I snort softly, nodding as he carefully lifts me off him and lays down a blanket beside the bed. We sink onto it together, Troy pulling me onto his lap, my back against his chest.
His strong arms wrap around my waist as he guides me, his lips pressed against my shoulder. The blanket beneath us is soft against my knees, a stark contrast to the hardwood floor. Troy's hands trace patterns on my skin, his touch feather-light, almost reverent.
“I want to feel you,” I whisper, reaching behind me to take him in my hand.
He hisses, his forehead dropping to my shoulder as I begin to stroke him, slow and deliberate. “Delilah...”
I turn in his arms, pushing him gently onto his back so Ican watch his face. His eyes are heavy-lidded, lips parted, chest rising and falling with each breath. There's something powerful about seeing him like this—vulnerable, wanting, completely at my mercy.
“Let me,” I murmur, positioning myself between his legs.
My fingers wrap around his length, and I love the way his muscles tense beneath my touch. I study him, learning what makes his breath catch, what makes his hips rise to meet my hand. When I swipe my thumb over the tip, gathering the moisture there, his eyes close and a soft groan escapes him.
“You're going to have to be quiet now,” I tease, echoing his earlier warning.
His eyes flutter open, dark with desire. “Evil woman.”
I laugh softly, increasing my pace. The way he responds to me—every twitch, every barely contained sound—fuels something primal inside me. I lean down, never breaking rhythm, and plant a kiss on his hip bone, just to see what he'll do.
His reaction is immediate—a sharp intake of breath, his hand flying to tangle in my hair.
“Keep going,” he whispers, his voice strained.
I do, working him with steady, firm strokes, watching his face intently. There's something intoxicating about having this much control, about seeing him unravel beneath my touch. His breathing grows more ragged, his muscles tensing as I increase my pace.
“Delilah,” he warns, his voice barely audible. “I'm close.”
I nod, mesmerized by the way his body moves. His head falls back, exposing the strong column of his throat as he fights to stay quiet. I can feel him pulsing in my hand, right on the edge.
His eyes lock with mine for one intense moment before his release overtakes him. He bites his lip hard, his body arching as he spills over my hand and onto his stomach. Iwork him through it, gentling my touch as the waves subside, watching in wonder as he comes apart for me.
When he finally stills, chest heaving, I reach for the box of tissues on his nightstand. He takes them with a grateful smile, cleaning himself up with quick, efficient movements.
“Come here,” he murmurs afterward, pulling me down beside him on the blanket. I curl into his side, my head finding the perfect spot on his shoulder, as if we've done this a hundred times before.
“That was fucking great,” he says, his fingers drawing lazy circles on my arm.
We lie there in comfortable silence, the music still playing softly from his phone. His breathing evens out, and I think he might be drifting off when he speaks again.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to my forehead.
“For the hand job?” I tease, poking his side.
He laughs quietly, the sound rumbling through his chest. “Well, yes, obviously. But I meant for coming here. For meeting my family. For...” he hesitates, searching for words. “For letting me be me.”
Something warm unfurls in my chest at his words. I prop myself up on one elbow to look at him properly. His face is relaxed, open in a way I rarely see.
“Thank you for letting me,” I reply softly.
His eyes meet mine, and there's something in them that makes my breath catch. Not lust or amusement or even affection—something deeper.
I settle back against him, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath my ear. His arm tightens around me, secure and warm.
I stretch,feeling more rested than I have in weeks. The Hawkins house is quiet this morning—a peaceful contrast to the laughter and conversation that filled it yesterday. I check my phone: 7:43 AM. Early, but I've never been good at sleeping in, especially in new places. Troy is snoring beside me and I leave him to rest.
I slip out of bed, borrowing the soft robe Claire left for me, and pad down the hallway toward the kitchen. Coffee is the first priority. I'll see if anyone else is up after.
The house is still quiet, though I spot a note on the kitchen counter in elegant handwriting:
