17. Grey

Chapter 17

Grey

M y lips are still tingling from Delilah and I's kiss in the alcove as we walk hand and hand down the elaborate staircase to the exit of the museum. The rain has slowed down, resulting in a steady trickle rather than a shower, but I still call my private car to come pick us up.

I can't resist squeezing Delilah's arse when she bends to slip inside the backseat, the tight fabric of her dress moulding to every perfect inch of her body, highlighting each curve.

She pretends to be shocked, but the twinkle of desire in her eyes and the two pink spots appearing on the high points of her cheeks, give her away.

"Where too, Mr Millen?"

"Bayswater…" Delilah begins, and then changes her mind. "Actually, could we just drive around for a bit? I'm not ready to go home yet."

Winding my arm around her shoulders, I pull Delilah further into my side, keeping her tucked there while I drop a kiss to the top of her head.

"Not a problem, Miss…"

"Clark," Delilah supplies.

"Miss Clark." My driver nods, pressing his foot on the pedal until we're smoothly pulling away from the curb side.

"Thank you for today." Delilah peers up at me through her lashes, a fingernail gliding over my thigh in large and then small circles, gradually rising higher and higher.

I widen my legs when my cock kicks at her touch – so simple and yet so effective – dipping to take her lips again. My hands move to cup her face, stealing kisses, while Delilah shifts, her breasts crushed against my shoulder.

"Please tell me this won't be our last, gorgeous."

"Our last what?" She pants, lips bee stung.

"Our last date. Promise me it won't be."

There's not a single drop of hesitation in her tone. "I promise, Grey."

In seconds, I have Delilah on her back. She's a pretty sight; spread out across my leather seats, thighs bracketing my hips, her dress riding up. I make no move to pull it down, instead pushing it higher until it pools around her waist. Her chest heaves with each unsteady breath, the creamy swell of her breasts spilling out, watching me in rapture.

With nimble fingertips, I'm pulling the neckline of her dress and bra down too, freeing her pretty tits and grabbing a handful.

Catching myself on my forearms, I drape myself over Delilah's tiny body, tilting my pelvis until she gasps, and I know I've grazed her little pink clit. I catch a hard nipple in my mouth, flicking and biting the flesh and then chuckling against her skin when I hear the quiet buzz coming from the privacy partition. I watch as it rises slowly, blocking my driver from view, sealing Delilah and I in our own little bubble.

A nervous laugh froths from Delilah's lips, knowing we've been caught. I kiss each of her now beet red cheeks, delighting in how sweet she is. My gorgeous girl.

I must say that aloud, as Delilah pulls me down to her lips with a broken little moan, nose rubbing alongside mine.

"We're not supposed to fuck on the first date."

I grind down into her hot core, feeling precum leak from my tip. "What have I told you about breaking the rules, Delilah?"

She tucks her face into my neck in answer, pressing hot kisses to the skin she finds there, hands cupping my arse to press me further to her, until we're practically dry humping like a pair of lovesick teenagers.

"Can you stay quiet for me, gorgeous?" I trace her stained blush with the back of my forefinger. "Unless you want to be heard—"

Delilah imprints her whimpers into my flesh.

Desire and impatience fizzle through my veins. It's been less than a week since I had Delilah last, but I need her again, need to feel her contracting around me, and my hind brain is unbothered by the potential consequences.

"I can't promise this is going to last long," I grit out, fingers dipping under the elasticated waistband of Delilah's knickers and finding her already drenched.

"Doesn't matter, need you… need you."

We've both reached out limits, the need to feel each other, to share our ecstasy, triumphing over anything else.

Small hands are unzipping my trousers, pushing them and my underwear down to my knees to grab at my flushed cock. My movements are restricted, but I manage to pull Delilah's lace knickers to the side and watch as she guides me inside of her.

My groan stutters out of me, muffled by the sound of Delilah's breasts as I bury my head there.

Delilah tips her head back, exposing her throat, a pleasured gasp breaking free until she slaps a palm over her own mouth.

I don't give either of us a second to adjust, the pleasure too much, too high, too fucking good.

Gripping the soft flesh of her waist, I pull back quickly and then snap my hips forward, pushing Delilah further and further along the leather seats until she reaches behind herself, latching onto the doorhandle, to stop her head from thumping against the interior.

"Grey, Grey, Grey… holy fuck," she chants lowly, eyes squeezed tightly shut, teeth suddenly digging into her lower lip to hold back her moans.

I'm not fairing much better. She's so fucking tight and hot and wet around me, milking my cock with her walls, keeping me inside of her, welcoming me in while I carve out a space for myself.

My own eyes roll into the back of my head as my stomach tightens, a spark of ecstasy zipping along the base of my spine, but I force myself to open them to watch Delilah's tits bouncing in time with my hard thrusts.

Flattening one palm to the seat beneath us, I pinch at her nipple with my other hand, lifting the weight of her heavy flesh. "These fucking pretty tits. Can't stop thinking about them, wanking off to them. Wanna fuck them, smear them in lube and spit and push myself between them… Would you let me, Delilah? Let me fuck your pretty tits sometime?"

"Yes, yes, fuck yesss."

"Open your eyes, gorgeous. I've got to see you."

Delilah's eyes are glassy when she opens them, her corner lashes spiky with moisture. The look elicits something primal inside of me. I'm the one putting that look on her face, I want to be the only one to do that to her.

A too loud whine escapes Delilah's, her thighs tightening around my waist, pussy clenching and I know she feels good, but not fucking good enough.

Reshuffling, I pull Delilah down until she rests in the cradle of my thighs, one hand flattening against her inner leg to spread her, the other covering her mouth to muffle her noises. Not that I care how loud she is, she could be screaming for all I care, but I know Delilah would be embarrassed if she thought my driver could hear.

"Touch yourself, Delilah."

Slim, slightly cold fingers wiggle their way between our writhing bodies, sweeping against the velvet length of my cock each time I pull out of her.

Her body clenches around me again, her free hand coming up to tightly grip the fingers covering her mouth until the colour of my flesh is mottled white.

"Let go. Let it happen."

Wetness floods my cock, Delilah's whole body tightening up and going ridged before she begins to shake. She bites at my fingers, smearing saliva, eyes wide, fixed on me.

I grit my own teeth, jaw ticking as my pleasure ripples through me with force, my balls drawing up tight. I spill inside Delilah with a groan of her name, unable to hold back.

Sweat cools in the creases of my skin and the nape of my neck when I come back to earth, staring down at Delilah like I've never seen her before.

She's a fucking vision; big doe glassy eyes, mussed hair, rumpled clothes.

Pressing a kiss to my bitten fingertips in apology, Delilah pulls my hand away from her mouth and sits up, meeting me more than halfway for a sweet kiss.

I get the distinct impression she wants to say something, although I'm not sure what, so I stay quiet, waiting for words that don't come.

When we pull apart, it's with a wet squelch, my cum dripping from Delilah's core onto the seats.

"Don't worry about it," I say, fixing her underwear for her and then pulling up my own trousers. We switch seats to avoid sitting in the puddle, our backs now to the still closed partition window, feeling the steady glide of the car along the streets.

Delilah tucks herself back into my side with a content sigh, twining our hands together while our heart rates return back to normal.

I catalogue that sensation as the car eventually glides towards the Bayswater borough of London. Delilah steps out of the car first, squinting in the watery sunshine, and I follow, heading up the stairs and leaning against the wall of her apartment while she hunts in her handbag for her keys.

"Do you want to come in?"

I reach forward to push a curl of hair back behind her ear. "I would love too, but I don't want to overwhelm you."

"I'm not overwhelmed, I just—"

"Maybe need some time to process?"

Delilah nods, eyes searching my face as if she'll find displeasure, or annoyance there. But she won't.

"And that's okay, gorgeous… I've had a really nice time today."

She smiles, her whole face lighting up. "Me too, Grey."

"Good." I steal a kiss from her lips, lingering there, inhaling her perfume one last time. "Will you ring me when you're ready?"

"Promise."

Delilah's promise rings in my ears the whole car ride home. I can still imagine her tucked up beside me, pressing into my body with her steady presence.

Hudson's in the kitchen cooking up a storm when I close the front door behind me. The scent of chicken and soy sauce tickles my nostrils, causing my stomach to rumble even if I had only eaten about an hour and a half ago.

"Want a bowl?" he asks when he sees me.

"Please."

Dishing up two bowls of chicken stir fry, we sit on the sofa, the latest football match playing quietly on the TV screen.

"So, how was it?"

I can't hold back my grin. "Really good. I really like her."

"And does she feel the same way?"

"Yeah, I think so."

Hudson nods, turning his attention back to the sport, while I spear a piece of chicken and chew thoughtfully. My date with Delilah went amazingly, better than I ever could have imagined, but there's one thing she said that keeps playing on my mind, eating away at me.

"She told me why she doesn't date."

Hudson grunts in response, eyes still fixed on the football pitch.

"Her ex-boyfriend was a famous rugby player." Hudson's fork clatters against his bowl. Now I've got his attention. "He fucked her over big time, the press too. It still really bothers her."

"The ex?"

"No, the whole media slash famous thing, I think."

Hudson looks at me as if I've grown a second head. "Is it going to be a problem?"

I shrug.

"Have you told her?"

I shake my head.

"Grey, for fuck's sake."

"What?!" I throw my hands up, chicken stir fry turning to lead in my stomach. "How was I supposed to tell her after she told me about her ex? What was I supposed to say, oh by the way I'm really sorry he broke your heart, and the press ripped you to fucking shreds, but there's a chance it could happen to you again if we develop a relationship together, because I'm sometimes still in the tabloids? Because of who I am… who I was?

"What is she going to say when I tell her I used to be professional swimmer? Hm? They thought I was headed to the fucking Olympics before I broke my foot and tore all my ligaments in that accident, and my pain was splashed all across the newspaper headlines for weeks on end afterwards. You think I should have dug the knife in a little further and told her that right then and there? Delilah would have run for the bloody hills and I can't blame her."

Hudson stares at me for a split second, and then nods. "Yeah, maybe not. But you're going to have to tell her eventually if it keeps getting serious."

I gulp in oxygen, my chest feeling tight and uncomfortable. I'm overthinking and this isn't me. "I know. I'm gonna – I'm gonna go for a swim, I think. Clear my head."

I'm already halfway out the door when he calls, "If I'm not awake by the time you get back, there's some extra stir fry for you to take to work tomorrow."

"Thanks."

Hudson isn't awake when I get back, my hair wet, muscles aching but mind much clearer. I'll tell Delilah when I feel the time is right, and until then, well… I'm not that interesting anymore, nobody is bothered what I'm doing with my life and hopefully the tabloids feel the same way. It's been a while since I was last featured anyway; papped heading inside of a coffee shop the week before Christmas last.

Sliding into bed, I ignore the urge to text Delilah, not because I don't want to talk to her, but because I don't want to pressure her, and instead pick up the second book in my ‘Why Choose' series she loaned me.

I get through two chapters painfully slowly, before I'm pulling back the warm covers, heading down the corridor and opening the door to the spare room at the end, the urge to slip inside to loud to ignore.

Perching on the edge of the bed, I look up at the wall. Bronze, silver and gold glittering trophies and medals, each with my name etched onto them, wink back at me. Guilt sits heavy in my heart for the knowledge I've slept with Delilah without even telling her who I truly am.

But how can I…

Every droplet of my blood, of sweat, each shed tear and aching muscle, or leg cramp is tidied away in this room; kept like a rather strange shrine I'm not willing to part with.

The entire span of my swimming career is encapsulated in this one space.

At one point, it had felt like my entire life.

I glide my fingers along the rim of a gold trophy cup, the metal smooth and cool. I'd been eleven when I'd won my first gold. Ecstatic didn't quite cut it. I can still remember the tight lock of Mum's arms banding around my neck, the wet splat of Blake's water slicked body colliding with mine. He'd been competing too, but he hadn't placed. It didn't matter to him; he was more than happy to celebrate my win with me.

My family had been there to celebrate my losses too.

The summer I turned twenty-one, young and na?ve, practically high on life, I accepted an invitation to spend a week in a ski chalet in the north of France. While my other friends partied and drank, snorting messy white lines with their rolled-up paper cash, I declined each offer. I was already a pretty well-known athlete, having competed in the commonwealth games, with big dreams of the reaching the Olympics. Not even the slightest bit of temptation was going to get me to ruin my chances.

Instead, I spent most of my time on the slopes, practising jumps and twirls, the soft powdery snow flying out behind me. My adrenaline rushed much faster as I fled down a slope than it did in chalet pounding back shot after shot.

I'd ridden the ski lift a number of times, so on a bright Tuesday morning, I didn't even question hopping on alone, readjusting my ski goggles as we began to take off from the ground.

Life as I knew it changed with that split second decision.

One second, we we're trundling forward, the next we we're speeding backwards at breakneck speed, crushing the other ski lift chairs behind us. Thankfully most of them we're empty, call it luck I guess, but there was still a few of us trapped, unable to do anything but jump to avoid being squished.

I can't remember the height I jumped from, my brain simply going into survival mode, but I recall the sudden searing back ricocheting up and down my left calf when I collided with the hard ground.

Black ice sent me spinning, one of my skis landing painfully on the top of my booted foot, the other smacking me on the head. Still slipping down the slope, disorientated and feeling sick all of a sudden, I closed my eyes.

When I reopened them, it was to a sterile hospital room. Mum sat in the chair closest to my bedside, gripping my fingers so tightly I was losing feeling in them.

"Water." I'd apparently croaked out, taking a few sips, before slipping back under the soft cloud of welcoming sleep, my mum's concerned face the last thing etched on my brain.

I was in and out for three days straight, sometimes lucid, sometimes not.

Eventually, when I did come too it was to the worse news of my life.

"You've broken most of the bones in your foot and tore the ligaments in your left calf," the doctor explained, clipboard in hand.

"My swimming…"

"If you're lucky, you'll be able to swim again," he reassured me, "with the right physiotherapy. But I'm not sure about competing."

My dad had gripped my shoulder, as I cried my eyes out, unable to catch a breath. He promised it would all be okay no matter what happened. But I'd been swimming since I was four, I knew no different… and my dream…

"It's still possible, G," Blake had repeated, his eyes red rimmed, a mirror image of my own. He knew how much I wanted this. I'd worked my fucking arse off.

I held onto that hope while I pushed through horrific sessions of physiotherapy. It was uncomfortable and painful, completely out of my comfort zone and everything I didn't want to be doing. I wanted to be fucking swimming; it kept me sane, it kept my mind from overthinking.

For sessions after sessions I tried, constantly on the edge of tears, swallowing down a cocktail of pain medication multiple times a day.

Still, like a friendly face, the water welcomed me in once I was ready. It took my weight, it took my pain, it took my worries, soothing me in a wet hug.

But my muscle, my discipline, my speed it was all gone. There one day and gone the next.

I could no longer compete.

While I battled with my body, my parents battled with the ski lift company. This was their fucking fault, not mine.

The Millen family fought behind closed doors, as we once had before when my mum had beaten breast cancer, while the media turned an awful, life altering incident into an untrue story.

"I'd been drinking," they said. ‘Sources' had seen me taking drugs too. Neither of those things could have stopped the ski lift from reversing backwards, but the mixture of drink and drugs in my system had stopped me from being able to react as fast as possible when I fell.

Bullshit.

I stayed silent out of pain, both mentally and physically. I didn't have the strength to argue, I knew the truth, my family knew the truth, that was all that mattered. I didn't have a clue what the flying fuck my life would look like now, but I had true people around me who loved and cared for me.

"Fuck everyone else," Hudson uttered once at the dinner table, careful not to kick my still casted up leg. Not even Mum berated him for his foul language, instead nodding her head in agreement and pressing a motherly kiss to my forehead.

Months passed by at a snail's pace; I was still swimming, I couldn't live without it, but I was soon coming to terms with no longer competing. It still stung to think about it, but I was coping.

As Christmas approached, the doctor who'd treated me over in France spoke out to the British press with a statement – ‘Mr Millen was tested for alcohol and use of recreational drugs as soon as he was bought into our care. He tested negative for both. This was simply a freak accident, which I hope the ski lift company will take accountability for, so this doesn't happen again. We wish Mr Millen nothing but our best wishes for his future.'

It seemed as if I had blinked, and suddenly, the press was now on my side. I hadn't been drinking, I hadn't taken drugs, it was a freak accident and I'd been a young boy with a bright sports career who had his dream taken away from him.

By January, the ski company had taken accountability and I was being given a hefty amount of compensation. It would never bring back my ability to compete, but the money didn't go amiss.

Throughout it all, my family stood by my side, keeping my spirit up with nothing but love. I grew up, disappeared out of media, got my lifeguard job, fell in and out of romantic relationships, and continued to strengthen my ligaments on the regular so they didn't become weak.

I was happy with my life at twenty-nine, content and wanting for nothing more, until Delilah walked into my life over a month ago.

I want her to be mine more than anything I can ever recall.

Even more than when I'd wished to become a professional athlete.

I just hope this time, life is kind enough to grant my wish.