8. Grey

Chapter 8

Grey

I pull my gaze away from Delilah's glossy lips, forcing myself to catch her doe eyes instead.

Out of all the bars in the heart of London, I can't quite believe she's here tonight. In the flesh. Tucked into my side as if it's a perfect fit.

She smells so fucking good, something spicy and sultry to match the vibe of the faux speakeasy bar around us and the dress she wears.

The fucking dress.

I'm not sure what I want to do first, tear it off her, or leave it on and lick my way from her creamy neck down to her tits.

Now we're away from the leisure centre, and Delilah isn't standing there, vulnerable in her swimming costume, I feel like I can finally put my attraction to her first and God, do I want her.

Everything in Delilah's reaction to me – the twinkle in her eye, the tilt of her body towards me, the sweet touch of her soft hand – tells me she wants me too. Thank fuck.

My cock kicks in my slacks as she shifts, the toe of her shoe sliding my pant leg ever so slightly further up my left leg. Her thigh is warm beneath the material of her dress, sinking into my palm. I clench my jaw at the sheer thought of feeling her soft, bare skin on the pads of my fingertips.

"I think I need some fresh air myself," she says, voice melodic. "Want to get out of here?"

I don't even have to question it.

"Sure, gorgeous." The nickname simply slips out past my lips without me thinking, and I'm about to play it cool somehow, but then I catch the flutter of Delilah's lashes.She likes it.

God, this woman…

Standing, I hold my hand out for Delilah to take, watching her shimmy out of the booth, smooth down the front of her dress with her free hand, and then lead me, a step behind, through the crowd.

It's gotten a lot busier now than it had been when I'd slipped through the door, grabbing my pint while I waited for Hudson to turn up. Bodies writhe, together and separately, drink spilling from the glasses in unsteady hands.

I let go of Delilah's hand, settling on her tiny waist instead, my body a shield behind her back.

She reaches back to squeeze one of my wrists in a silent gesture, although I'm not quite clear on what she's trying to say. Thank you for protecting me through the crowd? Let me lead? I like the feel of your hands on my body?

I keep Delilah pressed up against me the way I want her, the satin of her god forsaken dress bunching up under my thumbs, until the cold air whips through my hair.

Spilling out into the night, I allow Delilah to pull me along silently, leading me down a well-lit street littered with other bars, clubs and restaurants.

I have no clue where we're headed, but I'm happy to follow her until we cross a set of traffic lights, and the cars start to whip past us. "Delilah—"

"Are you drunk?" Delilah turns to me all of sudden, stopping at the edge of the pavement.

"Drunk?" I shake my head, blood fizzing, watching her dress billow around her legs as a large truck passes us by and creates an upwind gust. I can't help but reach out to grasp her, drawing her away from the edge and further into the pavement. Towards me, to safety. "No, I'm not drunk, gorgeous."

She rests her small hands on my shoulders, having to look up at me even with her heels on. "Will you come back to mine, and we can talk?"

Surprised shock ricochets through me, although I hope it doesn't show on my face. I just didn't expect those words to be coming from Delilah's mouth right now, but I'm not about to be stupid enough to decline.

"If that's what you want."

She nods, searching my face, her thumb moving to follow the chain link of my necklace laying on my skin. I'm not entirely convinced Delilah is registering the back and forth strum of her thumb, but my heart picks up speed at the sensation, the skin beneath my necklace prickling.

I don't want to move, too caught up in the heady feeling of Delilah's breasts pressing against me. The way she's leaning into me, warm and solid with lips I want to bend down and kiss.

Taking a lock of Delilah's hair between my thumb and forefinger, the strand buttery soft, I tuck it behind her ear, with a whispered, "I'll grab us a taxi."

Surprisingly, it takes me all of a few seconds to hold out my arm into the oncoming traffic, flag down a black cab and grab the sleek door to the back seat, holding it open for Delilah to climb inside.

Sending me a soft smile in thanks, she bends at the waist, giving me a fucking amazing view of her heart shaped arse. I clench my hand into a fist to stop myself from grasping her hips and pulling her back… Delilah splayed out in front of me, head down, that fucking arse up, whimpering out my name while she clutches a pillow. She turns her head to the side, about to peer at me over her shoulder, begging me too—

Delilah pokes her head out of the car. "Aren't you getting in, Grey?"

I feel myself nod jerkily, hoping the dark interior of the taxi will hide the semi I'm sporting from my mental fantasy.

Once seated, Delilah rattles off her address, about to strap herself into the left-hand side window seat.

"Come here," I whisper, reaching for her.

Delilah scoots along into the middle seat, our thighs packed tightly against each other as she loops the safety belt over her torso. My hand finds a home on her upper thigh, squeezing once gently, my fingers curving around the inner portion of her body.

Delilah peers out of the taxi window, I know because I'm watching her, cataloguing the curve of her button nose, each blink of her makeup coated eyelashes, the purse of her glossy lips.

I'm so engrossed, I miss the sudden move of Delilah's hand, the way it tiptoes away from holding the strap of her handbag and lands on top of my hand. She threads her fingers through mine, upside down, until I flip my palm, catching those dainty fingers of hers.

We're both quiet as the taxi trundles along steadily, only slowing down when we approach a street in Bayswater.

I'm tapping my phone to the automatic card reader to pay for our taxi ride before Delilah can stop me, tipping the driver and then stepping out onto the street.

"You didn't have to do that, Grey," she says.

"I wanted to," I reply.

My words get stuck in my throat once again as I follow Delilah into her flat, listening to the distinct sound of her key turning in the lock. I can't stop myself from brushing her hair away from her neck, swiping my own thumb over the visible notch indicating the start of her spine. I want to kiss her there, breathe in the perfume dotted behind her ears and nibble at her jaw.

But I want to take her lips first. Brand myself on her as much as she's already branded herself onto me.

All without even touching me yet.

When I follow Delilah into her flat, I don't know what I'm expecting. But it's distinctly her from the moment I step over the threshold; clean lines, polished, tidy, a bookshelf overflowing standing in the corner beside a TV cabinet.

Inside the doorway, Delilah leans into me again, long enough for me to feel the race of her heartbeat.

Does she want me to kiss her? Does she want to kiss me?

I'm usually a happy go lucky guy, not putting much thought into the potential what-ifs of life and just happy to let the wave take me where it leads.

It's a skill I've learnt to hone over my twenty-nine years of life, and so far it's served me well.

Not tonight, though. I haven't been happy to let the wave take me since Delilah walked – or should I say, doggy paddled – into my life, nearly drowned and had to sit in the medicine room with me resembling a wet rat.

A very attractive wet rat I must say.

Instead, I've found myself trying to bend the wave of life. Trying to control it so I can see her again.

It's an unusual feeling for me. Atypical. But I get the feeling it's Delilah's preferred method of living.

She likes to be in control, she's used to it, it's her safety blanket. I would know because my eldest brother Noah is exactly the same. He only got worse after Mum got poorly.

It never left him even after Mum's treatment turned out successful.

I peer down at Delilah, waiting patiently. Intrigued as to what she'll do. I feel her take in a deep breath, chest and stomach expanding, and then she tears herself away, dumping her handbag on the spotless kitchen counter.

She wants me, I know she does, it's written all over her, but there's something stopping her.

"You've got a nice space," I offer, spinning in a circle to get a glimpse at it all. There's a hallway to the left, leading to two doors which must be the bathroom and Delilah's bedroom. "It's very you."

"Very me?" she echoes. The sound of water sputters between us as she lifts the tap, opens a cupboard and pulls out two glasses.

"Yeah… tidy, polished, something distinctly feminine." It's in the matching pink cushions and blanket folded over the sofa, the set of marble coasters waiting to be used on the wooden coffee table, the fresh bunch of flowers sitting in their vase.

My feet take me to the bookshelf in the corner. It's wooden too, unlit fairy lights hanging from the top, books and papers and notebooks spilling out, not at all lining up precariously as I'd imagined them to be.

Interesting. It's an anomaly in the otherwise ridiculously neat space.

I run my finger along the row of exposed spines, some cracked, some worn, some still in perfect condition. Picking one out at random, I flick through the pages with the pad of my thumb, the topless man from the cover staring at me with a smoulder.

A few words jump out at me, one particular descriptive scene catching my attention, so much so I turn the page to keep on reading.

"Something caught your attention there?"

I glance up to find Delilah watching me, a glass of water to her lips, a second glass resting upon a coaster on the coffee table.

Holding up the book in my hand, middle and ring fingers resting in between the pages to keep my spot, I squint at her.

"This is pure filth, you know."

Delilah tilts her head to the side with a smirk to her lips. "I know."

"Are all your books like this?"

"Most of them."

"Are the books you edit for work the same?"

She nods slowly, not backing down from my stare.

With my heart stuttering in my chest and blood rushing south at Delilah's admission, I shove the book back in its haphazard home, and pick up my glass to gulp down some water.

Delilah perches herself on her own sofa as if nothing is amiss. She settles into the cushions, tucks her now bare feet up under her and watches me, smiling.

Mimicking her pose, I fold myself back into the sofa, arms spread wide over the back, Delilah's knees kissing my hip. "So, you read porn?"

"If you want to call it that, sure." God, her smile. Fucking knockout. "It's the twenty-first century, I can be a sexually empowered woman, who reads whatever the fuck she wants too and sometimes gets off on it."

I swear my heart fucking stops for a second.

Here's the most attractive woman I've met in a long time talking about getting herself off…

Spread out on my bed, brunette hair splayed over my pillow, Delilah reaches her hand down between her thighs, stroking herself over the lace underwear covering her pussy. Her hips jerk, stomach tightening, head tilting back, throat bared, a sweet moan spilling past her lips.

I clear my throat, once again reaching for my glass of water, while I vehemently ignore the blood rushing and filling my cock. "Course you can, gorgeous."

Delilah's smile only widens.

"Look, Grey," she breathes, eyes dipping down to her lap. They stay there for a second or two, before returning to my face. "I'm attracted to you. Really attracted. Have been since I… since the incident at the pool and you took me into the infirmary room, but I didn't want to admit to myself. I think you're really fit. But I-I don't do relationships. I'm not looking for one, so I-I—"

My mind rushes with thoughts at a million miles an hour.

She's attracted to me. She thinks I'm fit. She doesn't do relationships.

Delilah doesn't do relationships. She's not looking for one.

I inhale, focusing on the feel of the cool leather sofa beneath my hands. The solid floor beneath my still shoe covered feet. The warmth of Delilah sitting beside me, the audible sound of her breathing, the clean scent of her.

I shift until our faces are close together, until I can study every freckle peeking out from beneath her makeup, the beauty mark dotted on her lip line.

"What are you asking of me, gorgeous?"

Her lashes flutter again at the use of my newfound nickname for her.

"To sleep with each other. Once. To get my want for you, out of my system, Grey."

I smooth the back of my forefinger against her soft jawline. "I'm in your system, Delilah?"

She nods slowly. "Am I in yours?"

"Since the day I laid eyes on you."

"So—"

"You want to sleep with me, no strings attached?"

"No strings attached," Delilah confirms.

Something in my heart beats erratically, a little twinge if I'm honest, but I pay it no heed.

Never in my wildest dreams did I think this would be happening.

But Delilah fucking wants me, and I want her, so what's to stop us from enjoying each other for the night?

"Okay."

Delilah's eyes sparkle, her lips curving up into a grin while she giggles. "You have no idea how long I've been waiting for you to kiss me."

"You want me to kiss you, gorgeous?"

"Please, Grey." Her voice is breathless already.

I slide one hand behind Delilah's neck, the other banding around her tiny waist, waiting while she searches my face.

When the tension between us feels like it's going to snap, I fucking break. "Close your eyes then."