35. Delilah #2
“Then I’d slide my fingers under the waistband of your panties, feeling how soaked you already are,” he continues. “I’d tease your clit with just the tip of my thumb, circling it slow until you’re whimpering, begging for more, while I watch your eyes roll back and your lips part.”
His green eyes are huge and unblinking. As I watch, his tongue darts out and licks the corner of his lips.
“I’d pull your panties aside and press my cock right against your slick entrance,” he says. “I’d feel how hot you are, how you’re already dripping for me, and I’d slide in just enough to stretch you, to make you gasp, feeling every inch of my thickness fill you up.”
I can almost feel exactly what he’s describing. The pressure, the blunt head of his cock nudging my pussy lips, the stretch as he begins to push deeper, the way my walls clench instinctively around him.
“Then I’d fuck you hard,” he growls. “I’d slam into you, over and over, hearing the slap of my thighs against your ass, watching your tits jiggle with each thrust. I’d pull your hair back, expose that pretty neck, and bite down hard enough to leave a mark, while you scream my name and beg me not to stop.
“I’d flip you over, press you face-first into the wall, and take you from behind,” he whispers. “I’d pound into you. Make you moan. Make you whimper. Make you whine.”
He leans even closer.
“And when I’m almost there, I’d pull out just enough to coat your ass with my cum, watching it drip down your cheeks, mixing with the sweat on your skin.
Then I’d shove my cock back into your pussy, filling you with my seed, feeling you convulse as you orgasm around me, your walls milking every last drop. ”
I feel a shudder run through me. My nipples are so hard it hurts. I’ve completely forgotten about where we are and who we are. He’s reducing me to a cavewoman, with thoughts that barely form complete sentences.
Yes.
That.
I want that.
“Finally,” he says, “I’d make you suck me clean.
I’d grab your hair, force your mouth onto my still-hard cock, and watch you gag, tears streaming down your face as you take me deep, your tongue swirling around my shaft, tasting yourself and me mixed together.
I’d finish coming down your throat, making you swallow every drop, feeling you choke and moan at the same time. ”
My hand, still holding my fork, shakes as I set it down.
Finally, Kane settles back in his chair, smiling in a way that is indescribably filthy. “Does that answer your question, Ms. Dorsey?”
I swallow hard. My face and ears are hot. “Okay,” I say. “That was—yeah. That was thorough.”
“You asked.”
“Yeah, you’re right. That’s on me.”
His hand snakes under the tablecloth and settles high on my thigh. I’m braced for him to venture further, but that’s all he does. Just stays there.
Even that’s enough to drive me up the wall, though.
I spread my legs just enough to coax him toward where my thighs meet. Kane looks at me, eyebrows raised.
“Feeling greedy, are we? My little story-time wasn’t enough?”
“It was… I’m just…”
He starts to edge higher—but right then is when dessert arrives, which proves that the hospitality industry vehemently opposes female pleasure.
By the time the door shuts again, I’m gripping the arm of the chair.
“You’re doing that on purpose,” I say.
“Obviously.”
“There are people twelve feet away.”
“Behind a wall.” His thumb moves once. “Do you want me to stop?”
“No.”
“Good girl.”
“Don’t—” I laugh, mortified. “Don’t say that in a restaurant.”
“Then we’ll go someplace that isn’t a restaurant. Eventually.”
The dessert comes. Kane withdraws his hand as we eat. It’s silent, just the scrape of forks, but it’s the hottest silence I’ve ever been a part of. The air is thick enough to choke on.
Then, out of nowhere, something stupid occurs to me, but I feel bold enough to voice it aloud.
“Can I tell you something dumb?”
“Always.”
“I cannot remember last Valentine’s Day with Connor at all.” I shrug. “I can’t picture a restaurant or a card or even a fight. Nothing. Ten years of them and I can’t get one clear picture. But I can see the X I drew on this day in my dad’s planner, so I know what he was doing.”
Kane’s jaw grinds. He slowly returns his fork to the plate. “Then tell me what you want to keep from this one,” he says.
“From tonight?”
“Yes. Choose it now, while you’re still in it. Say it out loud and it’ll stick.”
I don’t have to hunt for my answer. It’s right there, already picked out.
“Your sleeves rolled up,” I say. “Past the elbow, with the tattoos showing, and your rings sitting next to my phone by the mixer.”
Kane looks at me, and for once, he isn’t smirking at all.
“Then that’s the memory we keep,” he says.
Downstairs, the cold is immediate and Stepan is at the curb with the door already open.
Kane stops with his hand on the frame.
“We have three options,” he says. “There’s a bar a few blocks from here that I own, where nobody will speak to you unless you want them to. There’s a rooftop that’s technically closed but won’t be for us. Or home.”
“Whose home?”
“You tell me.”
I stand there on Central Park South in my boots, as smitten Valentine’s Day couples walk arm in arm around us. I’m only half-pretending to think.
I know what I truly want.
I think I’ve known for a while now.
I lean past Kane and say, “Stepan? Sheepshead Bay, please. My house.”
My thoughts are all over the place as we drive there. For ten years, that address meant Connor’s schedule, Connor’s poker friends, Connor’s preferred side of the garage. I took the house in the settlement, but ownership has still felt administrative during these first few weeks.
Even though I changed the locks, painted the bedroom, and removed his furniture, his ghost still lingered.
Bringing Kane home is what makes the house mine tonight.
We do get a head start on things, though. By the time we reach my street, my lipstick is damaged beyond repair and one stocking has a run above the knee from snagging on Kane’s rings.
I unlock the front door and welcome him in. Once he steps through, I close it. It takes a few tries to throw the deadbolt and secure the chain, because my hands are quivering.
Not in a bad way, though.
In the best way possible.
“Just so we’re clear,” I say, still facing the door, “this has nothing to do with the money or the deal.”
“Understood.”
“It’s because I want it. Tonight, specifically. Me.”
“Say it, then,” Kane says. “The whole thing. One time.”
I turn around and look at him standing on my mat in a black suit with snow melting on his shoulders.
“I want to have sex with you,” I say. “In my house. Because I want to, and for no other reason on this earth.”
Then I hold out my hand.
“Follow me upstairs,” I tell him.