Page 40 of Deliah

T he next morning, I woke up feeling like I’d been steamrolled by a freight train made of orgasms, punishment, and bratty backchat.

My body ached in the best kind of way—sore thighs, tender lips, and a faint handprint on my ass that I was half-tempted to take a photo of, just to remind myself he really did that.

The sheets were tangled around my legs, the sun bleeding through the open balcony doors, warm and golden.

I stretched out with a quiet sigh, letting the memories of last night settle over me like silk.

It hadn’t just been sex. It had been everything—rough, soft, teasing, punishing.

There were moments he’d made me scream and moments he’d made me whimper.

Moments where I felt like nothing but a needy little brat and others where he looked at me like I was his entire universe.

I’d never had anything like it. Never had anyone like him.

I rolled onto my side, and there he was—Damion—walking in from the hallway, shirtless, hair damp from a shower, two mugs of coffee in his hands. He gave me that lazy, knowing smile and passed one over without a word.

“Thanks,” I said, sitting up slowly and tucking the sheet across my chest, not that he hadn’t already seen every inch of me—ruined and begging, back arched and hands tied.

He sat beside me on the edge of the bed, sipping from his own mug. His hand absentmindedly traced a line up my calf, and I let him, leaning into the silence for a minute.

“That was…” I started, then shook my head, laughing softly. “That was insane.”

He smirked. “You were a brat. You earned it.”

“I loved every second,” I admitted, cheeks warm. “And not just last night. I mean… yesterday. The shopping, the teasing, the alleyway…” I looked at him. “Every day since I got here. It’s been amazing.”

Something shifted behind his eyes—softened, maybe. Or tightened. It was hard to tell with Damion.

“But…” I said, and there it was. The shift in the air. The weight of a truth I hadn’t said out loud yet. “I can’t do this.”

His hand paused. “Do what? Us?”

“No, no, not us,” I said quickly, reaching for his arm. “God, no. I love spending time with you. That’s not it.”

He didn’t move. Just waited. Watching.

“I just… I can’t keep sitting around like this. Being spoiled. Getting dragged around boutiques and bent over beds. I mean, I can, obviously.” I smiled. “But it feels a bit…”

“Unbalanced?” he finished.

“Exactly.”

He nodded slowly, as if he’d expected this conversation at some point. Still, he didn’t speak.

“I think I need a job,” I said.

That made him snort. “You don’t need a job, Deliah. I’ve got you.”

“I know you’ve got me,” I said, a little sharper than I meant to. “But it’s not about the money. It’s not even about the independence. It’s… I don’t know, Damion, what am I going to do all day? Sit by the pool, waiting for you to come home and tell me to spread my legs?”

He looked entirely too smug at that. “Not the worst deal.”

I gave him a look. “I’m serious.”

“I am too,” he said, placing his mug on the nightstand. “You’re beautiful. Smart. A pain in the ass. But mostly? You make my world a little quieter. You being here, just being—that’s enough.”

“It’s not enough for me,” I whispered.

That silenced him for a moment.

“I can’t lose myself again, Damion,” I said quietly. “I’ve done that before. For men. For the comfort of someone else having control. And you? You’re the first man I’ve ever trusted with that power. But if I lose who I am while I’m with you, I’ll start to resent it. And I don’t want that.”

His jaw clenched. “Okay,” he said after a long pause. “But no stripping.”

I rolled my eyes. “Obviously.”

“I mean it,” he said firmly. “That part of your life is over.”

I smiled. “Relax. I’m not about to dust off the pole and start twerking for tips.”

His eyes darkened, but his mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile.

“Cherry’s coming over today,” I added, more carefully. “I thought maybe we could look for something together. Something small. Part-time, maybe. Even just a few nights a week. Nothing that takes me away from you too much.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Cherry?”

“Yes, Cherry. My best friend. You’ve met her,” I said sarcastically.

He gave a sceptical grunt. “Still not sure if that’s a good or a bad thing.”

“She’s a chaos enabler,” I said, sipping my coffee. “But she’s my chaos enabler.”

“I know.”

We sat in silence for a beat.

“You’re not mad?” I asked.

He shook his head. “No. I get it. I don’t like it. But I get it.”

I nudged him with my leg. “That was… surprisingly reasonable of you.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

He leaned in and kissed my cheek, then stood up and reached for his phone on the dresser.

“I’ve got to get to work,” he said.

I sighed dramatically. “Fine. Go be a boss. Leave me alone with my shopping bags and moral crises.”

He turned at the door. “Deliah?”

“Yeah?”

He looked at me—serious now. “Just promise me you won’t go looking for something that’ll make you forget who you are.”

I blinked. “That’s kind of the opposite of what I’m doing.”

He nodded once. “Good.”

And with that, he was gone. Leaving me wrapped in caffeine and wondering how the hell I’d ended up in the kind of love story I never thought I’d deserve.

Later that morning, Cherry arrived in true Cherry fashion—music blaring, sunglasses on, and behind the wheel of Tommy’s Porsche like she was on a press tour instead of pulling up to a private villa.

She parked half on the gravel like she was allergic to neatness and stepped out dramatically, giving the place a once-over.

“Fucking hell, Deliah,” she said, eyes wide behind her oversized Dior sunglasses. “This place is unreal.”

I laughed, barefoot on the front step, holding my coffee in one hand. “Come inside, you absolute clown.”

“I’m just waiting for the valet,” she said, pretending to flick a key at someone invisible before tossing her bag over her shoulder and following me in.

As soon as she stepped into the hallway, she let out an actual gasp. “No way. Is that marble? Are those fresh flowers? Who even are you?”

“Shut up.” I laughed again. “You act like I’ve moved into Buckingham Palace.”

She spun on her heel. “Babe, this is Buckingham Palace if the queen liked nipple clamps and Versace throws.”

I snorted into my coffee. Once we were settled on the huge L-shaped sofa, surrounded by shopping bags and sunlight, she gave me the look. You know the one. Legs curled under her, eyebrows arched, wine glass in hand—even though it was 11 a.m.

“So…” she said, drawing the word out like it owed her money. “Tell me everything.”

I rolled my eyes. “What do you want to know?”

She grinned. “Oh, don’t play coy now. Damion. Is he the real deal or just a holiday cock appointment?”

I snorted. “Definitely not just a cock appointment.”

“You’ve slept with him then?”

I nodded, unable to hide the little smile tugging at my lips.

“And?”

“Fucking unreal,” I said, sipping my coffee like I hadn’t just relived every filthy second in my head.

Cherry let out a delighted squeal. “I’m not surprised, babe. After the way he chucked you over his shoulder the other night like a bloody fireman, I’ve been dying to know. That man moves like he’s made of control issues and orgasms.”

I choked laughing. “You’re not wrong.”

She leaned in closer, her tone softening a bit. “You look really happy, you know.”

I glanced down at the mug in my hands, the blush creeping across my cheeks. “I am. I don’t know how the fuck this all happened, but… I am.”

She smiled. “I’m glad.”

There was a pause. One of those comfortable, girly silences where you just breathe and exist in each other’s energy for a second.

Then I looked at her. “What about you and Tommy? Still shagging in between death matches?”

“Oh, you know.” She sighed, waving a hand. “Just usual me and Tommy things.”

I narrowed my eyes. “What does that even mean?”

She shrugged. “We argue. Then we fuck. Then we argue some more. Then have makeup sex. Then laugh for the rest of the night like we didn’t just try to kill each other over who left the fridge open.”

I stared. “You sure that’s healthy?”

Cherry hesitated for a second longer than usual. “Yeah. I mean… mostly. Just one thing, though.”

“What?”

She dropped her gaze to her wine glass. “We’ve been together, like, nine months now. Living together, practically in each other’s pockets, sharing toothbrushes and all that gross couple shit…”

“And?”

She looked up at me with a slight frown. “He still hasn’t told me he loves me.”

My chest tightened a little. “Really?”

“Not once,” she said. “I keep thinking it’s gonna happen. Like when we’re in bed or when I bring him coffee or when I’m in one of those slutty matching sets he secretly loves but pretends not to notice.”

I offered a weak smile. “Maybe he’s just… patient. Some people take time with that stuff.”

Cherry nodded but didn’t look convinced. “Yeah, maybe. Or maybe I’m just a placeholder until something better comes along.”

“Hey,” I said sharply, reaching over and grabbing her hand. “Don’t talk like that. You’re not a fucking placeholder. You’re Cherry. You’re a fucking legend in lingerie and glitter. If he doesn’t love you yet, that’s his delay, not a reflection on you.”

She smiled, but her eyes were glassy. “You think so?”

“I know so,” I said. “You’ll sort it out. You two are made for each other. You fight like enemies but look at each other like soulmates.”

She sniffed, then grinned. “Ugh, stop. You’re gonna make me cry into my rosé.”

I laughed. “And stain this posh sofa? Not a chance.”

We both giggled, the moment softening again as she reached over and snatched a croissant from the coffee table like she owned the place.

“Still can’t believe we’re out here living the dream,” she said, mouth full.

I leaned back and smiled. “Neither can I.”

But as I glanced towards the hallway, I felt something else stir in my chest. Because the dream was beautiful. But real life? It was waiting, and I wasn’t going to ignore it.

Anyway, I decided to change the subject before we both spiralled into overthinking about men and all the things they did—or didn’t—say. “I’ve got a proposal,” I said, sitting up and flashing Cherry a look.

She narrowed her eyes. “That sounds suspicious already.”

“No, seriously. Hear me out.”

“I’m listening.”

“Well,” I said, drawing it out dramatically, “I know you’re bored playing housewife. And I am too. So I think we should get a job.”

Her head snapped towards me. “A job?”

“Yes. But, like… together. Think about it.” I grinned. “It would be just like old times. Us, side by side, causing a bit of drama. Flirting our way through life, only this time with slightly better taste in men and actual handbags we didn’t nick.”

She blinked. “Stripping?”

“No! Fuck no.” I laughed. “Damion would have an actual fit. He’d have my passport shredded and me locked in a gilded cage before my heels hit the stage.”

Cherry smirked. “Lowkey sounds hot.”

“Yeah, but I’d rather keep the cage metaphorical, thanks.”

She tilted her head. “So what are we doing? Becoming accountants?”

“I was thinking something fun,” I said. “Maybe we take a walk down the port tomorrow, see what’s about. There are loads of bars, boutiques, and designer shops. Maybe we could work somewhere fancy—Louis Vuitton, even.”

She burst out laughing. “Can you fucking imagine?”

“I can! Picture it—us in matching black blazers, selling overpriced handbags and sipping espresso on our break like we belong there.”

“Deliah,” she said between laughs, “I love you, but I’m not built for that life. Imagine some rich guy comes in with his uptight wife while I’m in the stockroom twerking in the mirror and trying on the new season heels.”

I cackled. “Okay, yeah, you’ve got a point.”

“Plus, I’d probably end up sleeping with the regional manager just out of boredom.”

“Also on brand for you.”

She grinned. “Exactly.”

“Well then,” I said, nudging her with my foot, “maybe not Louis Vuitton. But there are cute little boutiques down there. You know the ones—run by rich older women with no real staff who just want someone young and sparkly to man the till while they go to Pilates.”

“That’s more our speed.”

“Worst case, we work behind a bar again.” I shrugged. “At least we’d get tips and free drinks.”

Cherry narrowed her eyes. “That’s also a recipe for disaster.”

I tilted my head. “Exactly, it’s perfect.”

She smirked. “I’m not saying no.”

“So you’re in?”

She paused for effect, then gave a dramatic sigh. “Yeah, alright. I’d be up for it. Might do me and Tommy some good, actually. A little bit of space.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You sure? You two are practically conjoined twins.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not saying I want him gone—I just wouldn’t mind a few hours a day where I don’t have to listen to him go on about protein and trading.”

“Fair,” I said with a snort. “Alright, it’s a plan. Tomorrow, we go job hunting. I’ll pick you up at 9 a.m. sharp.”

She gave me a look. “Sharp?”

“Yes.”

“You?”

“Yes.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re never sharp.”

“I can be.”

“Deliah, you once turned up to a brunch at 2 p.m. with your knickers in your handbag.”

“Okay, first of all, it was a bottomless brunch. And second, I was still early compared to the state you were in.”

We both collapsed into laughter, the kind of deep belly-laughing that made tears prick the corners of our eyes.

It felt like the old us again. Like we were about to go dance on a bar, drink tequila out of a stranger’s navel, and not worry about whether the rent was due or if the guy you were sleeping with actually loved you back.

We spent the rest of the afternoon sprawled across the sofa, chatting about old times at the club—horrific costumes, nightmare customers, that one workers’ party where Cherry ended up handcuffed to the DJ booth wearing a penis hat and one shoe.

It felt good. Familiar. Like no matter how much things had changed—new lovers, new countries, new levels of luxury—we were still us.

And tomorrow, we’d start a new little chapter together.