“And I’ll stop. Right now. You say the word, Greer, and I’ll back off.”
She doesn’t say anything.
Her body’s gone still—except her fingers, which curl into the edge of the couch cushion like it’s the only thing keeping her tethered.
I pull back slowly, just enough to look at her again. Just enough to see what I'm doing to her.
Her eyes are glassy, caught between want and no, between “don’t kiss me” and “why the hell aren’t you kissing me”.
“I hate you,” she whispers.
I smile, slow and knowing. “You hate how much you want me.”
I lean closer again, my lips barely a breath from her ear. “You hate that I'm the one who makes you feel this way.” My hand slides up her arm, feeling goosebumps rise in its wake. “You hate that I noticed the way you watch me when you think I'm not looking.”
Her breathing quickens, but she doesn't move away. Doesn't tell me to stop.
“But mostly,” I continue, letting my lips brush against the shell of her ear, “you hate that I'm right. That I knowexactlyhow wet you are right now just from me stroking you like this. All you have to do is ask, Mittens.”
She stands suddenly—too fast, like she needs the movement to keep from combusting. But her hands are shaking as she brushes imaginary lint off her thighs. “I’m going to bed,” she says.
I lean back against the couch, stretching my arms across the back in a deliberately casual pose. My shirt rides up just enough to show a sliver of skin above my sweatpants, and I don't miss how her eyes flick down before she catches herself.
“Sweet dreams, Greer,” I call after her, voice dripping with suggestion. “Try not to think about me too much.”
She pauses at the doorway, and for a second—just a flicker of a moment—I see her shoulders tense like she's considering turning around. Coming back to me.
Instead, she flips me off without looking back.
And God help me, it's the sexiest thing I've ever seen. Delilah Greer, brilliant and ferocious, telling me to fuck off without a word. My body tightens in response, and I have to shift on the couch.
I chuckle, low and satisfied.
But I don’t miss the way her hand lingers on the edge of the doorway.
And the way her voice—soft, dry, exhausted—floats back into the living room.
“Goodnight, Troy. Sleep well.”
She disappears down the hall, the sound of her bedroom door closing with just a little too much force echoing behind her.
I drop my head back against the couch, still smiling. Her lack of denial tells me everything I need to know.
Youlikeme, Delilah Greer.
26
DELILAH
It’s been three weeks since the night Troy fell asleep on my couch with his hand wrapped around my waist and that ridiculous smirk still half-formed on his lips.
Three weeks of not talking about it. Three weeks of pretending that it didn’t mean anything.
Not that I’m pretending itdidn’t happen, I’m not delusional. I remember it too well. The way he whispered my name. And the fact that I actually let myself fall asleep in someone’s arms like it was safe.
It’s not like Iwon’ttalk about it, but...I’ve been busy.
And it’s easier to ignore something when your to-do list is longer than your remaining lifespan.
