18. Delaney
DELANEY
“Good morning, Delaney.”
Like we’re normal. Like he wasn’t in my apartment yesterday. Like he didn’t put his hands on me.
Like I didn’t want him to.
My heart skips. I ignore it.
“You’re still here,” I say.
“So are you.”
“That’s different.”
“Is it?”
“Yes. I live here.”
“For now,” he says.
What the hell does he mean by that? I huff out a breath. “You were watching my building.”
No response.
I step closer. “Yesterday you show up in my apartment. This morning, you’re outside again.”
Still nothing.
No denial.
That’s answer enough.
“Were you there?” I ask. “At the marina?”
His expression doesn’t change. “You’re asking the wrong question.”
“Then give me the right one.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because you won’t like the answer.”
“Try me.”
He tenses. “You don’t walk away from that answer.”
“That’s not your decision.”
“No,” he says. “But it becomes my problem.”
I close the distance. Close enough to feel the heat of him.
“Everything seems to be your problem lately,” I say quietly. “My apartment. My questions. Me.”
Something shifts in his expression. “You keep putting yourself in places you shouldn’t be,” he says.
“And you keep showing up.”
Neither of us moves.
“If you’re going to stand here and warn me,” I say, “at least do it somewhere private.”
I turn and walk back to the building. I don’t look back. I don’t need to. I already know he’s following me.
The elevator ride is silent.
He stands behind me—not touching, not speaking—but close enough that I can feel him there. Heat at my back. His presence. My flesh tingles.
I don’t turn around.
If I do, something will happen too soon.
The doors slide open. I step out first and walk toward my apartment. My keys are already in my hand by the time I reach my door, but for a second—just a second—I hesitate.
Not because I don’t want him inside.
But because I know exactly what happens if I let him in.
That thought should stop me.
It doesn’t.
I unlock the door, push it open, and step inside. He follows. The door shuts behind us with a soft click.
I don’t turn right away.
I drop my key onto the table just inside the door. Set my bag down and remove my sweater. I draw in a deep breath.
Then I turn.
He’s already here, taking up all the space. Nearly suffocating me with his raw masculinity.
Too close.
Always too close.
“You wanted to do this in private,” he says.
“That’s not what I said.”
His head tilts slightly. “No?”
“No,” I say. “I said if you’re going to threaten me, at least do it somewhere private.”
“And this feels like a threat to you?”
I hold his gaze. “Doesn’t it to you?”
“No,” he says.
I tilt my head. “Then what is it?”
He takes a step toward me. Now there’s barely any space between us. “This is where you decide how far you’re going to push.”
“I already decided that.”
“Yes,” he says quietly. “You did.”
“Were you there?” I ask again. “At the marina?”
“Should I have been?”
“That’s not an answer,” I say.
“No.”
“Then give me one.”
He looks at me long and hard. His eyes are nearly glowing with amber light. I can’t look away.
I’m not sure I want to.
“You’re not going to stop,” he says.
“No.”
“Even now.”
“Especially now.”
A pause. Then—
“You won’t like where all of this leads.”
“That’s not your decision.”
“No,” he says. “It’s not. But it becomes my problem.”
I shake my head, frustrated. “Again. You say the same thing over and over. Everything seems to be your problem lately.”
He drops his gaze—briefly—to my mouth. “That’s because you keep making yourself part of my problem.”
My pulse jumps. I ignore it. “That sounds like blame.”
“It’s observation.”
“And what are you observing right now?”
“That you’re not afraid.”
“And I should be?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not.”
“I know.”
That should end it.
It doesn’t.
Instead, something builds underneath both of us that has nothing to do with questions or answers anymore.
He lifts his hand. Slowly.
I could step back.
I don’t.
He closes his fingers around my neck. He’s not gentle, and his eyes—God, his eyes—I can’t tell if it’s rage or passion behind them. I’m not sure I care which.
“Delaney,” he says, his voice husky.
“What?”
“You don’t understand what you’re doing.”
“Then show me.”
The words come out before I can stop them. Before I can take them back.
He tightens his grip enough to hurt. He could strangle me with so little effort. But I don’t care.
Then he pulls me into him, nearly stealing my breath.
My hands come up automatically against his chest. I’m ready to push. To push him away.
But I don’t.
Then he releases my neck and his mouth is on mine, his tongue prying my lips open.
The kiss isn’t gentle. Already I know Samson Vexley doesn’t do gentle.
It’s pressure and heat and intent, as if he’s been holding this back longer than either of us wants to admit.
My back hits the wall again, same as yesterday.
But nothing about this feels the same. There’s no restraint, no thoughts of stopping.
I curl my fingers into the fabric of his black shirt. Our tongues are tangling, our breathing rapid.
He breaks the kiss abruptly. “Tell me to stop,” he says.
“Stop.” But I don’t move. I don’t back down.
“Too late.” And his mouth is back on mine.
That’s when everything shifts.
I’ve woken the beast.