Chapter 6
Delaney
For a heartbeat, he doesn’t move.
I’ve surprised him. The man who sees everything, plans everything, controls everything—I’ve caught him off guard with my mouth on his.
Then his hand slides into my wet hair, tilts my head, and he takes over the kiss like he’s been starving for it.
This isn’t like the diner. That kiss was a brand—public, claiming, meant to send a message.
This one is hungry and a little desperate and entirely ours.
His tongue strokes against mine, and I make a sound I should be embarrassed about, but I’m not, because he groans in response like I’ve undone something in him.
Then he pulls back. Abrupt. Breathing hard.
“Wait.” His voice is rough. “We shouldn’t—”
The rejection lands like a slap. Of course. Of course, this is where it ends. I start to pull away, armor slamming back into place, but his grip tightens in my hair.
“Not shouldn’t.” His jaw is tight, eyes conflicted. “I just need to know this isn’t—” He stops. Starts again. “You just talked me off a ledge. I need to know this isn’t gratitude. Or pity.”
Oh.
That’s not rejection. That’s fear.
“Daniel.” I wait until his eyes meet mine. “I’ve wanted to kiss you since you told me my filing system was ‘an affront to logic.’ That was three weeks ago. Before the diner. Before today. This isn’t pity.”
Something shifts in his expression. “You hated me three weeks ago.”
“I still hate you a little bit.” I fist my hand in his wet shirt, pulling him closer. “Turns out, that doesn’t stop me wanting you.”
He laughs—short, surprised—and then he’s kissing me again.
This time, there’s an edge to it. His hands slide under my wet shirt, and I gasp at the contact, his palms rough and hot against my cold skin. He swallows the sound and walks me backward until my shoulders hit the wall. I should feel trapped, but I don’t. I feel claimed.
Daniel pauses, hands warm and steady at my waist. “You set the pace.”
I slide my fingers into his shirt, heart pounding. “Then don’t stop.”
His eyes darken. “Okay.”
He pulls back just enough to strip the shirt over his head, and the words die in my throat.
I’ve seen hints of this body. Arms in rolled sleeves, shoulders straining against cotton. But Daniel shirtless in lantern light is a revelation. Broad chest, defined muscles, scars mapping violence across his ribs and stomach. A body that’s been used hard and survived.
He catches me staring. Something flickers in his expression—uncertainty, almost shame.
“They’re not—”
“If you say ‘pretty,’ I’m going to kick you.” I reach out, tracing a raised line along his ribs. He shivers. “They’re proof you’re still here.”
His throat works. For a moment, he looks wrecked in a completely different way than he did during the panic attack. Then, his hands find my shirt hem.
“Your turn. Yes?”
“Yes.”
He peels the wet fabric up slowly, giving me time to change my mind. I don’t. The shirt hits the floor, and I’m standing in front of him in a plain white bra that’s definitely see-through. I should feel exposed, but the way he’s looking at me—
“Jesus.” The word sounds punched out of him. “Look at you.”
“It’s just a cheap bra. It’s not even—”
“Delaney.” His thumb traces my collarbone, feather-light. “Shut up.”
I shut up.
His hands find the clasp at my back. “Yes?”
I love that he’s giving me a choice every step of the way. “Yes.”
The bra falls away. Cool air hits my skin, and then his hands are cupping me, thumbs brushing over my nipples. My moan would be embarrassing if I could think clearly enough to be embarrassed.
“Sensitive.” He does it again, watching my face. “Good to know.”
“You’re—” I gasp as he rolls one nipple between his fingers. “You’re taking notes?”
“I’m a planner.” His mouth curves. “I like to be thorough.”
He backs me toward the cot. My knees hit the edge and I sit, the scratchy wool blanket rough against my bare back.
“This blanket is disgusting,” I inform him.
“I know.” He kneels in front of me, hands sliding up my thighs. “I’ll buy you silk sheets. Later.”
“Promises, promises.”
But my voice comes out breathless because his fingers are working my jeans open, and then he’s tugging them down—wet denim fighting him, both of us struggling with the graceless reality of it—until they’re off, and I’m in nothing but cotton underwear that is definitely not sexy.
He doesn’t seem to care. He’s looking at me like I’m wearing silk and lace. Like I’m something precious.
No one’s ever looked at me like that. No one’s ever seen me this exposed.
“These too?” His fingers hook into the waistband of my panties.
“Yes.”
He pulls them down. Slow. Deliberate. And then I’m bare in front of him, completely exposed. I should feel vulnerable—I do—but I also feel powerful. Wanted.
Chosen.
Don’t get used to this, the survival voice whispers. Don’t let yourself need him.
Too late.
“I need to taste you.” His voice has dropped, rough and dark. “I’ve thought about it. Every night since I first saw you. What sounds you’d make. How you’d move.” His hands spread my thighs wider. “Tell me yes.”
“Yes.” It comes out strangled. “God, yes.”
He leans in and puts his mouth on me.
I cry out—can’t help it. His tongue slides through my folds, finds my clit, and pleasure jolts through me like electricity. My hands fly to his hair, gripping hard, and he groans against me like my desperation is exactly what he wanted.
“That’s it.” His breath is hot against my skin. “Let me hear you.”
He works me with his tongue—slow circles, then fast, then agonizingly slow again—and I’m shaking, trembling, making sounds I’ve never made. This isn’t like anything I’ve experienced.
This is someone paying attention. Learning me. Taking his time like I’m worth savoring.
“You taste incredible.” He slides a finger inside me, and I arch off the cot. “Could do this for hours.”
“I can’t—” I’m climbing too fast, tension coiling tight. “Daniel, I’m going to—”
“Good.” He crooks his finger, finds a spot that makes me see stars. “Come for me, Laney. I want to feel it.”
I shatter.
The orgasm rips through me, wave after wave, and I cry out his name as my whole body convulses. He works me through it, relentless, drawing out every last pulse until I’m gasping and boneless.
He presses a kiss to my inner thigh. Looks up at me with wet lips and dark eyes.
“That,” he says, “was worth waiting for.”
I laugh weakly. “Give me a minute. I think you broke something.”
“Take your time.”
But I don’t want time. I want him.
I reach for his belt, but he catches my wrist.
“You don’t have to—”
“Stop.” I meet his eyes. “Stop telling me what I don’t have to do.”
His jaw tightens. For a moment, I think he’s going to argue. Then something shifts in his expression—surrender, maybe—and he lets go of my wrist.
I work his belt open. Pop the button on his jeans. He helps me shove them down. He’s bare and hard as I wrap my fingers around him.
His whole body shudders. “Fuck.”
“Good?”
“Too good.” His voice is strained. “I’m not going to last if you—”
I stroke him, learning the shape of him, the weight.
The rhythm that makes his breath catch. The twist at the top that drags a groan from his chest. He’s thick and hot in my hand, leaking at the tip, and I use the slickness to ease my movements.
His hips jerk forward, chasing my grip, and his loss of control makes me feel powerful.
I want more.
I slide off the cot, kneel in front of him, and take him in my mouth.
“Jesus—” His hand flies to my hair. “Laney, you don’t—”
I take him deeper. He tastes like salt and skin. I’m clumsy and unpracticed, but I’m enthusiastic, and from the sounds he’s making, that counts.
“So good.” His grip tightens in my hair. “Your mouth is—fuck—”
I find a rhythm. Tongue swirling, hand working what I can’t reach with my mouth. He’s trembling now, his thighs shaking, his breath coming in harsh gasps.
“I’m close.” The words sound torn out of him. “You need to—”
I don’t pull back. I want this. Want to feel him come apart because of me.
He comes with a groan that sounds like it hurts, spilling across my tongue. I watch his face—jaw slack, eyes squeezed shut, the raw vulnerability of his pleasure—and my chest cracks open.
This is terrifying.
This is everything.
I work him through it, gentling my movements as he shudders and gasps and finally relaxes.
Silence.
His hand is still in my hair, but his grip has loosened. I look up and find him staring at me with an expression I can’t read.
Then he’s pulling me up, and for a moment, I think he’s going to kiss me—but he doesn’t. He reaches past me, grabs the scratchy blanket, and wraps it around my shoulders. His hands linger, tucking it close, but he won’t meet my eyes.
“You’re cold,” he says. His voice is flat. Careful.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re shivering.”
I am. But not from the cold.
He moves away. Finds his jeans, and pulls them on with sharp, efficient movements. Checks the woodstove, adds another log. His back is to me, his shoulders tight, and I don’t understand what’s happening.
Five minutes ago, he was inside my mouth. Now, he’s acting like I’m a supply delivery he needs to sign for.
“Daniel.”
“We should head back.” He still won’t look at me. “Storm’s passed. They’ll be wondering where we are.”
The warmth of my orgasm is fading fast, replaced by something cold and familiar. The waiting-for-the-other-shoe feeling. The of course this is how it goes feeling.
I wanted something for myself. And now I”m paying for it.
“Right.” I keep my voice light. Careless. “Wouldn’t want to worry anyone.”
I find my clothes, dress with my back to him. The wet fabric clings, and I’m shivering for real now, but I’ll be damned if I ask him for help.
When I turn around, he’s watching me. His expression is still unreadable, but his hands are clenched at his sides.
“Delaney—”
“We should go.” I move past him toward the door. “Like you said.”
The ride back is silent.