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“How about this? For now, we keep this between the two of us. You come over here whenever. I’ll keep my hands to myself whenever you’re at the station. I can’t guarantee it in public, though. My woman likes the thrill of getting caught, and I aim to please. That being said, this goes the way I think it will, you won’t need birth control, your father won’t need a reason to shoot me, and you’ll be right where you belong.” I lift her up and slam her down on my length. She shudders for a moment but then adjusts.
“God, yes. Right where I belong.” My mouth attaches to hers. Delilah slides up and then down, setting the tempo on how this goes. And I can tell she needs this nice and slow.
“Fuck, yeah, I’m gonna come inside you again, Delilah, then we’re going to take a nap, and I’ll wake you up with my head buried between these sweet-as-hell thighs,” I promise her, knowing I’ll make damn good on it, too. Tomorrow, I’m going back to work, which means I won’t have her here at my place like I do right now. The next time will be when I’m off work, and with me taking an extended absence, who knows how long that’ll be.
“Fletch.” The way she says my name so sweetly, it’s going to take everything I have to take her nice and slow. Yet I know I’ll do it for her.
Chapter 5
Delilah
The blaring of an alarm jostles me from my sleep. The heavy arm wrapped around my body tightens its hold a second after the noise is silenced. I keep my eyes closed, not ready to face the day ahead of us. There wasn’t a whole lot of convincing needed in order for me to crawl into bed and sleep the night away. I was tired, sore, and happy even if we’re keeping this to ourselves until we’re on solid ground. That was the compromise at least. I mean, there’s something to be said about feeling so in tune with a person. Never have I felt the connection with a man that I feel with Fletch.
“A man could get used to this.” His husky voice skates across my neck, his lips rasping my skin. The hair from his beard does even more delicious things to my body, including causing my thighs to clench together.
“So could a woman.” I roll over to face him. I’m sure I’ve got bedhead, morning breath, and wrinkles on my face from sleep, but I don’t care. I want to see what he looks like first thing in the morning.
“We’ll make it happen as often as possible.” My nose slides along his, and his lips land on mine. Our kiss is soft, sweet, and over before it gets hot. Probably due to the fact his alarm is going off again.
“You’re one of those, aren’t you?” I pull back, teasing him for the alarm.
“Yep, not one to wake up unless there are at least three timers set, and that doesn’t include the snooze button.” My face must give me away, because Fletch lets out a throaty laugh, and it has me doing the same.
“What time do you have to be at work?” I ask. Being a freelance accountant means I can start and end my day when I want. It also gives me room to be a bit too relaxed if I’m not careful. I’ve done that twice since I’ve been home and had to pull all-nighters in order to play catch-up.
“In an hour.” I lift my head off the pillow, looking at the old-school style clock, one reminiscent to what my parents have in their room—brown, rectangle, with bright red numbers and what I’m sure is a massive snooze button on top that’s easy to hit. I calculate the time it’ll take him to get to the station. There’s no time for anything besides him getting ready. Damn that kind of sucks.
“You better get moving. I’ll make coffee and find some breakfast,” I offer, hoping I’m not messing up his morning routine.
“I’d appreciate that, though I’d prefer you in the shower with me,” he grumbles as if he’s put out by the thought.
“Rain check?” Fletch’s lips brush against mine one last time before he’s up and out of bed, unperturbed by his state of nakedness first thing in the morning. The man has absolutely nothing to be bothered about. He’s sex on a stick, has the swagger to go with it, and, well, if I were a man and had what he has between his legs, I would walk around naked, too. I’d probably also swivel my hips and see exactly how much fun a man has to work with.
“Absolutely,” Fletcher says, looking over one of his broad shoulders. Add his thick arms, a waist that is muscular but not overly so, an ass that begs you to pinch, and thick thighs, and yep, now I’m going to need a shower of a different kind, a cold plunge to put my overactive hormones to rest.
I scramble off the bed, pulling the sheet with me while I hunt for the discarded shirt Fletcher gave me last night to put on while we wait.
“Found it,” I mutter under my breath, shaking it out before pulling it on. My clothes are still in a pile by the front door. Neither of us bothered cleaning up after ourselves, not clothes and definitely not the food. Which means I’m going to have to work fast, a hard task when it comes to leaving Fletch’s bed. It’s like a cloud hugging you in sheer comfort. Then there’s the scent of him surrounding me as well what was his body. I uncross my legs, place my feet on the rich hardwood floors, and scamper out to the kitchen. Socks probably would have been a smart move, or a pair of slippers to combat the chill in the morning. Fletcher’s house really is beautiful. The color of the floors and walls, the textures from the couch and rugs, the way the early morning sun shines through the windows. It may be a little sparse in the way of furniture and personal belongings, but it’s cozy feeling. Fletch would probably be mortified to walk into my apartment. I’m pretty sure I have every shade of pink you can imagine in some way, shape, or form. I may have what most would consider a boring job; that doesn’t mean I don’t have a spice for life.
The short hallway opens up to the living room and kitchen. I veer to the left. The coffee pot will take the longest whether it’s to heat up for a single coffee pod style or to brew a full pot. Truth be told, I much prefer the old-fashioned style, the stronger the better, and no matter what I do on one of those single style machines, it doesn’t cut it.
“Jackpot. I don’t know why I thought any differently.” I get to work, taking the carafe to the sink, filling it up with water, and surveying what Fletch has in the fridge and pantry. My eyes flit to the clock on the stove. Time is limited, so making a big breakfast is out the window today. Maybe next time I can make him a bagel, egg, and cheese sandwich. Today, it’ll have to be my special concoction of a lightly toasted bagel, a light layer of butter, topped with a good smear of cream cheese with a cup of coffee. I get lost in working my way around in his kitchen. Realizing I’m going to be drinking my coffee black makes me want to cry. I’m a cream-no-sugar kind of girl, and having to do the opposite does not make me happy. I doctor everything up when I realize I have no idea how Fletcher takes his coffee, so I keep the sugar out of the equation but put a healthy amount in mine. Then I finish the bagels, putting them on one plate and using my other hand to hold two piping-hot cups of coffee by their handles.
“Don’t spill, don’t spill, please don’t spill,” I say a little mantra as I head back toward Fletcher’s bedroom. I’m shuffling my feet instead of taking full steps, worrying the coffee will slosh over the side of the mugs and burn my hands. Luckily for me and Fletch, he doesn’t have a massive house. I’d probably be up shit’s creek without a paddle. Especially if he had a two-story house with a master on the top floor. Me and stairs are not friends. I learned that lesson when I was a teenager at my grandparents’ house. A broken arm and badly bruised tailbone from running up and down the stairs with my cousins taught me a valuable lesson. Sadly, it’s one that has stuck with me, and till this day, I will be overly cautious when at the rare occurrence I have to use them.
I enter the bedroom and stop abruptly in my tracks. Fletcher is standing in the doorway of the bathroom, hands up and resting on the frame, wearing nothing but a towel, and I nearly swallow my tongue. A tremble works its way up my body. The mugs clinking together spurs Fletch into action.
“Woman.” He pulls his bottom lip into his mouth with his teeth. My eyes eat him up with every move he makes toward me. I have no idea where to keep my gaze. He pulls me in without so much as a whisper of a touch. “You’re going to burn yourself. Don’t do something like that again, especially when I can easily help.” My hands are divested of the cups of coffee, and Fletcher puts them on the dresser, uncaring that the heat could ruin the wood, before he repeats the process with the plate.
“I had it.” Probably not the best response, but you look at a man like the one before me and try to formulate a full sentence.
“Yeah, you do have it, Delilah.” We’re not talking about what I was carrying. “I take your mouth right now, I’ll be late for work, and after taking time off, the last thing I can be is late.” I glance at his alarm, noticing that time is dwindling down, and move to sit on the dresser in preparation of watching Fletcher’s every move.
“Alright.” His hands go to my hips, helping lift me up on the dresser, then he proceeds to give me the show I’ve been waiting for. My hand reaches for my mug of coffee, and I take a sip while I watch every step of Fletch getting ready for work. He drops his towel, not in the least bit abashed by his state of undress, and it’s clear as day I’m not the only one feeling the need to feel him between my legs again. What I don’t expect is to enjoy the show of Fletcher Wild getting dressing in his uniform. As a little girl, when I watched my father do similar, it was with hero worship and stars in my eyes. As I got older and noticed the dark circles beneath Mom’s eyes, I knew the reasoning. We all did. He’d kiss us both goodbye, and maybe he’d come home after his shift, maybe he wouldn’t. There was always a piece of me that said I’d never put myself in the same boat as my mom. Except I’m watching Fletch step into a pair of denim jeans, then grab his uniform shirt, all crisp lines and with his name attached to it. The shirt does not wear him; he wears the shirt. And now I know without uncertainty that there’s no denying it’ll be me up pacing the floors late at night when I’m waiting on Fletcher to come home. My thumb goes to my mouth, and I nibble on my nail, nerves starting to take over. We haven’t even said I love you to one another, yet I can already feel them ready to slip off my tongue.
“You good, Delilah?” He takes me off guard after he buttoned up his shirt.
“Me? Yeah. Actually, I probably should be getting ready, too.” I move to hop off the dresser, my stomach in knots, but he blocks my path. Thinking about loving and losing someone in the same breath isn’t for the faint of heart.
