Page 10 of Deliah

W e didn’t leave the bar straight away. We lingered, winding each other up like we had nothing better to do than flirt until someone snapped.

Every glance, every smirk, every insult—it was all foreplay.

He leaned across the bar, pretending to whisper something to the bartender, but instead, he said right into my ear, “You’ve got the filthiest laugh I’ve ever heard. ”

I sipped my drink, completely unbothered. “You’ve got the smuggest face I’ve ever seen. Want to compare notes?”

He smirked. “You’ve been staring at this smug face all night.”

“Only to remind myself what kind of red flags to avoid.”

“Ouch.” He grinned, amused. “You’re gonna be screaming into this red flag later.”

“Keep dreaming, Jay.”

“Oh, I am. But in my dreams, you’re nicer to me.”

“Boring dream,” I said, finishing my drink and licking the straw just to watch him twitch.

“You always this mouthy?” he asked, eyes tracking every move I made.

“Only when I’m not busy gagging on something better,” I shot back with a wink.

He threw his head back and howled, gripping the bar for dramatic effect. Then he looked at me like he was already fucking me in his head. “Let’s get out of here before I bend you over this stool and cause a scene.”

I grinned. “Lead the way, darling.”

We stumbled out of the bar, hands already everywhere, laughing like a pair of drunk teenagers who didn’t know better.

The island buzzed around us—music, lights, people—but it all blurred into the background.

I was laser-focused on him. The way his hand never left my lower back.

The way he’d pull me close just to whisper something filthy in my ear and then pretend like he hadn’t just melted my insides.

Every few seconds, he’d say something that made me roll my eyes, but deep down?

It turned me on more. I shoved him once when he tried to spank me in the street.

He chased me, grabbed me by the waist, spun me around, and said, “You’re trouble, Deliah. ”

“I breathe trouble,” I said, laughing breathlessly. “Still time to run.”

“Never been a runner,” he replied, eyes locked on mine.

I don’t remember walking into the apartment block. I just remember the heat. The tension. The way his hand slid down the back of my thigh when we got into the lift. The way his other hand hit the wall next to my head when the doors slid shut.

And then? Boom.

He turned, eyes dark, jaw clenched, and shoved me back against the mirrored wall like he couldn’t wait another second.

His lips slammed into mine—rough, deep, possessive.

Like he’d been holding himself back all night and just lost the grip.

It wasn’t romantic. It was raw. It was war.

I kissed him back just as hard, grabbing the front of his t-shirt and yanking him closer.

Our teeth clashed. I bit his bottom lip.

He groaned and pressed his hips into mine.

“Oi,” I gasped, shoving him back with two palms to the chest. “You think you’re gonna throw me around like that?”

He licked his lip where I’d bitten him and laughed. “You started it, darling.”

I slapped his arse. “You fucking love it.”

The doors pinged open on the top floor, but we didn’t move.

He stared at me for a second like he was deciding whether to kiss me again or carry me out like a caveman.

Apparently, he went with both. He bent down, grabbed me by the thighs, and lifted me onto his shoulder like I was a duffel bag.

I screamed and smacked his back, but I was laughing, breathless, dripping.

“Jay! Put me down!”

“Not a chance.”

I could feel his hand slide up the back of my thigh as he walked, and I swear I felt a shudder run straight through my core.

He was so casual about it. Carrying me like it was a regular Friday night activity and this was normal.

He fumbled for his keys with one hand while I dangled over his shoulder.

“Seriously?” I said, half laughing, half losing my mind. “You’re unlocking your door like this?”

“Yeah,” he said, breathless from laughing. “Gonna fuck you with one hand, too, if you don’t shut up.”

I bit his back through his shirt. “Try me.”

He groaned—low and guttural—and finally shoved the door open.

Then he carried me straight through, kicked it shut behind him, and tossed me onto the sofa like a sack of sin.

We were both breathless and grinning. He stood there for a second, just looking at me.

Sweaty. Flushed. Fucking feral. “Trouble,” he said again, shaking his head.

“You have no idea,” I breathed, already crawling towards him on my hands and knees. “Now stop talking and ruin me.”

Our clothes hit the floor quicker than a knife fight in a phone booth.

He tore my dress over my head, and his hands were everywhere, grabbing, clawing, claiming.

I was yanking at his jeans like they’d personally offended me, biting his lip between groans, already soaked between my legs, and dizzy from how fast this was spiralling.

He picked me up without warning and threw me onto the bed.

Not gently. Like a fucking doll. I let out a breathless laugh, but it caught in my throat the second I saw it.

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

He pulled his boxers down, and I actually blinked.

I had walked in thinking I’d ruin him. Ride him like a wild thing, make him beg, make him remember me.

But that plan shattered the moment I saw his cock.

Massive. Thick, hard, and heavy, the kind of cock that makes your mouth water and your brain glitch.

My legs opened instinctively. My body wanted it.

All of it. There was no warm-up. No teasing.

Just a desperate, primal scramble. Two bodies fighting for control, for dominance—for who was going to break who first. He kissed me like he was starving.

His mouth devoured mine, tongue hot and slick, lips dragging across my neck.

He bit my shoulder. I moaned. My hands raked down his back, nails digging into skin.

I wanted to mark him. Claim him. Scar him.

I pushed him back and climbed on top, straddling him with a grin that said, “ Watch me work .” I planted my hands on his chest and rode him hard, grinding down slow, then bouncing with rhythm and spite.

I circled my hips until I could feel every inch inside me, stretching me open, hitting places I’d forgotten existed.

He groaned—low, animalistic. That sound made my toes curl and my pussy clench.

I leaned back, watching his eyes roll just slightly.

Yes , I thought. You like that, don’t you?

I reached behind and slapped his thigh. “Still feeling smug?”

He growled in response and grabbed my waist with both hands, flipping me underneath him like a rag doll. My back hit the mattress with a thud, and he slammed into me in one brutal thrust that knocked the air out of my lungs.

“Fucking hell,” I gasped.

He just grinned and kept going. I shoved him back again, flipping us, and this time, he let me—just to watch me ride.

I gripped the headboard for leverage, hips slamming down, my tits bouncing, sweat starting to roll down my back.

My knees were burning from the pressure, but I didn’t give a shit.

I needed more. Needed all of him. Just as I was about to grab his throat, he caught my wrists in one hand and pinned them above my head.

With the other hand? He slapped me across the cheek.

Not hard. Just enough to sting. Just enough to shock me.

I froze. Something twisted in me. Shame?

Excitement? I didn’t know. I just knew I wanted more.

My eyes met his. And then—I moaned. My pussy pulsed around him like it knew something my mouth hadn’t admitted yet.

I was in deep. Deeper than I wanted to be.

And he knew it. He started fucking me harder, faster, dragging his cock all the way out before slamming back in so deep I swear I could feel him in my ribs.

His grip never loosened. My wrists were caged.

I wasn’t even in control of myself anymore.

My body was pure reaction—heat, sweat, need.

He leaned down, voice dark and filthy against my ear. “You like being slapped, don’t you?”

I gasped, breathless. “Fuck you.”

“You’re dripping.” He laughed, still thrusting. “You love it.”

And he was right. It was filth. Pure, primal, dizzying filth.

And I fucking loved it. He released my wrists and yanked me closer by the thighs, dragging me down the bed, pulling me into every thrust like I was his own personal fuck toy.

My hands scrambled for the sheets. My head tipped back.

I couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t do anything except feel.

I bit his shoulder. He bit back. I slapped him across the face, and he laughed.

He grabbed my hair and tugged my head back, exposing my throat, kissing and biting until my skin bloomed red.

“Say my name,” he growled.

“Jay,” I whimpered.

“Louder.”

“Jay!”

He reached down, wrapped a hand around my throat—not squeezing, just holding—and then leaned over me. And spat. Right into my mouth. Without thinking, I opened wider and swallowed. Like it was sacred. Like it was blood. Like it was mine. Our eyes locked.

Something snapped. He fucked me harder. Deeper.

My legs went around his waist. My nails clawed down his back.

He slapped my arse so hard it echoed. I didn’t flinch.

I moaned. It was war. It was heaven. It was obliteration.

I came first. Hard. My whole body shook.

My spine arched. My nails dug in. I screamed.

Not some cute porn star moan—an ugly, raw, primal scream that ripped out of me like my soul was shattering.

He wasn’t far behind.

A few more thrusts, and he growled into my neck, hips jerking, muscles twitching as he came inside me with a force that made me gasp all over again.

His body collapsed against mine. Heavy. Hot.

Real. We lay there in silence for a long moment.

Breathing. Sweating. Buzzing. My thighs were trembling.

My cheek was warm. My throat was bruised.

My lips were bitten. And I didn’t regret a single second.

He looked at me, hair messy, eyes glazed over, and grinned like the smug fuck he was.

“Fuck, Deliah,” he said, brushing my hair back from my face. “You are good.”

I couldn’t speak. My brain had short-circuited.

I was wrecked. Not broken. Not weak. Just used in the best possible way.

I had let go. Completely. No thoughts. No fear.

No pretending. Just flesh and friction and filthy fucking freedom.

He kissed my forehead like we hadn’t just slapped and spat and fucked like animals, and I laughed—lightheaded and wild.

Afterwards, we lay there—sweaty, breathless, ruined—and then we laughed. Proper belly laughed. That post-sex madness where everything feels lighter, ridiculous, euphoric. My legs were still trembling, my chest rising and falling like I’d just run a marathon, and he was grinning like he’d won one.

“I think I won that match,” I said smugly, stretching out beside him, my limbs sore but satisfied.

Jay turned his head slowly, his lip swollen from where I’d bitten it. “You think? Deliah, I had you begging.”

“Excuse me?” I shot up on one elbow. “You were the one making noises like a fucking wounded animal.”

“That was strategy,” he said seriously. “Psychological warfare.”

I burst out laughing. “Babe, if this were a competition, I scored at least five goals.”

“Yeah, and I hit the crossbar four times and still finished on top.”

“Not every time.”

He smirked. “Yeah, but your legs gave out first.”

“Only because you were cheating,” I said, flicking his thigh. “Spitting in my mouth? Filthy. Unfair advantage.”

He shrugged. “And you swallowed. So who really won?”

I threw a pillow at him.

We didn’t sleep much. We fucked again. And again.

Slower, messier. More laughing. More bruises.

More bite marks. Every time I thought I’d had enough, he touched me again, and the ache returned like it never left.

It wasn’t just lust—it was release. By the time the sun started sneaking in through the blinds, I was curled against his chest, finally still, the soft thump of his heart under my ear.

When I opened my eyes, it was daylight. My hair was stuck to my face.

My thighs were stuck to his. My body felt battered, my hips sore, my throat rough.

And I’d never felt better. I blinked and groaned, rolling over slowly.

Jay stirred beside me and cracked one eye open.

“Alive?” he rasped, voice husky from hours of moaning and God knows what else.

“Barely.” I looked at the state of us. “I’ve got bruises in places I didn’t know existed.”

He looked at me smugly. “You’re welcome.”

I rolled my eyes. “I meant from the headboard, perv.”

“Still counts.”

We lay there for a few more minutes in silence, the air thick with that warm, post-fuck haze. My body was wrecked, but my mind was calm. Clear. That ache that had been building in me for weeks was gone. He’d pulled it right out of me—over and over again.

It wasn’t love. It wasn’t even romance. It was exactly what I’d needed.

Jay turned onto his side, brushing a hand down my back. “So,” he said, casually, “we doing this again?”

I glanced at him, trying to hide the fact that I was already grinning. “Hmm,” I said, pretending to think. “I’ll let you know.”

“Oh, fuck off.” He laughed. “You want round three.”

“Three?” I snorted. “I’m pretty sure we’re on round six, babe.”

“And you’re still walking?” He smirked.

He reached for me again, fingers trailing down my thigh, slow and deliberate.

I slapped his hand away, giggling. “Save it. I’ve got work later.”

“So cancel.” He shrugged.

I raised a brow. “You gonna pay my rent?”

Jay paused like he was seriously considering it, then grinned. “Nope. But I’d pay to see you come like that again.”

I laughed, shaking my head as I dragged myself up to find my knickers, my soul, my dignity—whatever was still intact. He watched me dress like it was a performance, arms tucked behind his head.

“Take my number,” he said. “Don’t wait too long. I’ll get withdrawal symptoms.”

I pulled on my dress and shot him a look. “We’ll see.”

But we both knew I would. Because for the first time in a long time, I actually wanted to see someone again.

Not because I was lonely. Not because I needed a boyfriend.

But because something about him got under my skin in a way no one ever had.

I didn’t know what this was. Didn’t care.

I just knew I wasn’t done with Jay. And he definitely wasn’t done with me.