Chapter 7
Idon’t survive one week living with Delilah before my resolve breaks.
She’s been skittish all morning, hovering in the living room, compulsively checking her phone, jumping at every sound beyond the front door.
I hope her shower helps her relax because I don’t have the willpower today to give her a friendly shoulder massage without cracking.
Someone knocks on the front door. A loud crash in the bathroom follows and I shout, “You okay?” as I walk to answer the door.
Delilah comes barreling out of the bedroom in only a bath towel frantically shouting, “I’ll get it!”
“No way in hell you’re answering the door in a towel.” I reach for the door handle, and she digs a knuckle into my ribs. “Ow! What the fuck?”
She shrieks, “I said I’d get it!”
Yea, that isn’t happening. I block her from grabbing the door handle and stiff-arm her while I accept the package from the delivery person who’s eyeing me like I’m certifiable.
I’ve barely pulled my arm back through the cracked door when Delilah yanks the package from my hand.
“What’s gotten into you this morning?” My chuckle is equal parts amused and confused.
Her heaving chest tests the limits of her wrapped towel. She has one arm braced against her breasts, pinning the towel closed, and the package-thieving arm pressed against the parted towel at her thighs.
My gulp must be audible.
She’s so fucking beautiful—flushed and glistening from her shower and our wrestling match with the door.
Her hair’s dripping wet, lips parted from exertion, sending blood rushing to my dick.
Her sun necklace dips into her cleavage, pushed up from holding the towel so tight.
I thought Delilah was the prettiest girl in the world at just eight-years-old. That fact remains, though my attraction now is far from innocent. I’ve watched her grow from a little doll to a scrawny kid, to a lanky pre-teen.
Then puberty hit. Hormones are relentless motherfuckers.
In a cruel twist of fate, Delilah matured into a fucking bombshell at the same time I became intimately acquainted with my dick.
I’ve seen Delilah in everything from full snow gear down to a string bikini.
I’d take her in anything, or nothing, every day and twice on Sunday.
My spank-bank is always well stocked from the tight-as-sin jeans she wears, and dresses that skim the tops of her thighs right below her ass cheeks.
It doesn’t matter what she wears, honestly.
Her body’s straight out of my dreams—because she’s my only dream.
If there was a build-a-woman catalog to build the perfect woman, Delilah would be express delivered to my door.
She’s the perfect height for me to rest my chin on her shoulder, smell her hair anytime I want, nuzzle into her neck when it’s chilly, and to wrap my arms around her right below her tits.
Those. Tits.
I’m proud to say I’ve never grabbed my best friend’s tits. But from countless hours of studiously examining them from a safe distance, and from acute knowledge of her body, I know they’re incredible. Just like everything else about her.
Her ass nests against my pelvis when I stand behind her, and from years of hiding boners, I know for a fact her pussy is the perfect height for my cock if I were to take her standing.
Fuck. Me.
Imagining wrapping her luxurious, long, platinum blonde hair around my fist, and collaring her neck as I pound into her tight cunt, has catapulted me into an embarrassing amount of orgasms.
Delilah’s the most gorgeous creature I’ve ever laid eyes on.
Speaking of eyes. Her silver diamond eyes are so full of emotion, sometimes I choke up looking into them for too long. She’s seen far too much pain in her years, far too much of the seedy underbelly of society.
Her nose fits her features perfectly. Cheeks that are always rosy are one of my favorite spots to kiss, well, of the spots I’m allowed to kiss.
And those lips. Fuck. Those plump, rose-petal pink lips are the object of my daydreams and nightmares. What I wouldn’t give to taste her lips, to pull the bottom one between my teeth, to have them mark every inch of my body.
And now, here she stands—a literal dripping wet dream. She’s feet away from me looking like the ultimate present. Wrapped up special, just for me, in a terry-cloth towel.
One tug and I’d unwrap her to feast on her body.
I consume her with a fire that I’m quickly losing control of. Increasing my suffering, my horny-brain sends my eyes to her bare collarbones—right above her cleavage that’s threatening to spill from the towel.
My eyes drop to the cause of our morning excitement.
The box she’s holding is no bigger than a water bottle and has no identifying markings on it. What could possibly be in that box to make her act like a lunatic? Her eyes flick back and forth from mine to the box.
If I’m quiet long enough, she nearly always breaks and tells me whatever she’s hiding. But this time, instead of spilling her secret, her thighs press together, and she shifts on her feet.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
It hits me like a bullet.
Something she’d be embarrassed about.
Something she wouldn’t want me to see.
So much so she risked flashing the delivery person.
Her intense demeanor and reaction to my scrutiny.
She bought a sex toy. She couldn’t find her purple pal, seeing as I hid it from her, so she fucking replaced it.
My brain’s a blur of heat and need. Did she replace it with the same model? What color is it? Is it bigger? Is it textured? How many settings does it have?
Without my permission, my imagination overtakes retinas—Delilah laid out on my bed, legs spread and the box open beside her.
I back up to the wall, frantically grasping for the doorknob.
“I…forgot I have that…thing today. So, I…have to run. ‘K bye.”
And like the pussy I am, I escape from my own personal hell without my keys, my phone, or my shoes.
I’m so fucked.