Page 34 of Deliah

The waiter arrived just in time to save me from saying something wildly inappropriate, like “ take me now ,” and placed dessert between us.

I leaned back, picking up my fork. “So, no mafia. No strip clubs. Makes money from clicking buttons. Mysterious villa in Marbella. Emotionally fluent and annoyingly perceptive.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, pretty much.”

I took a slow bite of the chocolate tart, lips curving. “I think I just wanted to see if I could rattle you.”

“And?”

“Still working on it.”

He smirked. “Keep trying.”

The walk to the car was silent. He held my hand.

But my chest was loud. My brain was screaming.

Every nerve in my body was buzzing, my skin hypersensitive under the weight of his gaze—even when he wasn’t looking directly at me.

I felt him anyway. In the way his thumb brushed over mine, in the way our footsteps synced like something ancient.

Fated. By the time we pulled into the villa’s long, winding driveway, I was on fire.

We stood by the front door, both of us still. Tense. Breathing unevenly. He looked at me—really looked. The kind of look that made time feel irrelevant.

“Deliah…” he said quietly.

Then he grabbed my face. One hand on my cheek, the other sliding into my hair, firm and steady.

He tilted my chin up, paused just long enough to steal the breath from my lungs—then kissed me.

And fuck. There was nothing slow about it.

No teasing. No testing. It was a claim. His mouth crashed into mine with the kind of intention that made my knees buckle.

His fingers tangled in my hair, pulling me to him with a groan that rumbled low in his chest. My lips parted instinctively, hips pressing forward before I even realised what I was doing.

It wasn’t a kiss. It was a detonation. I caved instantly.

Melted. Surrendered. All the pain, the rage, the hunger I’d buried deep inside me surged up and collided with his mouth, his body, his hands.

He kissed like he could fix me. Like he wasn’t afraid of my madness—he wanted it.

And I kissed him back like I never wanted anyone else to touch me ever again.

We broke apart, breathless. Our foreheads touched. My hands were on his chest, clutching fabric like I needed it to stay upright. His fingers trailed from my jaw to my waist, slow… almost reverent.

“Come on,” he murmured. “Let’s go inside.”

He unlocked the door, and we stepped into the cool, shadowed hallway.

The soft lighting made everything feel intimate and heavy, as if the walls were closing in around us in the best possible way.

My heels echoed on the marble as I followed him in, pulse thudding wildly.

I wanted him. Now. I wanted to be pressed against the wall.

I wanted his mouth on my neck. I wanted his hands everywhere.

But instead, he turned to me—gently. Almost too gently.

One hand came up to cup my cheek again, his thumb grazing just below my eye.

“Go get some rest,” he murmured.

I blinked. “Wait—what?”

His thumb lingered, brushing slow circles on my cheekbone. “It’s been a long day.”

I stared at him like he’d just slapped me. “Are you serious?”

He gave a soft chuckle, but there was something behind his eyes now—something darker. Something simmering. “Dead serious.”

My jaw dropped. “You kiss me like that and then tell me to go to bed?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, his eyes dragged over my face, down the line of my throat, pausing on the rise and fall of my chest. His hand slid to the back of my neck, fingers tightening just slightly—like he was seconds from pulling me in again. Like he was trying to talk himself down.

“I want to,” he said, voice lower now, almost hoarse. “Fuck, Deliah, you have no idea how much I want to. Right here. Right now.”

I swallowed. Hard.

“But I’m not doing it like this,” he continued, jaw clenched, breath unsteady.

“Not when you’ve been thrown into my world with no warning.

Not when you’re still figuring out whether you trust me.

” He stepped back like it physically hurt him, hands flexing at his sides.

“I’ve waited this long,” he said quietly. “I can wait a little longer.”

That nearly broke me. Because I could see it—how much he was holding back. How much he wanted me. How much he wanted to be the man who didn’t just take but earned it. Earned me.

“Right,” I muttered, flustered. “Fine. Whatever. Goodnight.”

He smirked faintly, like he knew I was flailing. Like he liked it. “Goodnight, Deliah.”

I turned, pretending I wasn’t seconds from combusting, and stormed upstairs. But behind me, just as I reached the landing, I heard it—his voice. Quiet. Rough. “You looked perfect in that dress.”

And maybe I imagined it, but I could’ve sworn I heard him groan softly—like holding himself back had cost him something.

I marched upstairs with whatever dignity I could muster, pretending I wasn’t one step away from dragging him into the nearest room and ruining both our lives.

That night, I lay in bed. Horny. I mean, feral.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him. The way he kissed me.

The sound he made. The weight of his hand in my hair.

He knew. He had to know what he was doing.

What not fucking me was doing. He was probably in the next room, shirtless, holding all the power, while I was left dripping and furious in a bed I didn’t even deserve.

That smug prick. The anticipation was a drug.

And he was my dealer. Cool. Collected. Holding the fix just out of reach like he knew exactly when to let me have it—and exactly how much I’d beg for it.

Tomorrow, I decided. Tomorrow, I was getting what I wanted.