Page 20

Damien

T hey say time slows down in moments that change your life.

But right now? It’s her life changing — and mine is tethered to every breath she takes.

They call her name, and for half a second, Delilah doesn’t move. Not frozen. Just—processing. Letting it sink in.

“ New Artist of the Year… Delilah Monroe! ”

The crowd’s already on its feet before she even stands.

She turns to me, those big, stunned blue eyes full of disbelief and something like fear. But underneath that? Fire.

I take her hand. Press a kiss to her knuckles. Whisper, “Go show ‘em.”

She walks — no, floats — to the stage, dress swishing around her legs like it’s made of smoke and starlight. Copper satin, beaded along the bodice in a pattern that glints like wildflowers under spotlights. Hair pulled back in some twist Rae insisted on, curls tumbling loose around her shoulders. Boots peeking out from under the hem because of course she wouldn’t wear heels.

She steps up to the mic, award in one hand, the other hovering like she’s not sure what to do with all this attention.

Then she laughs — soft and raw and real — and the whole arena leans in.

“I had something written,” she says, voice thick with emotion. “I rehearsed it. Rae even made me practice in the mirror.”

Laughter ripples through the crowd.

“But standing here now? I can’t remember a single word of it. Because this—this is bigger than what I thought it would feel like.”

She glances down at the award, then out across the audience like she’s trying to find every face that ever told her no and make them eat it in real time.

“A year ago I was bartending three nights a week, sleeping above a laundromat, writing songs in a notebook with half the pages missing. I didn’t have a manager. I didn’t have a label. But I had a voice. And a story.”

She swallows hard.

“And I had Rae. My best friend, my sister, my compass. I had Mom’s angel, who taught me what it means to show up, even when you’re hurting. I had Sutton, Patrick, Journey and Lennon. Next came Tris, and Brand and I sang with Cooper Falcon! Y’all he may be like 8 but he’s gonna talke over country music. Xavier and Taelyn, who told me not to water down the hard parts.”

She pauses. Looks for me. Finds me. “And I had him. ”

My breath catches.

“Damien Donovan,” she says like it’s scripture. “You showed up when you didn’t have to. You stood beside me when I was at my lowest, and you stood behind me when I needed someone to remind me I was worth the space I take up in this world.”

She lifts her hand slightly — not dramatic, just enough for the light to catch the ring.

“And yeah… he put a ring on it. So this is a pretty damn good week.”

The crowd laughs and cheers, but I can’t move.

Because that’s my girl up there — my girl — with a mic in one hand and the industry in the other.

“I don’t want to be anyone’s next anything,” she says, grounding her words like thunder. “I want to be Delilah Monroe , and I want to thank y’all for letting me do it my way.”

A pause.

“And to anyone out there who thinks you’ve got too much mess to make music out of your life—turn it up louder.”

She steps back, just a little, as the crowd erupts . Like they felt what I feel — like they know they just watched something bigger than a win.

They just witnessed the start of a legacy.

She walks off stage, and I’m already waiting for her behind the curtain, hands shaking from trying not to fall apart the entire time she spoke.

And the second she sees me, she doesn’t slow down — she crashes into me like a wave.

“Did I do okay?” she whispers, voice muffled in my chest.

I tilt her chin up, heart slamming against my ribs.

“You just made country music feel like truth again.”

Her ass has just sat back down when “And the award for country song of the year, winner Delilah Monroe.”

“Whaaaat?” She laughs, then cries, but doesn’t move.

I laugh as I nod to the stage, “Go, Songbird.”

On stage, she laughs, “Whose life is this anyway?”

The crowd roars as she stands in the spotlight, with another statue in one hand.

She points up, “Okay, Mama, you need to help me out with this one. I didn’t thank God, and truth be told, maybe I shouldn’t this time either, and I’ll be back up here again, him giving me another chance to do so and all.”

Laughter surrounds me.

She slaps away a tear and begins, “I wouldn’t be standing here if it weren’t for someone who’s not here tonight. My mom. I know I’ve mention her, but she deserves to be mentioned every day.”

My breath catches. She doesn’t talk about her often — not like this. But here she is, sharing the space .

“She wasn’t perfect. When Daddy died in the war, she struggled hard. Her heart hurt so bad after that loss, she struggled with addiction. With grief. With holding herself together when the world gave her nothing to hold onto. But she loved me and my sister with every beat she had left in her heart. And even on her worst days, she never let me forget that my voice mattered.”

She swallows, nods slightly like she’s talking to her mom now.

“So, Mom—this one’s for you.”

The crowd’s gone silent. Not in a bad way. In the leaning forward, don’t you dare miss a word way.

And then she goes there .

“And to the people who told me to sit down and be quiet…To the people that tried to bury me, my voice, twist the narrative, my words, and turn everything about me into a lie—this isn’t vengeance. This is proof. ”

She pauses. And damn if she isn’t the most powerful person in the room right now.

She held up the stage, saying, “ This is for every girl who said no.For every woman who told the truth and got shamed for it. For every artist who was told she was too difficult, too emotional, too much…You are not too much. You were just too brave for their comfort.”

And that’s it. The crowd erupts . Standing ovation. People crying. People screaming .

I don’t even realize I’m standing until someone shoves me from behind and I find myself clapping so hard my palms ache. She’s still standing up there, holding the mic like a sword, and smiling through the tears she’s not trying to hide.

And I swear I see Rae from her special section in the front row, full glam wiping tears with one hand and giving a slow clap with the other like she just watched her best friend burn the system down with grace.

Delilah steps back from the mic, heart wide open and shining like stage lights on steel.

And right before the house band kicks in, she leans into the mic one last time and says,

“Let the girls sing. Let them roar .”

And then she walks off that stage like she’s already built the next one.

Straight into my arms.

Where she belongs.

***

She’s still glowing.

Hair mussed from dancing. Heels kicked off in the corner. Her award statues lined up like trophies on the bar cart, untouched champagne sweating in a bucket nearby.

She’s in one of my button-downs, unbuttoned just enough to remind me what’s underneath — but right now I’m focused on something else. Something I’ve been carrying in my pocket since before she ever set foot on that stage tonight.

“Come here,” I say, patting the edge of the bed.

She walks over slowly, smirking like she already knows I’m up to something. “If this is another ring, I swear I’m gonna start a pawn shop.”

“It’s not that kind of ring.”

I take the box out of my pocket, smaller than the last one. No velvet. Just a simple black leather case.

Inside is a silver band — thick, cool, timeless — inset with five tiny birthstoned on the inside. Hers. Her mom’s. Harlon’s. Rae’s. My mom’s.

I watch her look it over and explain whose birthstone they are.

“My girls,” she whispers, fingers shaking slightly as she lifts it out. “You didn’t…”

“I did,” I say, voice low. “Because they’re all strong women. Some made you who you are and one who the one that wasn’t there but will be forever. Now they’re all with you, always.”

She slides it on her right hand, other fingers grazing the engagement ring. Then she shakes her head and laughs softly, and flops back on the bed, staring up at her hand.

I stand up, grab her ankle and pull her down, she squeals. I pull the shirt apart exposing her hwoly to me, and pause just long enough to not feel like a teenage boy wanting to bang the homecoming queen, but the reality is…

“I’m gonna bang the CAA’s New Artist of the Year… Delilah Monroe!”

She laughs as I bow down and kiss her belly.

“You sure you don’t wanna fuck, CAA’s country song of the year, winner Delilah Monroe.”

Licking, sucking, and nipping up her hot body, I skip the place I would give up baseball to live in, knowing it’ drive her wild. “Double header?”

I shove my pants down and manage to step oput of them without taking my mouth off her.

“Mmmm.”

Once at tit level, I smile. “Hello, beauties.” Cupping them in my hands, I push them together and bury my face in them before taking one in my mouth, sucking on her nipple, teasing it with my tongue and feeling it tighten in my mouth. Delilah moans and pulls at my hair, making my cock throb even more.

I move to the other and give it the same attention as I lock eyes with her. She arches into me, reaching down and grabbing by dick in my hand, rubbing it against her heat.

Letting her tit fall from my mouth, I ask, “That where you want me, Delilah? You want me inside you?”

Her answer is purely physical as she uses my cock to push her panties to the side, dragging it between her folds, positioning me at her opening.

“Fuck, yeah,” I groan as I press in just a little.

Her hips lift slightly, and a chill runs up my spine.

“Fuck. Fuck, that’s good—too good.” I grip her hip to stop her grind. “Easy love.”

I move to her mouth to slow this down, and get rid of her panties. “I’m going to e inside you all night, filling you tight, wet pussy with my cum.”

She grabs y dick. “It’s yours.”

She clenches her thighs. “Hurry.”

“Lips.”

Hers crash against mine as I reach down between her legs. I groan into her mouth when I feel just how hot and wet she is. Pushing a digit inside, I finger her slow and deep, needing to get her off before we get off together.

And it doesn’t take but a few seconds.

“Fuck, yes, yes, yes,” she whimpers and thrashes her head from side to side.

It’s so hot, so sexy, so Delilah .

I move over her, holding myself up on one hand and lining us up with the other. Then, slowly, I push inside her.

“Jesus, Delilah, it’s heaven inside you.”

Her nails dig into my ass, and she pulls me closer.

“So fucking tight,” I groan into her neck.

“So … so … big. So full,” she whimpers.

I pull out just a little and push in a little more with each slow thrust.

“Faster.” She wraps her legs around me.

“Any faster, and I’m afraid I’ll blow. You feel too damn good to end that soon.”

I exhale my held breath against her neck and move to her lips. Her tongue slides across the seam of my lips and enters my mouth, sliding back and forth on my tongue. Eventually, I’m moving inside her to that same pace. It’s not lost on me that this isn’t fucking—hell, it’s not even having sex… never has been. I’m making love to her, and I know this for a fact. This is what it feels like to be completely connected to the one person you want to be this way with always, and it feels so damn good.

She begins meeting my thrusts, and I break the kiss, place my elbows on each side of her head, and hold her face.

“Fucking beautiful, Delilah,” I groan as we pick up the pace.

She cries out and pulls my lips down on hers, shoving her tongue deep inside my mouth, working me up even more. Minutes later, our bodies are in a frenzy, and it’s still not just fucking.

“Damien,” she begs, rolling and grinding her hips against me, and I know I can’t hold out much longer.

“Come for me, Songbird. Come all over my dick.”

I move faster than I planned, but right now, her pussy is contracting around me, and she’s on the verge of coming.

“Coming, coming,” she cries.

My pace becomes harder, faster, as I pound into her, needing to be as deep in her as I possibly can. Every damn time.

“Oh my God,” she cries, and I know damn well she likes it like this, too.

“Fuck, I’m gonna come,” I say as heat consumes every part of me and my eyes roll back.

“Yes, yes, Damien.”

Her nails sink into my ass as I give one last thrust and lose myself completely inside of her.

Once we’ve caught our breath, and she’s curled up to me, head on my chest she says, “You have got to stop buying me things.”

I raise an eyebrow. “That a complaint?”

“It’s a warning.” She straddles me, fingers curling into my collar. “You’re impossible to shop for. You make me look bad.”

I brush my lips against the top of her head. “You don’t need to buy me anything. Just keep letting me love you like this.”

Then—

“We need to move the wedding up.”

I blink. “Okay... yeah? We can do that. Why?”

She lifts her head, rests her chin on my chest, and looks at me with eyes so full of light it almost knocks the air out of my lungs.

“Because I have a little gift for you here,” she takes my hand and places it on her belly.

Silence.

And then I laugh — this breathless, wrecked sound — as I sit up and gather her in my arms like she might float away.

“You’re sure?”

She nods against my chest. “Rae made me take three tests. All said the say thing. It wasn’t planned. It was when I had that throat thing and was on?—”

“It’s a damn gift, don’t apologize for it.”

She smiles.

“I’m gonna marry you sooner,” I whisper, voice cracking. “And I’m gonna love you harder. And I’m gonna show up, and?—.”

She smiles, tears in her eyes. “You already do.”

*The End*