Page 39 of Deliah

I felt him step behind me, his body heat closing in. One hand grabbed my hip, the other slid between my thighs—fingers already slipping through wetness I couldn’t hide.

“Filthy little brat,” he growled in my ear, pressing his fingers inside me so fast I gasped. “You planned this, didn’t you? Walking around with no fucking knickers like you’ve got no shame.”

“Maybe,” I breathed. “What are you gonna do about it?”

He curled his fingers inside me, just enough to make my knees buckle. “Don’t tempt me, baby girl. I’ll fuck you right here if you keep running that mouth.”

“You wouldn’t.”

His breath hitched near my ear. “Try me.”

His fingers started moving—slow, then faster, dragging against that spot that made my whole body clench. He had one hand covering my mouth, the other working me like he owned every inch of me. Which, let’s be honest, he kind of did.

“You don’t come,” he whispered. “Not until I say.”

I whimpered into his palm, hips rocking, legs trembling.

“You want to be a brat?” he continued, filthy words pouring like poison. “Then take the punishment. You wanted attention—now you’ve got it. You feel how wet you are for me?”

I nodded frantically.

“I’ll count down from five,” he growled. “You come on one. Not a second before, or we’re doing this all fucking day.”

I was shaking now, the pressure unbearable.

“Five…”

His fingers didn’t slow, just got deeper. Rougher. I gasped behind his hand.

“Four…”

“Oh my god…”

“Three…”

I was crying out, my whole body a wreck of need.

“Two…”

He leaned in close, breath hot against my ear.

“You ready?” he growled.

I nodded, trembling.

“Look at me. Turn round. Fucking look at me, Deliah.”

I twisted in his grip, eyes wide, heart hammering. He was staring straight into me—like he could see everything.

His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper.

“One. Come for me, baby girl,” he breathed, still locked on my eyes.

I shattered. Legs gone, brain gone, stars behind my eyes. I moaned into his palm, my whole body quaking as the orgasm ripped through me.

“That’s it… good fucking girl.”

He didn’t stop—not right away. Just held me up, fingers slowing, letting me ride it out. When I finally caught my breath, he pulled his hand away and gripped my chin, forcing me to face him.

“You pull that stunt again in public,” he said, voice dark and calm, “and I won’t be so fucking gentle next time.”

I smirked, still breathless. “Promise?”

He narrowed his eyes. “You’ve got no idea what you’re playing with.”

“Good,” I whispered.

He shook his head with a growl, then yanked me back towards the restaurant, not even giving me time to fix my dress. We marched straight through, eyes on us like they knew—like they could feel the aftershocks of whatever the hell just happened in that alleyway.

He didn’t say a word. Just tossed a wad of cash on the table, grabbed my hand, and led me right back out the front door.

The second we got in the car, I kicked off my heels and threw my legs across his lap with a smug little smile. “You’re so dramatic.”

He shot me a look. “And you’re one orgasm away from getting fucked in the backseat.”

I bit my lip. “We going home?”

“Straight to the villa.”

“Good.”

Because I was far from done being a brat.

We got home, and I collapsed onto the sofa, surrounded by shopping bags like some overindulged influencer on a haul spree.

Designer boxes, tissue paper, little ribbons.

All of it. I looked like the poster girl for “spoiled.” Still wet from our back alley escapade.

Still flushed. Still pulsing between my legs every time I replayed the way he growled in my ear and count me down like a good girl.

Damion was in the kitchen, making coffee like nothing had happened—like he hadn’t just ruined me with his fingers against a wall like he owned the air I breathed.

I stared at him from across the room. That back.

Those arms. His control. And I thought, What the fuck is this life?

It was perfect. It was too perfect. He was fucking unreal, that much I knew.

But as beautiful as today had been—one of the best days of my entire life—it still didn’t feel real.

Not sustainable. I couldn’t just lounge around this villa forever like his personal plaything.

I needed something. Anything. A job. A purpose.

Just one thing that made me feel like more than a living doll with a shopping habit and a bratty mouth.

I didn’t say any of that, though. Not yet.

I just watched him instead, soaking him up.

The calm in his posture. The quiet power in his movements.

The way he fit here, like the world was lucky to orbit him.

He walked back in with two mugs in his hands.

Placed one beside me, then gave me that look—the one that said he already knew everything I was thinking, even if I hadn’t opened my mouth.

“Thanks for today,” I said, clearing my throat. “For all of it. Seriously.”

He didn’t blink. “You don’t need to thank me.”

“I do,” I said softly. “I don’t think anyone’s ever… done something like this for me.”

He just stared at me for a moment, then sat beside me and took a sip. “You deserve it.”

I looked at him, my heart doing this weird thing it always did when he said something soft but meant it so fucking hard. I almost told him everything right then—about needing more, about feeling lost even while living the dream. But instead, I smirked. “Round two?” I asked, wiggling my brows.

His lips curved into that slow, dangerous grin. “Already?”

“Well,” I purred, “I just thought, you know, for the full fantasy... maybe you should put those grey joggers back on first.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. They do something to me, and you know it.”

“Unbelievable,” he muttered, standing up and running a hand down his face like I was exhausting. “You’re a fucking nightmare.”

“Am I wrong?” I teased, sipping my coffee. “You in those joggers is peak porn category. Might as well give the people—me—what they want.”

He stared at me for a second, then set his cup down. “Go to my room.”

“Or what?” I grinned. “You gonna punish me with jogger sex?”

He was already unbuttoning his shirt as he stalked towards the stairs. “Keep talking, baby girl. You’ll be lucky if you can walk by morning.”

“Cocky bastard,” I muttered, but followed him anyway—past the bags, past the espresso, straight upstairs like the obedient little brat I absolutely wasn’t.

And maybe, just maybe, I’d ask him again about those joggers… once I’d caught my breath.