“She always suffered with migraines, but I don’t know if this is the norm for her or if they’re worse since the surgeries and shit.”
“Alright, what do you need from me?”
“I need a prospect—not Pig, unless you want me to fuck him up—to pick up some supplies and bring me a clean shirt. I can get bedding from the hotel. I just gotta track down housekeeping.”
“Nah, fuck that. Stay with Delphi. I’ll get the prospect to grab the bedding for you, too. What about food?”
“Food would be great. Bring breakfast stuff—juice, water, and caffeine. The coffee helps with the migraines.” At least that’s what she told me years ago.
“I’m on it.”
“Thanks, Havoc.” I hang up before heading back to the bathroom. As I suspected, Delphi has drifted to sleep. I rummage around in her bag until I find her toiletries and kneel beside the bath. Not wanting to disturb her but needing to gether clean, I pull the washcloth from her forehead and lather it up with shower gel. I ever so gently begin washing her body.
Naturally, my dick wants to burst out of my boxers like it’s auditioning for the movieAliens. Jesus Christ, I’m only human, and the water does nothing to hide the beauty before me. Full breasts with hardened, rosy nipples that beg to be sucked. Her stomach is a little rounded, which I love. Don’t get me wrong, women like Amity are still gorgeous with their flat stomachs or—in Amity’s case—six packs. But I’ve always been a sucker for curvy girls with thick thighs and juicy asses that I can grab hold of and sink my fingers into when I’m fucking them. Delphi has always had more curves than a racetrack. It’s the first thing that caught my eye. Some women struggle with bodies like that, under the pressure of what social media, in particular, thinks they should look like. But Delphi has always had that quiet confidence that comes with being one hundred percent comfortable in their own skin. And there’s nothing sexier a woman can wear than confidence.
My eyes skate farther, to where there is a tiny thatch of copper curls. I lick my lips at the sight. Delphi has been a redhead as long as I’ve known her, but in a shade that was clearly from a salon, not from nature. Not that it matters to me. But for some reason, I always thought she might have been a natural blonde. I guess the temper makes sense now.
Abandoning the cloth, I pour some more shower gel, this time into my hands. I gently ease her legs apart and slide my soapy fingers between them. I groan. I’m torturing myself. I don’t slip my fingers inside her, though fuck knows I want to. But that would be pushing things too far, and I’m already taking liberties here.
Instead, I glide my fingers across the seam of her pussy lips, biting my lip as I feel my cock weep, only to freeze when I hear Delphi’s whispered voice.
“Kruger?”
Chapter Seven
DELPHI
The pain is startingto recede now that the pills are doing what they’re supposed to. There are times a migraine can knock me out for hours. Sometimes, though, the pain starts intense and fizzles out if I get the drugs into my system fast enough.
My body tingles, which isn’t unheard of. It’s usually more of a pins-and-needles sensation. But what I’m feeling right now is not that. I’m turned on.
I force my eyes open and blink when I see a topless Kruger kneeling beside the bath, his hand in the water between my legs, his head bowed as if he can’t tear his gaze away from the sight before him. Well, that makes two of us.
I blink again, trying to clear the fog. I’m not sure if this is a daydream or the migraine playing tricks on me. As he continues to stroke me, my awareness sharpens and my body responds in kind. My breasts feel heavy, and my pussy is slick. If Kruger dipped his fingers inside me, he’d feel exactly how turned on I am.
I bite my lip. I’m in the perfect position to play this off. He thinks I’m out of it, so there’d be no awkward conversation to come.
I should be pissed.
That thought registers in the back of my head before it floats away. I should be shouting at him for making a move on me that I’m not sure I’d consent to if I were firing on all cylinders. If this were Legs relaying this story to me about Midas, I’d lose my ever-loving mind. But I’m not Legs. I don’t have a man who loves me like that. What I have is a dry spell that could rival a nun’s and an opportunity to feel something other than pain, confusion, fear, and anger.
This is a stupendously bad idea, and I’m sensible enough to know that. But here’s the thing. I’m not pissed like I should be. I’m not scared or angry. I’m more turned on than I’ve been in years, and right now, I don’t care what that says about me.
“Kruger?”
His hand freezes, his eyes lifting to mine. My breathing picks up at his expression. He looks like he wants to devour me. How convenient that I’m feeling like an extra yummy snacky-snack right now. Okay, so maybe the pills make me a little loopy. In a court of law, this would seriously make the line of consent look like a squiggle. But the fucked-up part of me is turned on by that, too. When I push the vision in my head further, to the prospect of waking up with him inside me before I become aware, I find myself on the edge of orgasm.
Holy shit.
“Fuck, Delphi,” he groans, pulling his hand away. But before he can get far, I grip his wrist.
“Don’t stop,” I whisper.
“I shouldn’t?—”
“What? Touch me when I’m unconscious? No, you shouldn’t.”
He swallows hard, guilt warring with his arousal. I tug his hand and move it to cup my pussy, his fingers poised over where I need him most.
