Alfie doesn’t even glance up from setting the table. “Was that supposed to be in a key? Any key at all?”
“Harsh, dude.” Ethan clutches his chest. “I poured mysoulinto that performance.”
“Next time try pouring your voice lessons into it instead,” Tara says.
Delilah turns away, fast—but I catch the flush on her neck before she does. The evidence of her arousal only makes mine harder to control. I shift, adjusting myself discreetly, grateful for the kitchen island between me and the others.
Ethan slinks back into the living room, muttering about philistines and unappreciated talent.
I'm still thinking about how close she got. And how I wanted her closer. How her body would feel pressed against mine, all those sharp edges softening under my hands. How she might sound when she comes apart. How those clever fingers would feel wrapped around my cock.
I need a cold shower. Or a stiff drink. Or both.
Instead, I go back to cooking, hyperaware of Delilah's every movement, caught in this exquisite agony of wanting someone so badly it physically hurts. Someone who's right there, close enough to touch, but still somehow out of reach.
Dinner goes down as a success,as always. Everyone’s full, loud, and busy stealing my credit for the damn fajitas. We settle into that post-meal haze, people sprawled on thecouch, half-sentences floating in the air, a movie playing in the background that no one really watches.
Across the room, Delilah’s perched on the arm of a chair by the window, sipping soda like she’s trying not to let anyone know she’s enjoying herself. Her shoulders are relaxed, but her eyes are still sharp.
I toss a towel at Freddie’s face. He grunts. “Oh, by the way you left the wrench upstairs. I’ll need it tomorrow to fix her bike.”
Right. I used it the other day to try and tinker with my desk chair. I was unsuccessful; it still squeaks like a motherfucker.
I glance over. “Hey, Delilah. Come with?”
She squints at me. “Why?”
“Need your expert opinion on a wrench.” I flash a grin. “It might be too manly for me to handle alone.”
She rolls her eyes. “You’re not dragging me upstairs for some weird wrench striptease, Hawkins.”
“I mean, unless you’re asking nicely…” I lift a brow.
She groans. But she stands. That’s a win.
Upstairs, it’s quieter. I flick on the light and head into my room. She hesitates in the doorway like she’s debating whether this is a trap.
“This is weird,” she mutters.
“I’m looking for a wrench, Greer. Not handcuffs.” I pause, toss a smirk over my shoulder. “Unless you want those too. Pretty sure I’ve got a pair somewhere. I think they’re fluffy.”
She gives me a flat, unimpressed stare. One of those withering ones. The kind that should shut me up.
It doesn’t.
Because now I’m thinking about Delilah Greer in handcuffs, and that’s a level of dangerous I should not be entertaining
“Relax, Mittens, It’s just a room.”
She arches an eyebrow. “It’syourroom.”
“Still not weird—unless you make it weird,” I tease.
I crouch by the bed watching her. Not exactly focused on the wrench anymore.
She finally steps inside and folds her arms like she needs to hold herself together.
The room smells of cedar and a hint of that cologne Alfie gave me last Christmas. My bed is unmade (oops), the windows are open letting in a cool breeze.
