He inhales sharply, a subtle flinch rippling through him, but he doesn't pull away, doesn't step back. That small victory sends a rush of heat through me, pooling low in my belly.
"I'm not chickening out," he growls, his voice low and strained, vibrating through the air between us. His dark eyes flicker with something raw, a flash of frustration mixed with longing. "I'm trying to do the right thing. You deserve better than this—a hotel room, a quick fuck that could complicate everything. You're still figuring out your life, Delilah. College, friends, normal—"
"Better like what? Some fumbling prom date who doesn't know me at all, who treats me like glass because of my 'trauma'?" I laugh softly, a throaty sound that I know affects him, stepping closer still until my chest nearly brushes his, the pale blue silk of my dress whispering against the wool of his sweater.
I can smell him fully now—clean soap mingled with something darker, musky, like the edge of a storm about to break. It makes my skin tingle, my nipples harden under the fabric.
"No, Kent. I want you. The man who killed for me, who writes to me about the weight of it all, the philosophy behind the blade. The one who makes me feel alive, who sees the darkness in me and doesn't flinch."
My hand slides up his arm deliberately, tracing the defined line of his bicep, feeling the tremor there, the way his body betrays him despite his iron will. He's holding himself so rigid, like he's carved from stone, but I can sense the cracks forming.
He exhales sharply, his breath warm against my hair, stirring the loose strands around my face. "Damn it, Delilah. You don't know what you're asking. I'm too old for you, too fucked up. This could ruin—everything. Your future, my—"
"Ruin what? My perfect little life?" I press my palm flat against his chest, right over his heart, feeling it thunder under my touch like a wild animal caged. The heat of him seeps through his sweater, warming my hand, and I can feel the rapid rise and fall of his breathing. He's like a live wire, vibrating with restraint, every muscle locked in place to keep from giving in. "Newsflash: It's already ruined. And you're the only one who gets that, who doesn't try to fix me or pity me." I lean in closer, my lips hovering near his neck, not quite touching, but close enough that my breath ghosts over his skin, raising goosebumps I can see forming. The stubble there rasps faintly as he swallows hard. "Tell me you don't want me. Look me in the eyes and say it. Say you haven't thought about this—about touching me, tasting me—every time you sealed one of those envelopes."
His eyes meet mine, dark and tormented, pupils dilated with the effort of holding back. For a long moment, he says nothing, just stares, his body so tense it's trembling slightly under my hand. I can feel the internal battle—the way his breath stutters, the slight tremble in his jaw as he grits his teeth. Sweat beads faintly at his temple, and his fists clench tighter, nails biting into his palms. "I…can't," he admits finally, the words dragged out like they're painful, his voice cracking just a fraction. "But we shouldn't. Please, just—step back. Let me think."
"No." I shake my head slowly, my fingers curling into his sweater, tugging him fractionally closer, the fabric bunching under my grip. "You've been resisting since you walked in that door, but I can feel it, Kent. Your heart racing like a freight train, your body betraying you every second."
I slide my other hand down his side, grazing his hip bone through his pants, and he sucks in a breath, his eyes fluttering shut for a split second, a low hiss escaping his lips.
The bulge in his pants is evident now, pressing against the fabric, and I brush my thigh against it subtly, feeling him twitch.
"You're hard right now, aren't you? Aching. Fighting so damn hard not to touch me, not to grab me and pin me down. But you want to, don't you? You want to feel how ready I am for you."
"Delilah…." My name is a warning, rough and pleading, laced with desperation. His hands stay at his sides, clenched so tightly his arms shake, veins standing out on his forearms. He's breathing harder now, chest heaving, and I can see the sweat trickling down his neck, soaking into his collar.
I rise up on my toes, my mouth inches from his, our breaths mingling hot and fast.
"What if I make it easy for you?" I whisper, my lips brushing his ever so lightly in a tease. "What if I kiss you first? Would that help your conscience? Let you pretend I seduced you, that you didn't have a choice?"
Before he can respond, before he can pull away, I close the distance, pressing my lips to his—soft at first, testing the waters, but then firmer, insistent, demanding. My hands frame his face, fingers threading into his short dark hair, holding him there as I angle my head to deepen the kiss.
I pour everything into it: months of longing bottled up, the fire ignited by our letters, the shared darkness that binds us like chains.
For a heartbeat, he's frozen, lips unmoving under mine, his body rigid as steel, unyielding.
I can feel the war raging inside him—the way his breath stutters against my mouth, the slight tremble in his jaw as he fights the urge to respond. His hands hover at my sides, fingers flexing as if debating whether to push me away or pull me closer.
A low, tortured groan builds in his chest, vibrating against my lips, and then, for a fleeting moment, he loses himself in it—his lips part, responding with a hungry brush of his tongue against mine, tasting of mint and desperation, his hands twitching toward my waist before he catches himself.
It's brief, but it's enough to send a jolt of triumph through me, my core tightening with anticipation.
My hands slide down from his face, trailing over the broad expanse of his chest, feeling the hard planes of muscle twitch under the wool of his sweater. I move lower, fingers deftly finding his belt buckle, the leather cool and smooth under my touch.
The metal clinks softly as I start to undo it, my body pressed flush against his now, the silk of my dress catching on his pants, my thigh brushing deliberately against the hard ridge of his arousal.
But suddenly, his hands clamp down on mine, stopping me cold.
His grip is iron, fingers digging in just enough to halt my progress without hurting, but the pressure sends a thrill through me. He pulls back from the kiss, his breath ragged, eyes wild and dark with conflict, pupils blown wide.
"Don't," he says, his voice strained, hoarse like gravel, laced with a desperation that makes my pulse race faster. "Delilah, don't do this. We can't—"
"Why not?" I whisper, my voice husky, teasing, my lips curving into a sly smile despite the interruption. I hold his gaze, challenging, daring him to pull away completely. "Afraid you'll like it too much? Afraid you'll lose that precious control?"
Without waiting for an answer, I sink slowly to my knees before him, the carpet rough against my bare legs, scraping faintly as I settle.
My hands slide down his thighs as I go, feeling the tension in his muscles, the way they quiver under my palms, taut like bowstrings.
