Page 11 of Her Father's Best Friend

She nods, fingers digging into my biceps. "Don't stop. Please don't stop."

I sink all the way in, the tight heat of her nearly making me lose control right then. I hold still, letting her adjust, letting myself adjust to the reality that I'm inside Delilah Carter, the girl I've watched grow into a woman, the girl I've tried so hard not to want.

"Move," she pleads, lifting her hips to take me deeper. "Mitch, please move."

I withdraw almost completely before thrusting back in, setting a pace that has her gasping with each stroke. Her legs wrap around my waist, her heels digging into my lower back, urging me deeper, harder.

"This what you wanted?" I groan, driving into her. "This what you wrote about in your little diary?"

"Yes," she moans, her head thrashing on the pillow. "Better. So much better."

I hook one of her legs over my elbow, changing the angle so I can hit that spot inside her with every thrust. Her eyes fly open, a strangled cry escaping her lips.

"That's it," I encourage, feeling her start to tighten around me. "Let go for me, baby. Show me how good it feels."

Her back arches, her inner walls clamping down on me as she comes with a cry of my name. The sight of her—flushed and trembling, completely undone—pushes me over the edge. I bury myself deep one last time, my release hitting me like a freight train.

For several long moments, we just breathe together, my forehead pressed to hers, her hands gently stroking my back. When I finally pull out and roll to the side, she follows, curling against me like she belongs there. Maybe she does.

"No running away this time," she murmurs against my chest, pressing a kiss to my collarbone.

I tangle my hand in her hair, tilting her face up to mine. "No running away," I agree, dropping a softer kiss on her swollen lips. "But we need to figure this out, Delilah. Your dad?—"

She places a finger over my mouth. "Later. We'll figure it out later." Her eyes, heavy-lidded and satisfied, hold mine. "Right now, I just want to enjoy the fact that you finally admitted I'm yours."

I capture her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm. "You are mine now," I tell her, the possessiveness I've been fighting rising to the surface without resistance. "And I protect what's mine."

She smiles, snuggling closer. "I'm counting on it."

As she drifts to sleep in my arms, I stare at the ceiling, the guilt still there but muted now beneath something stronger. Something that feels dangerously like happiness. Bill will hate me for this. I'll have to face that eventually.

But with Delilah's warm body pressed against mine, her breath soft against my skin, I can't bring myself to regret it. Not anymore.

five

Delilah

The first lightningstrike splits the sky like a jagged wound, illuminating my bedroom in stark white for half a second before plunging it back into late-afternoon gloom. I count—one Mississippi, two Mississippi—until the thunder rolls, deep and threatening. My fingers tighten around my coffee mug. Two seconds. The storm is close and getting closer. I've never outgrown this childish fear, this quick-pulse dread that comes with darkening skies and electric air. Another flash. One Mississippi—the boom crashes overhead, rattling the windows in their frames. I set down my mug before I can drop it. The storm is here.

Dad's voice echoes up the stairs. "Dell, I'm heading over to Uncle Ray's before this gets worse! His back's acting up again!"

I hurry to the landing, peering down at him as he shrugs into his raincoat. "Now? It's already pouring!"

"He can't get out of bed," Dad calls up, jangling his keys. "Promised I'd check on him. Might stay the night if the roads flood. Will you be okay alone?"

No, I think, as another lightning strike makes me flinch. But I'm twenty-two, not twelve, so I nod. "I'll be fine. Be careful driving."

He gives me a distracted smile, already halfway out the door. "There's candles in the kitchen if the power goes out. Love you, kiddo!"

The door slams behind him, and I'm alone in the house with the storm. I wrap my arms around myself, trying to calm the irrational fear that's plagued me since childhood. It's just weather. Just air and electricity and water. Nothing to be afraid of.

Another crash of thunder, and the lights flicker once, twice, then die completely.

"Perfect," I mutter, feeling my way carefully back to my room to find my phone. The screen's blue glow is oddly comforting as I navigate downstairs to locate the candles Dad mentioned.

I've just lit the third one, creating a small island of warm light in the dark kitchen, when my phone buzzes in my pocket. Mitch's name on the screen makes my heart stutter in a way that has nothing to do with the storm.

"Hey," I answer, unable to keep the smile from my voice. It's been a week since that first time in his bed, a week of stolen moments and secret texts and his hands on me whenever we can get away with it.

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