Chapter 13
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
Sunday afternoon Rowan was still yawning. Riley had stamina. Her mind could not get the image of Riley stripped down to only her red lace bra and matching thong—which had made her freeze in place when she’d first seen it.
The exact same pair as Delilah. Of course, logically, she knew it wasn’t the same.
It couldn’t be. That was impossible. But it hadn’t stopped the little worm of paranoia, the need, from constricting Rowan’s throat and brain as she imagined Delilah in Riley’s place.
Looking down on her, telling her how good she looked on her knees.
Rowan swallowed. That was a mental image she wouldn’t soon forget. And it was absolutely not going to make the next day easier when she had to face Delilah again.
Her body was still aching. Aching for Riley, aching for Delilah. Or maybe it was just that red lace bra that was so damning. What was it about red lingerie that made femmes so fucking hot. Either way, that date to get Delilah out of her system did. Not. Help.
She checked her watch. It was nowhere near time for bed, but she was still just exhausted.
Rowan had never had a problem with lack of sleep before—having spent ten years as a marine tended to build up stamina towards that kind of thing.
But she’d been out for over five years, and apparently, she’d lost all that work with her cushy life.
One that allowed her eight hours of sleep every night, one that allowed her a reliable routine and a less adrenaline-fueled job.
Only fourteen hours left until she saw Delilah again.
Rowan smiled at the fit she knew Delilah threw when Rowan hadn’t arrived on Saturday for their routine therapy appointment.
Delilah had to know Rowan wouldn’t be at her beck and call seven days a week.
Though, she was a little surprised no calls had come through, no sudden emergency that Delilah had fabricated to bring her back.
She hoped Delilah hadn’t managed to manipulate the guards for another unsanctioned walk or for information regarding Rowan, or worse, an escape.
Oddly enough, she trusted Delilah not to try that.
Delilah wanted Rowan, and if she escaped, the game of cat and mouse was over.
But Delilah wanting Rowan was an entirely different torment.
Images of Delilah touching herself for Rowan flashed through her mind.
The reminder that Delilah had invited Rowan to join her, the heat of their moment, the forbidden and shameful excitement licking up her spine, burning her.
What more could Delilah do to play with her than that?
Rowan was certain she’d find out come Monday.
She wouldn’t give in though. Not yet. But here, in the solitude of her home, she let the breathy little gasps and the mocking laughter take her thoughts. The memory of what Delilah’s legs felt like under her firm grip, the smoothness of her torso, that fucking lace bra.
Rowan groaned, spreading her legs and imagining it was Delilah’s fingers touching her, entering her, teasing her.
Her legs started to shake as she pressed against her clit, rubbing furiously while sparks shot through her body.
She closed her eyes and imagined Delilah’s bright, green eyes peering up at her from between her legs.
Her wicked smile was delighted at the way Rowan’s body responded to her.
She was close now, her breaths staccato, her hand just beginning to cramp. The quiet of her apartment was overtaken by her low moans, growing more insistent as her body tightened, right on the edge.
A sharp, blaring ringtone jarred the moment away, startling her orgasm and causing a whole body ache as she reluctantly drew her hand away. The tone was reserved for work emergencies. It was as if her illicit thoughts had called out to Delilah and drawn her forth.
“What?” she growled into the speaker upon answering.
“Rowan,” a deep, gruff voice she somewhat recognized, huffed on the other end. “You need to come in.”
“Why?”
“Delilah…” He trailed off, and Rowan could almost make out the soft-yet-irritated voice she’d been imagining only moments ago. “She’s insisting you come.”
“Why?” Rowan repeated, biting down her frustration instead of taking it out on… McKinney, maybe? That might be who the voice belonged to.
“Dunno. Said she won’t do therapy if you don’t.”
Rowan forced a laugh. “She is only there for therapy. Remind her of that, and let her know that if she refuses, I’m happy to send her back in front of a judge and ship her the hell out of there.
Don’t call me again unless it’s a real emergency,” she snapped, quickly ending the call before he could protest. Delilah was going to be pissed.
Rowan didn’t even bother to bite back her smile.
Adrenaline thrummed through her veins, leftover from her denied orgasm and compounded by the new idea that Delilah would be on her worst behavior on Monday. Her phone remained silent, and Rowan stopped trying to pretend that Delilah wasn’t going to be on her mind for the rest of the night.
Like someone slowly losing their sanity, teetering on the edge of falling, Rowan spent the next two hours deep diving the internet for more information on Delilah Watson.