Chapter 28 #2
The request surprises even me. But I need this—need to not be the one making decisions, analysing outcomes, weighing consequences. For once in my life, I want someone else to take the wheel while I just... feel.
His eyes widen slightly before something shifts in his expression. He's primitive, possessive. He rises up on his knees, towering over me with new purpose.
No one has ever made me feel as alive as he does, this present in my own body.
I'm constantly in my head—calculating structural loads, analysing material stress points, worrying about money, about my mom, thinking three steps ahead.
But with Troy, I'm suddenly, vividly aware of every nerve ending, every inch of skin. The weight of him against me anchors me to this moment in a way nothing else ever has.
“Stand up,” he commands, voice dropping an octave.
I comply immediately, legs shaky beneath me.
I'm tired of being wound so tight that I might shatter. Tired of second-guessing every feeling, every impulse.
Being desired by Troy Hawkins is like standing in the eye of a storm—dangerous, electric, and strangely peaceful all at once. There's power in choosing to surrender. In saying—
I trust you with this. With me.
And that's what terrifies me most. Not that he'll take control, but that I'll like it. That I'll want more of it.
“Take off your jeans,” he says, leaning back against the headboard. “Slowly.”
My hands move to my waistband, heart hammering as I unbutton them with deliberate patience. I slide them down my hips, stepping out of them while maintaining eye contact.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs. “Now come here.”
I crawl into the bed, and he guides me to straddle his lap, strong hands gripping my thighs.
“Touch yourself,” he instructs, lips brushing my collarbone. “Show me what you like.”
I hesitate briefly before sliding my hand between us, gasping when my fingers find their target. His eyes never leave mine, watching intently as pleasure builds within me.
“That's it,” he encourages, voice husky. “God, you're perfect.”
His hands roam my waist and he holds me tight.
“Let me see those beautiful eyes,” Troy murmurs, his voice rippling through my body. “Don't look away.”
My fingers circle against my center, breath catching as I follow his instruction. His hands slide up my waist, cupping my breasts with possession.
“Keep going,” he whispers, leaning forward to take one nipple between his lips. The dual sensation—his hot mouth and my own touch—makes my hips buck involuntarily.
“Troy,” I gasp, struggling to maintain the steady rhythm as pleasure builds.
“You're doing so well,” he praises against my skin, teeth grazing the sensitive peak before moving to the other breast. “Show me how you like it.”
His words wash over me, both soothing and incendiary. I increase my pace, feeling exposed yet utterly safe under his watchful gaze.
“That's it.” His hand slides around to grip my ass, the other tangling in my hair to guide my mouth to his for a searing kiss. “You're so fucking beautiful like this.”
When he pulls back, his expression is raw with desire. “Faster now,” he instructs, voice thick. “I want to watch you come apart.”
I obey without hesitation, trembling as his mouth returns to my breast, tongue flicking against the sensitive bud while he whispers praise and encouragement against my skin.
“You're close,” he observes, voice vibrating against my chest. “I can feel it. I can’t wait to feel you come around my cock.”
My body tightens, muscles coiling as pleasure builds to an unbearable peak. His gaze holds mine captive, refusing to let me hide as I shatter. The orgasm hits with stunning force, my body arching against him as waves of sensation crash through me.
“Yes,” he growls, holding me steady through the aftershocks. “God, you're incredible.”
Before I can recover, he's flipping us over, pinning me beneath him with a predatory grace that steals my breath. His mouth claims mine in a kiss that's all heat and possession while his hand slides down to replace mine, fingers circling my oversensitive flesh.
“Again,” he demands against my lips.
I shake my head, overwhelmed. “I can't—”
“You can,” he insists, voice gentle but firm. “For me.”
His fingers move with devastating precision, he clearly watched me carefully building the pleasure again while his other hand pins my wrists above my head. The sensation of being restrained and stimulated sends jolts racing through my veins.
“Please,” I gasp, not even sure what I'm begging for.
“I've got you,” he promises, pressing his forehead to mine. “Let me take care of you.”
I surrender completely, giving myself over to his touch, his control. My second orgasm builds faster than the first, crashing over me with such intensity.
Troy releases my wrists to cradle my face, kissing me through it, his murmurs of praise washing over me like a balm.
When I finally come back to myself, trembling and spent, he's looking at me with such raw tenderness that my chest aches.
“Turn over,” he whispers against my ear, his voice a delicious command that sends shivers down my spine.
I comply without hesitation, rolling onto my stomach. His hands glide down my back, appreciative and warm.
“On your knees,” he instructs, helping me position myself.
The vulnerability of it—face down, ass up—should make me self-conscious, but there's something freeing in surrendering to him like this. I feel his weight shift on the mattress as he moves behind me, his hands tracing the curve of my spine.
“You're perfect,” he murmurs, palms spreading over my hips. “Is this okay?”
“Yes,” I say, arching my back slightly. “Please, Troy.”
I hear the telltale sound of a condom wrapper, then feel the blunt pressure of him at my entrance. He eases in slowly, giving me time to adjust to the stretch, his grip on my hips tightening.
“God, Delilah,” he groans, voice strained. “You feel incredible.”
When he's fully seated, he pauses, leaning forward to press a kiss between my shoulder blades. “Tell me when.”
I push back against him in response, a wordless plea for more, and he responds with a slow, measured thrust that draws a moan from deep in my throat.
“You like that?” he asks, his voice rough with restraint.
“Yes,” I gasp, fingers curling into the sheets as he begins to move in earnest.
This is what was missing before—this feeling of being utterly possessed, completely filled.
I've never understood why people make such a fuss about sex, why they risk relationships and reputations for it.
It had always seemed so... mechanical. But this—the way Troy is claiming me, the way he hits places inside me I didn't know could feel this good—this is what all the fuss is about.
Each thrust is deliberate, powerful, his hands gripping my hips with possessive strength.
The angle is exquisite, hitting places inside me that make stars burst behind my eyelids.
I've never been this loud during sex, never felt the need to give voice to my pleasure, but now sounds I barely recognize as my own are spilling from my lips.
Every other guy I've slept with has been performance over substance—concerned with how they looked, how long they lasted, like they were following some porn-directed script.
But Troy moves with genuine hunger, like he's chasing my pleasure as much as his own.
I can feel how much he wants me in each snap of his hips, each groan he doesn't try to suppress, each tightening of his fingers on my skin.
The sound of skin against skin fills the room, punctuated by our shared breathing and occasional moans. My knees dig into the mattress. I'm aware of everything—the slight sheen of sweat forming between us, the masculine scent of him, the way he fills me so completely I can feel him in all of me.
“You're taking me so well,” he murmurs, his voice a caress. “So fucking perfect for me.”
The praise liquefies my insides, pushing me higher. I've never wanted to be perfect for anyone before, never cared whether I was “good” in bed. Sex was just another thing to do, another experience to have.
“Fuck, you feel amazing.” Troy groans, one hand sliding up my spine to tangle in my hair. He pulls gently, arching my back further, changing the angle just enough to make me cry out.
“There?” he asks, voice tight with concentration.
“Yes, there—don't stop,” I plead, pushing back to meet his thrusts.
His pace increases, the careful control beginning to fray as pleasure builds. His grip tightens, fingers digging into my flesh in a way that borders on painful but only heightens every sensation.
My arms tremble with the effort of holding myself up, overwhelmed by the intensity of feeling him inside me, behind me, surrounding me completely.
Troy seems to sense my struggle and wraps an arm around my waist, holding me firmly against his chest as he sits back on his heels.
The new position drives him impossibly deeper, and I cry out, my head falling back against his shoulder.
“I've got you,” he murmurs, his lips grazing my ear. “Let go for me one more time.”
His hand slides between my legs, finding my sensitive center with practiced ease. The combination of his fingers and his relentless thrusts sends me spiraling toward a third release, my body clenching around him.
“That's it,” he groans, his rhythm faltering as my inner walls pulse around him. “God, Delilah—”
His breathing becomes ragged, his movements more urgent. I feel the moment he loses control, his body tensing behind me as he buries himself deep. He groans my name against my neck, his arms tightening around me as he shudders through his release.
We stay like that for several heartbeats, connected and trembling, before he gently lowers us to the mattress. He's careful not to crush me, keeping one arm around my waist as we lie on our sides, his chest pressed to my back.
The room is quiet except for our gradually slowing breaths. Troy presses a soft kiss to my shoulder, then another to the nape of my neck.
“You okay?” he whispers, his thumb tracing small circles on my hip.
I nod, not quite trusting my voice yet. My body feels like mush, satisfied, almost weightless, like I've been taken apart and put back together by those capable hands.
After a while, his breathing deepens, and I feel him relax against me. His arm stays draped over my waist, heavy and warm, his face nestled against my hair. I should feel trapped. Confined. Instead, I feel... safe. Protected. Like nothing bad could possibly reach me here in the circle of his arms.
The thought sends a jolt of panic through me.
That's dangerous. That's the kind of thinking that gets you hurt.
I lie still, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing, feeling the rise and fall of his chest against my back. My eyes trace the shadows on his wall, the outline of his desk in the moonlight. This room, his space—it feels too comfortable. Too easy to imagine staying.
Minutes tick by, and with each one, the pressure in my chest builds. This isn't me. I don't do this—the cuddling, the after. I slip away before sunrise. I keep my distance. I protect myself.
But Troy's arms feel so right around me, his warmth like a blanket I never knew I needed.
And that's exactly why I have to go.
I carefully extricate myself from his embrace, moving slowly to avoid waking him. He stirs slightly, mumbling something incoherent before his eyes flutter open.
“Where you going?” he asks, voice thick with sleep.
“I need to get home,” I say, voice suddenly urgent. “I should shower and change before tomorrow.”
He props himself up on one elbow, hair tousled and eyes still heavy with sleep. “You can shower here. I have clean towels.”
I shake my head, already reaching for my underwear on the floor. “Thanks, but I'd rather use my own stuff. Plus, my bike's fixed now, so I can just ride back.”
Troy sits up fully, the sheet pooling around his waist. “Delilah, it's past midnight. You're not biking across town in the dark.”
“I have lights,” I counter, pulling my shirt over my head. “And I know the route.”
“That's not the point.” His voice is gentle but firm. “It's not safe.”
I pause, jeans halfway up my thighs. Part of me wants to argue—to insist that I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself, that I've been doing it for years. That needing someone is a luxury I can't afford.
But the concern in his eyes isn't patronizing. It's genuine. And behind my reflexive need to push away, I feel something crack—a hairline fracture in the wall I've built around myself.
A protective voice echoes in my head, one that’s kept me safe for years.
"Never depend on anyone. In the end, it's just you.
" A mantra I've lived by for so long that it's become part of my DNA.
Every time someone got too close, every time someone offered help, I heard her voice reminding me of the consequences of needing people.
But looking at Troy now I wonder if that voice is always helping me. If maybe, just maybe, letting someone care doesn't always end in disappointment.
“Fine,” I relent, letting out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. “I'll stay until morning.”
Relief washes over his face. “Thank you.”
“But I'm leaving first thing,” I add quickly, as if I need to maintain some boundary, some control.
“Of course.” He nods, then holds out his hand. “Come back to bed?”
I hesitate, then take his hand. With one last moment of hesitation, I slide my fingers into his and let him pull me back to the warmth of his bed. He settles us both down, tucking me against his chest like I belong there.
“I'm not going to read too much into this,” he murmurs against my hair. “I promise.”
I don't respond, but I let my body relax against his. Just for tonight.
His arm drapes over me again, heavy and secure. I can feel his heartbeat against my back, steady and strong. My eyelids grow heavy despite my determination to stay alert, to maintain some distance.
“Goodnight, Delilah,” he whispers.
I close my eyes, surrendering to exhaustion. “Goodnight, Troy.”