Chapter 12 Delilah
Chapter twelve
Delilah
“So you’ve never made French toast, and you thought today would be the day to try?” I ask, watching from the couch as Graham stumbles about my kitchen, his hands dripping with raw egg and cinnamon.
“I woke up with a craving for French toast, and since we can’t go out to a brunch place, I figured it can’t be that hard to make,” Graham defends, reaching for the loaf of bread on the counter.
When he’d texted yesterday and suggested we do Saturday brunch, I’d assumed he’d show up with grocery store pastries or something—not a bag full of literal groceries and a screenshotted recipe.
“I’ll be cleaning up after myself, don’t worry,” Graham says, and I narrow my eyes at him.
How did he know that was exactly what I was thinking?
“If you’d like to pour some mimosas, I wouldn’t be against that,” he adds, inclining his head toward one of the grocery bags on the counter.
“There’s orange juice and prosecco in there somewhere. ”
I raise my eyebrows. “Wow, you went all out.”
“Anything for my star student,” he says, dipping a piece of bread into the French toast batter.
I purse my lips, standing to grab wine glasses from the cabinet. “I don’t know if your student has learned all that much yet,” I quip.
At this, Graham pins me with a gaze over his shoulder. “Well, we’re gonna change that today.”
I feel a blush creep across my cheeks, and I focus on grabbing the wine glasses, hoping he doesn’t notice.
“Only if you want to, of course,” Graham adds, his voice so natural and casual, I wonder how he does it.
“That sounds good,” I say, but it comes out as more of a squeak.
I pour two mimosas, setting one on the counter next to Graham and then returning to the couch and taking a seat.
I appreciate what he’s doing. The campfire a few nights ago, the brunch this morning.
He’s trying to make the whole situation more natural, letting things come organically.
And honestly, it feels better than trying to force it like we’d done initially.
Even so, it doesn’t fully eradicate the nerves.
Hence, me guzzling my mimosa over here.
When Graham finally manages to finish the French toast—after a few failed attempts—he carries two plates over to the couch, handing me one as he sits beside me. I don’t have a formal dining table; my apartment is so small that it was either that or a desk.
“Wow, actually looks good,” I say, taking the plate.
“You’re welcome,” Graham retorts.
I grin at him before taking a bite. My eyes widen. “Okay, Mr. I’ve-Never-Made-French-Toast-Before.”
His eyes light up. “Good?”
I nod, and he opens his mouth, just as surprised as me. “Fuck yeah,” he mutters, taking a bite of his own. He makes a show of rolling his eyes back into his head and moaning. “Ugh, yeah, I’m good at this.”
I snort, shaking my head. We eat our brunch, chatting about life and work, and eventually Graham asks, “How’s the book coming along? Any progress?”
I shrug a shoulder. “I sent a section to my agent earlier in the week, and she replied basically saying the sex scene needs work.” I grimace.
“Read it to me,” Graham says immediately, and I almost choke on my last bite of toast.
“Excuse me?” I ask.
He smirks. “Read me the scene. I wanna know whether to agree with your agent or not.”
“I’m not reading you the sex scene I wrote!” I’m not exactly sure why, but this somehow feels even more intimate than actually having sex with him. Of course, it’s not—I know that. But … just, no.
“Come on,” Graham presses. “It can’t be that bad. I promise it can’t be worse than any sex scene I’d ever write.”
I simply glare at him.
He raises an eyebrow. “It might even help us figure out what specific areas you need … lessons in.”
My face is the color of a tomato, and I don’t need to look in a mirror to know that.
I turn away, unable to look at him. He might be right.
It could actually be helpful in figuring out where my blind spots are.
Besides, I’m a professional writer. It’s not like it’s complete shit or anything.
And, I have pretty much committed to doing everything within my power to successfully write this book.
I mean, the project—and more importantly, the payout—depends on it.
“Fine,” I mutter, standing and crossing the room to my desk, sitting down and opening my laptop. I refuse to look at Graham, but by his silence, I can deduce that he’s afraid I’ll change my mind if he opens his mouth.
I pull up the document, find the sex scene draft, and take a deep breath.
God, what am I doing?
“Our clothes fall in a pile on the floor,” I start, feeling my face redden even more. “Parker looks me up and down. His throbbing member stands upright—”
A barely audible snort has me halting and throwing a glare over my shoulder. “What?”
“Sorry,” Graham says quickly, trying—and failing—to wipe the laughter off his face.
Embarrassment, irritation, and frustration wash through me.
“Please keep going, I’m sorry,” Graham says again, seeming more sincere this time.
I shoot him one last glare before turning back to the laptop. “I lay back on the bed, and he climbs over top of me. My legs wrap around his waist as he inserts himself. I gasp.”
A second snort has me slamming the laptop shut.
“Delilah, I’m sorry!” I hear Graham standing from the couch, crossing the room, but I can’t look at him. I know my face is red, and if I look at him it’s only going to get worse.
I feel his hands on the back of my chair, and then his breath on my ear. It sends a shiver down my spine. “Dee,” he says softly. “I’m sorry. It’s not the writing, it’s …”
“The writing,” I answer, jerking around to finally face him.
He leans back, biting his lip.
I bury my face in my hands, utterly overwhelmed. I never should have shared it with him. I already knew it was bad; what was I expecting?
“It’s just a bit dry, a bit fast, no … foreplay,” Graham offers.
“Because I have no idea how any of that’s supposed to work!” I burst out.
Suddenly Graham’s hands are on either side of my face, gently tilting it up so that my eyes meet his. “And that’s what I’m here to help with,” he says softly. “No one’s blaming you for not knowing. But we can change what you know.”
My breath hitches in my throat at his proximity, and suddenly I’m transported back to last week when we’d made out on my couch—the feel of his lips against mine, his lips … other places.
Graham smiles softly, then his gaze slides past mine, and he cocks his head. He stands. “What’s this?” He reaches over me, and I turn just in time to see my notebook lying open on my desk.
“Oh, that’s not—” I start, but Graham is snatching it up anyway.
“Graham Whitaker,” he reads aloud, his face forming into that stupidly attractive smirk. “Underlined,” he adds.
“It’s for research,” I say, standing and desperately trying to get it back from him. “I took notes on last week, that’s it. But you don’t need to read it—”
“Tall, dark, and handsome. Almost cliched leading man. Why, thank you.” He shoots me a dazzling grin. “Confident—maybe too confident. Well, I don’t think one can have too much confidence,” he protests.
“Graham!” I nearly shriek, reaching for the notebook, but he’s too damn tall for me, and he simply holds it aloft.
“Hands large enough to pin wrists.” Graham’s eyes widen, and his smirk grows impossibly wider. “Delilah,” he murmurs in surprise, my name long and drawn out.
And I think I just died a little. Like, actually died.
“Give it back,” I demand, even though the damage has already been done.
Graham simply grins down at me, slipping the notebook behind his back. But instead of backing away, he takes a step forward. Toward me. I widen my eyes, stepping back.
“You like the idea of a man pinning you down?” he asks, his voice low but still tinged with amusement.
I swallow, staring up into his blue eyes that seem to be darkening. “I don’t know—I-I think I read it in a book once,” I stammer.
“And it turned you on,” he states.
“Well, I—I mean …”
“It’s okay if something turns you on, Trouble,” he says, taking another step forward. “That’s what we’re here for.” He tosses my notebook aside, and it lands on the couch across the room.
He steps forward, and I step back—only to back into the hard wood of the front door.
Graham towers over me, his gaze sliding slowly from my face, down to my wrists, taking one in each of his hands and then softly, as if I might break, lifting and pinning them to the wall above my head.
He leans his weight into it, his gaze capturing mine again, only the tiniest flicker of amusement left in his eyes.
There’s suddenly not enough air in the room, not enough space between us—but also entirely too much.
“You like this, Trouble?” Graham asks quietly.
I simply nod.
“Use your words,” he prompts.
“Yes,” I breathe.
“Well, we’ve found something we can add to your book,” he says, and then he dips his head and kisses me. My head angles up to meet his, and my back arches from the door. Graham’s hold on my wrists tightens in response, and I whimper into his mouth.
“Oh, you do like that,” he breathes against my lips before sliding his tongue against mine.
And I am utterly and completely gone. Devoured, consumed.
So caught up in this moment, I can’t fathom another one coming after it.
That is, until Graham’s hands leave my wrists to scoop me up underneath my thighs and carry me across the room.
I yelp in surprise, my legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.
“Can I take you to your bedroom, Trouble?” Graham breaks our kiss to ask.
“Yes,” I say, capturing his lips again with mine.