparks behind my eyelids, collapsing onto his chest with a strangled, involuntary sob. Silas catches me, still working his hand until I whimper and nearly push him away.
I’m shaking. I’m boneless. My thighs clamp around his hand, trapping him there, and I’m so spent I can’t breathe.
He gentles his touch, holding me, palm cool and trembling on my bare hip.
I bury my face in his neck and cling to him, breathing in the salt and sweat and him of it all, my body echoing with aftershocks.
“Fuck,” I whisper, muffled by his skin. “Oh shit, Silas, I…”
He pulls back immediately, hands raised, expression softening. “Hey. Hey… what’s wrong?”
“I can’t.” My voice shakes. “I just, this is…”
His brows knit with concern. “Did I push too fast? Too far?”
“No, it’s not you.” I stand too quickly, almost dizzy with the sudden rush of guilt. “I just, I need… I have to go.”
“Delaney—”
“I’m sorry.” My throat tightens. “I’m so sorry.”
He stands too. “You don’t need to apologize to me for anything, sweetheart. Just breathe.”
But my chest is tight.
My mind is roaring.
And guilt is gnawing up my spine.
Because it doesn’t feel wrong.
And that’s the problem.
It feels good.
Too good.
The kind of good that leads to disaster.
I turn, almost stumbling down the hallway. My feet barely feel the ground beneath them. My pulse roars in my ears. Shame and longing tangle until I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.
When I reach my bedroom door, I shut it quietly and press my forehead to the wood.
My breath shakes.
My hands tremble.
I don’t want a mess. I don’t want another disaster.
I don’t want to be the woman caught between men again, accused of leading someone on or giving the wrong impression or ruining a life.
I don’t want another Marcus.
I close my eyes.
Tomorrow.
I’ll sort it out tomorrow. Clear, honest conversation, boundaries, choices.
But tonight…
I slide down the door and sit on the floor, arms wrapped around my knees, heart aching.
Tonight, all I have is the truth I am terrified to face:
I want all of them.
And wanting all of them is exactly how girls like me get burned.