Track 22 Delilah #3
She doesn’t know what she’s asking for. The other night had been all instinct, motion, and momentum, bodies coming together because they couldn’t imagine anything else.
This—this feels intentional. The warmth gathering between her legs is as much from the way they’re looking at her, all heat and desire, as from their mouth on her skin.
She parts her thighs, and Emmett slides between them like it’s all they could possibly want.
The added weight of their body against the fingers already stroking over her sends a throb of pleasure zinging up her spine, and Delilah tightens her grip on their curls. “Emmett.”
“Here?” Another pass of their fingertips, the sensation both too much and not enough with lace and cotton in the way. “Should I—”
“Yes.”
They sit up and slide the underwear over her legs, throwing it away from the bed without a glance, the most dismissive motion she’s ever seen them make, and she laughs despite herself.
Emmett’s mouth quirks in a grin as she drags them back to her, pausing only to worm their shirt over their shoulders before she kisses them again.
They shudder against her when she runs her hands over their shoulders and back, skimming along the edges of the rough patches of stone breaking through the smoothness of their skin.
It makes them gasp, and she pauses. “Is this hurting you?”
“No.” They sound breathless, but not in pain. “Just—sensitive.”
She does it again. They muffle a whimper against her jaw. “Oh,” she murmurs. “But you like it?”
“I…” They shiver, rocking against her. “I don’t know. It’s new. Delilah, I want—”
“Anything,” she tells them, and means it.
Emmett kisses the spot just under the hinge of her jaw that always makes her breathless.
They reach between her legs again, and this time it’s just skin on skin, their fingers dipping inside her, and the room fills with the wet, slick-sweet sounds of Delilah’s rising pleasure, coupled with her gasps and moans and panted encouragement.
When they slide down her body and replace their fingers with their tongue, she gives up and cries out, arching up against their mouth and digging her hands into their hair so hard she’s sure it must hurt, but all they do is kiss a groan into her clit and keep going.
She comes like that—once, fast and writhing, and then again, a slower, cresting wave that almost drowns her when it crashes down.
Emmett comes willingly when she reaches for them to bring them up to kiss her, their face as wet and slick and messy as she feels, and she licks her way into their mouth.
“You sweetheart,” she whispers. “You absolute—let me touch you?”
They’re trembling all over, body taut as an overtightened guitar string that still manages a perfect sound.
Delilah reaches for their waistband, finds the button already undone, and shoves at the fabric until Emmett squirms their way out of their pants and underwear, then lets Delilah roll them onto their back.
They stare up at her, with wonder and wanting, and Delilah kisses them as she runs her hands down their body, mapping every dip and curve, every rough stretch of exposed stone.
She has no idea what she’ll find when her fingers cross that last unspoken boundary, but it doesn’t matter—all she wants is to take them to the same heights she just reached, and she has enough experience to do that no matter what shape their body takes.
Her hand encounters hot pressure, slick-soft skin, as perfect as she knew they would be, and when she coaxes them with movements both new and familiar, they fall apart under her touch.
“Delilah—” Emmett’s voice is tight and high, her name like a prayer. “I—please, I don’t—”
“I have you,” she whispers, pressing her lips to every inch of skin she can reach. One of their hands finds her free one, their fingers lacing tight. “You perfect, lovely thing. I’ve got you.”
“Don’t let go.”
“Never, sweetheart.” She kisses their hip, their inner thigh, and then lower, finding the hottest, sweetest parts of them. They arch under her. “I promise.”
Emmett comes on a sob, and Delilah realizes they’re right—
She’s never, ever felt as beautiful as this.
This is a story about desire.
In the story, you are you, or maybe you are me, or maybe you are someone neither of us have ever met. Maybe your body is like the one you have now. Maybe it isn’t. Maybe you are young, but maybe you are old.
What matters is that this body, this place that holds your soul, has felt something.
Maybe it’s warm, a sudden flush. Maybe the breath leaves your lungs, or maybe it’s filled them, for the first time.
Maybe something fills you, or flows from you, within you, hot, pulsing, wet, new.
Maybe you have been touched. Maybe you have reached out. Something sparks.
This is the oldest story. But have you heard it told the way that sounds like you?
—Always Here with Delilah Cohen and Iris Gold, season 1, episode 13: “Eden”
O my dove, in the clefts of the rock,
in the crannies of the cliff,
let me see your face, let me hear your voice,
for your voice is sweet, and your face is lovely.
—Song of Songs 2:14