Page 9 of Deliah

He was outside again, holding court with a bunch of girls—British tourists in tiny dresses and platform sandals, the kind that said “first girls’ holiday.

” They were hanging onto his every word, giggling, swaying, giving him eyes.

I should’ve looked away. Should’ve rolled my eyes.

But I didn’t. I watched. Wanting something I swore I didn’t need, and he soaked it up like it was oxygen.

Arms moving, voice animated, flashing that smug grin that could convince you to sin without even thinking twice.

And the worst part? I laughed, too. Just watching him.

I couldn’t hear a word he was saying, but it didn’t matter.

He was magnetic. That kind of lad energy—cheeky but self-aware—where he knew he was a bit of a dick but was so good at being one, you didn’t even care.

He was confident, comfortable, loud, and completely unfazed by the firestorm around him.

I sipped my drink, letting the straw touch my bottom lip while my eyes stayed glued to him.

I didn’t want to date him. I wanted to ruin him.

But on my terms. He wasn’t going to fuck me. I was going to fuck him.

Later, when the bar had started to thin out, he wandered back inside.

Looked like he was done for the night—off-duty and relaxed but still buzzing with that same effortless swagger.

He saw me instantly. Grinned. Walked over like it was inevitable.

Like we were inevitable. “Still thinking about my face between your thighs, are ya?” He smirked, sliding up to the bar beside me.

I rolled my eyes, but my pulse betrayed me. “Please,” I said. “You’re lucky I didn’t knee you in the jaw.”

He leaned in, elbows on the bar, completely unfazed. “You didn’t, though.”

“I didn’t want to ruin your face,” I said coolly. “It’s the only thing you’ve got going for you.”

“Oi!” He clutched his chest like I’d stabbed him. “That’s bang out of order. I’ve got loads going for me.”

“Oh yeah?” I raised a brow. “Like what?”

He grinned wider, ticking off on his fingers. “I’m fit. Strong. Great chat. And I’m an elite-level shag.”

“Big words.”

“Backed up by evidence.” He smirked again.

“To whom?” I scoffed. “Your right hand?”

“Nah. Just half the island.”

“Wow.” I tilted my head. “Do you want a medal or an STI?”

He laughed again, deep and unbothered. “You’re feisty. I like it.”

I sipped my drink slowly, deliberately. “You haven’t seen feisty yet.”

His eyes darkened slightly, but his grin didn’t falter. “Then show me.”

It was cocky. It was crude. It was everything I usually couldn’t stand.

But fuck, he was hot. Not just in the ‘he’s fit’ way—but in the ‘he could ruin you and you’d thank him’ way.

It was in the way he spoke. The way he didn’t try to dim me down or win me over with compliments.

He matched my energy. Met me in the fire and smirked through the flames.

He wasn’t intimidated. And that alone was enough to make me want to see him naked.

“You don’t even know what you’re getting yourself into,” I said, narrowing my eyes at him.

“Try me.”

I stepped a little closer, tipping my head up to meet his gaze. “I’m a stripper.” He didn’t even blink.

“So?”

“So, most men can’t handle that.”

He shrugged. “I’m not most men.”

I searched his face for a flicker of discomfort. A twitch. A crack. Nothing. “They try to save me,” I added. “Turn me into something I’m not.”

He leaned in so close I could feel his breath when he spoke. “You don’t look like you want saving.”

I felt it then. That throb. Deep and sharp and almost annoying. Like my body knew something before my brain could catch up. He hadn’t even touched me, and I was already there—on edge, coiled, ready.

“Besides,” he said, smirking, “I’m not scared of a girl who dances on a pole. I’m scared of boring birds who want to talk about mortgages and have missionary sex with the lights off.”

“Sounds like you’ve been through some trauma.”

He laughed. “Sounds like you need some trauma, someone who can fuck you right.”

I tilted my head. “What makes you think you can?”

He didn’t answer. Just looked at me. And it was that look. The one that went straight through my dress and under my skin. The kind of look that made you feel bare, even in heels and lashes and all your armour. My stomach twisted. My pussy clenched.

And in that moment, I knew—I was in trouble. He wasn’t going to fall for me. And I wasn’t going to fall for him. But we were going to do something dangerous to each other.

Something unforgettable. And I was ready for it.

That was how it started. Not with flowers.

Not with sweet texts or warm promises. With one lifted dress, one look too long, one smart mouth matched with another.

He didn’t ask for permission. He didn’t play nice.

He didn’t treat me like I needed fixing or saving or shielding from the world.

He didn’t lean in. He didn’t need to. That look said it all.

He treated me like I was fire. And he came with gasoline and a match.