Chapter 5 Daliah
Daliah
The ride around town feels like a dream.
My body is still humming where his touch lingers—my hips, my back, every place his hands have been—and it’s becoming a genuine challenge to focus on anything else.
The buildings blur past. The afternoon sun catches on the dash.
None of it registers, not even the delicious smell of the burgers against my lap.
From the way he’s drumming his thumbs against the steering wheel, those broad hands flexing and releasing, I can’t help but wonder if he’s thinking the same things I am. If he’s replaying it in his head, too. The way his touch lingered, it was like he didn’t want to let go.
I feel a little silly now, thinking this man hated me. All that time watching him across the market, reading his serious expressions as disinterest, as some imaginary rivalry. Going this far out of his way to enjoy a meal with someone makes me think I’ve got him all wrong.
He keeps shooting me sideways glances, his expression unreadable in that way that used to frustrate me. But now? Now it makes my stomach clench just like it always has, except the clenching has shifted south. Now it’s warmer and harder to ignore.
Every shift of my legs hardly relieves me of the tingling. They’re so strong that I can feel every pulse of my sex. By now, I would’ve shoved a hand between them to take care of this problem, but I can’t do that now.
Have I always been this pent up?
We end up at a park with a few people strolling around, walking dogs, enjoying the late afternoon.
He picks out a bench beneath a sprawling oak, and we settle next to each other—close, but not close enough.
He leans back, draping one arm along the back of the bench, and takes in the greenery like he’s actually seeing it for the first time.
I can’t help but lean closer. Despite knowing better—despite the voice in my head warning me not to push, not to scare him off—I’ve been on fire since he touched me.
Now I’m trying to get every brush of contact I possibly can.
My shoulder grazes against his arm. My knee drifts closer to his.
Whatever opportunity comes my way, I take it.
Hardly able to think about food, I’m the one who starts eating first, all while taking my sweet time. Making every bite nothing more than a nibble, it gives me something to do with my hands, something to focus on besides the heat of him beside me.
Finally getting the chance to sit and talk to the guy I’ve been crushing on forever, and I can’t even think of what to say. The silence should feel awkward, but it doesn’t. We’re just two people with plenty on our minds.
From the way he shifts his gaze, it’s pretty easy to figure out what he’s thinking about.
I’m mid-bite when his hand moves.
Slowly, like he’s trying to test the waters, his arm shifts along the back of the bench.
Settling there close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off of him, he eats half of his burger and nibbles on a few fries.
When I don’t pull away, I suddenly feel it.
The light brush of his thumb against the nape of my neck.
Catching me off guard, we both pause as I freeze up.
Once his heat seeps in from his touch, I freaking melt right there on the spot.
Taking it as permission to keep going, his thumb starts moving—small, lazy circles against my skin—and a sound escapes me before I can stop it.
Soft. Breathless. Somewhere between a sigh and a moan, slipping past my lips like it had every right to be there.
My eyes flutter closed. Just for a second, just long enough to feel it everywhere.
When I open them, he’s watching me. Really watching. His expression isn’t unreadable anymore; there’s a hunger there that can’t be sated by the food around him. Even more when he sets it down to the side to put his full focus on me.
I do the same because otherwise, I’d squash my burger with my tight grip.
“What is this, Daliah?” His question comes out in a low rumble. “Why’d you want to grab lunch?”
My heart’s starting to pick up in speed now as I consider revealing the truth or squashing it down with a lie.
I’m tired of lying to myself and pretending I don’t want him as badly as I do.
“A date if things stay as smooth as they are going.” Turning away, the heat of my blush consumes my entire face. Shifting against the bench, I feel the same racing pulse elsewhere, too. I can’t possibly answer his second question without drowning in my embarrassing attempt to confess my feelings.
“I’m much older than you.” His voice is strangled, as if the words cost him something.
I blink. Of all the things I expected him to say, I didn’t think his age would be what bothered him. Does he think a few years are enough to change my feelings?
“I don’t care.”
His thumb keeps moving, those circles never stopping, and it’s taking everything in me not to close my eyes again. “I live up on the mountain. Away from everything.”
I almost let out a laugh. Is he trying to make me change my mind? “So do I.”
A subtle change flickers in his eyes, as if a heavy wall of resistance is slowly crumbling away. Slowly, I can see him working out a decision behind his eyes.
But I’m out of patience. I’ve waited for what feels like forever. I’ve watched from across the market, memorized the way he moves, and imagined this moment a hundred different ways. Now he’s touching me like I’m something precious, and I can’t wait another second.
“Just kiss me.” The words are barely a whisper, held back only by the fear of being denied. “Please. I’m dying here, River.”
He doesn’t make me ask twice.
His hand slides into my hair, his fingers threading through, gripping gently, and then his lips are on mine. Soft at first. Questioning. Like he’s giving me every chance to pull away.
I don’t. I lean in, needing him more than I need air.
The kiss deepens. His fingers tighten in my hair, tugging just enough to tilt my head, and I gasp against his mouth.
He takes advantage immediately, and suddenly I’m learning what it feels like to be kissed by someone who actually knows how to kiss.
His other hand finds my chin. As his thumb grazes the underside of my bottom lip, we both groan as his tongue slides right in to explore as he pleases.
I’m pretty sure I’ve forgotten how to breathe. If I knew how, I’d be panting from the heat pouring in and engulfing me.
A dog barks somewhere nearby. Close enough to remind us both where we are.
We break apart, left staring at each other in shock that the kiss really happened. His breath is as unsteady as mine, and the hunger I saw moments ago has now turned into something that makes me feel like this man could devour me right on the spot.
If I asked him to, he would, wouldn’t he?
“That was—” I swallow, trying to find the words to admit. “That was my first kiss.”
The sound he makes is low in his throat. Something between a curse and a growl. “Your first?”
I nod, cheeks burning. Now he should know that I’m a virgin. If that’s something worth turning him off, then he shouldn’t look so freaking pleased with himself.
His thumb strokes my neck again, softer now. “Did you like it?”
I nod again, biting my lip and still feeling his against mine. “I liked it a lot.”
Enough that I want to do it again and again until I lose feeling in my lips. I don’t want only a few seconds of contact, but minutes. Heck, hours.
“Did you?”
He rumbles his response, another low growl that does funny little things to me.
“I did.” Something flickers in his expression—satisfaction, maybe, or hunger renewed. “We should wrap up. I need to get you back.”
Why does it sound like he’s trying to convince himself more than anything?
Nodding my head, I try my best at containing my smile, but it feels impossible. Feeling giddy, I don’t think about saying goodbye as I finish my lunch. I’m too busy thinking about what I have to do to get another kiss from him.
The drive back is agony. Not because of anything he does—he keeps one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the console between us, close enough that I could reach for it if I dared.
But my body is humming, every nerve ending awake and aching, and I’m squirming in my seat without meaning to.
Crossing and uncrossing my legs. Pressing my thighs together.
I’m the worst person to try to hide how I’m feeling, and being aroused isn’t changing that at all.
I want to invite him to the part of the mountain where I stay. Want to drag him somewhere I can kiss him without anyone interrupting. The words form on my tongue, hovering there, waiting.
But when we park next to my car, I chicken out. I’m brave enough for a lot of things, but inviting him home? That’s a different kind of terrifying.
Instead, I grab my phone from my bag. “Could I have your number? So I can text you about—” About nothing. About everything. “—next time.”
He rattles it off. I type it in, fingers shaking slightly, and send a quick text so he has mine too.
“See you next Saturday?” The question comes out hopeful. Pathetic. I don’t care.
He nods. Then, before I can open the door, his hand catches my chin—gentle, but firm.
“Thank you for lunch.”
I open my mouth to remind him that he paid, that he drove, that he has nothing to thank me for—
He kisses me again. Quicker this time, but no less devastating. No less dizzying. When he pulls back, I’m gripping the door handle for support.
“Next Saturday.”
I somehow make it to my car. Somehow drive home. But all I can think about is the way he said it—like a promise. Like a countdown.
Six days.
I’m already counting until the next time I can see him.