Page 40 of Delta

Unease prickles through me—a tickling down my spine, a raising of the fine hairs on the back of my neck. We're strolling down a street whose name I can't even begin to pronounce, just outside the train station in Lyon. Once again, Rush seems in no hurry at all, holding my hand as we walk; we must seem an ordinary couple on vacation—sorry, holiday.

I'm not at ease, for a lot of reasons.

I was okay on the train, mostly because it didn't seem likely that we'd encounter any bad guys—our ticket purchase was cash, and last minute, so unlikely that anyone could know where we were going and get on the train with us. Plus, that little nap, and then…

The hotness.

Good lord, the hotness.

The man's cock is divine. Truly. I know I'm somewhat prone to exaggeration and hyperbole, but in this case, divinity isn't much of a stretch. Godlike, but little g—not God as in the Big Kahuna, the Almighty, with whom I have a distant and pretty disinterested relationship. Recent events do, I must admit, have me rethinking that position, but waiting until I experience attempted rape and murder seems like a shitty time to find Jesus.

Is it a sin to think about Jesus one second and Rush's big, beautiful dick the next?

If it is, I'll say a Hail Mary or whatever—I don't know, I'm not catholic. I just know that first, the man gave me an orgasm I won't soon forget with no more than a finger or two, and then….hoo-boy. That dick.

I'm a horny bitch, okay? I get it from my mama, I'm pretty sure, although to be honest, I don't really want to think about that. I just know that Killian and I learned very early on to give their wing of the house plenty of distance whenever they disappeared together. Which is frequently. I'm sure I may get some of it from Dad, but for some reason, it's less icky to think about Mom's sexuality than my dad's. Not looking at that too closely.

I digress. Where was I?

Rush.

The things he says? Dirty, aggressive. Commanding. I'm not a girl who typically likes being told what to do—in fact, I'm pretty sure Mom would say I'm allergic to obedience. But when Rush tells me to swallow his cock and tells me I'm a good girl for swallowing all of his cum? Ooh, girl—I am not okay.

There might be a certain amount of distraction value to the situation, though. I mean, this is life or death—or worse. I'm far from home, alone, and being pursued by sex traffickers. I've killed people. So yeah, it's a nice, welcome distraction to put all that out of my mind and just focus on the much more pleasant subject of sex. Meaning, my favorite subject.

I'm under no illusions as to the score with Rush, though. He’s going out of his way to help me, to protect me. Which is nice. And I doubt he'd say so in so many words, but I feel like there may be a certain expectation of us playing together in exchange for his protection. It's not…explicit. He hasn't even hinted at that. The moment on the train seemed very organic to me—it just happened.

Maybe I'm overthinking things. Another fun gift I have courtesy of my genetics—although I think that's from Dad.

Maybe I should feel Rush out on this.

"So, you, umm…do this a lot?" I ask.

He looks at me. "Do what?"

“Rescue girls from sex traffickers and have them blow you on the train."

"Preceded by me fingering you, I’d like to point out. Don't forget that." He eyes me suspiciously. "I gotta say, sweetheart, I really hope you're not implying there's any expectations on my end. Because if you think I'm only helping you so you go down on me or what’ave-you, I'll be a bit miffed. I ain't that sort of bloke."

"It did cross my mind afterward," I admit.

He stops walking. "What'd I do to give you that impression?"

"Nothing, overtly."

"Look, Bryn. I'm a lot of things, not all of 'em very good. But one thing I’m very fucking much not is a man who has to coerce women into doin' things with me." He's pissed. His gaze is gray and sparking with arrogant fury. "You wanna know the truth? I can walk into any bar or pub or club and crook my fuckin 'finger, an' I'll have my pick of slags gaggin’ themselves for 'alf an hour with me. I don't say that to be crude or to brag, but so's you under-fucking-stand. I don't need to help you. I don't even know if I want to help you. I certainly don't need to help you to convince you to have my cock down your throat. And don't forget, love, you came first.”

I grin at him. "Good answer. And just F-Y-I, you're not the only one who can walk into any bar, pub, or club, crook your finger, and have anyone you want. Doesn't make you special…love.”

He smirks back. "Good to know you don't hold that against me."

I shrug. "Why would I? You don't owe me any explanations. Also, I know a fuckboy when I meet one."

"Fuckboy, ey? What gave me away?"

I flick a finger at his face. "The smirk."

This gets me a puzzled frown. "Smirk? I'm not followin', mate."