Page 100 of Bartholomew
“Ollie, what you gave me —”
“I love you, Delilah.”
His words shocked me.
I’d misheard him, of course. He couldn’t have just said—
“I, Ollie, love you, Delilah,” he reiterated. My jaw hung slack in shock. I couldn’t even look at him, my eyes looking through him.
“Please say something,” he whispered, his thumb tracing over the back of my hand. It was that small touch that snapped me out of my confused daze.
“You love me?” I asked, my eyes meeting his. There was a bare hint of a smile playing at the corner of his lips, but his eyes — It was his eyes that held me captive and spoke his truth far greater than his words ever could.
“I love you more than I thought could be possible. I love you in a way that transcends time and place, or rhyme and reason. I love you so completely that it physically hurts. Tonight, tonight nearly made me a dead man. That’s how badly I wanted to actually kill for you. I wanted to murder the Reverend and say to hell with a free man’s life. All for you. And yet, it was you that pulled me back from that edge. Because just the thought of a real future with you, Delilah, reminded me to stay the course. Your incredible strength gave me the strength to get through that wretched meeting and to have the knowledge and trust that we would get through it. Because I truly believe we can get through anything.” He spoke so fervently, so passionately, it made my entire soul ache for him.
“Delilah, I —”
“I love you, Ollie.” The words were past my lips before I could think. His words stopped, his mouth hanging open in his own shock. “Look at me, and see my truth. I, Delilah, love you, Ollie.”
I repeated his same phrase, squeezing his hands so tightly in my own I was probably hurting him.
“I love you more than I knew it was possible to love a man. I love you for showing me it doesn’t have to be a toxic and unequal relationship between a husband and a wife. I love you for teaching me it’s okay to laugh and to be silly. I love you for seeing me, the real me. That’s never happened before. I don’t think anyone has ever really seen me before. Not before you.” I could feel the tears trek down my face, only stopped by the smile I couldn’t shake.
“You love me?” he repeated softly, sounding completely awestruck and shaken. I nodded. “You love me, and I love you?” he almost laughed, but there was nothing but pure joy lighting up his handsome face. Again, I nodded.
His hands released mine, cupping my face. His thumbs wiped away my joyful tears and his eyes searched mine, looking at me as though he were doing so for the very first time. In a way, I suppose he was, just as I was seeing him for the first time.
For the first time, I was not just seeing Bartholomew Temple, my husband. I was seeing Ollie, the man I loved. The man who also loved me.
CHAPTER21
BARTHOLOMEW
I was going to kill her. Well, I was going to fuck her until she forgot how to speak, and then I was going to kill her. I chuckled at the predicament the little minx had put me in this evening. We had company over, my brothers and Ruth, and every fucking chance she had, she would whisper yes, Daddy, so that only I could hear. The result: me pitching a tent all goddamn night. Fucking delicious little temptress.
The last two weeks were filled with… just so much. So much joy, so much laughter. So many conversations. And sex. So. Much. Sex. After that night, when shit had hit the fan, everything had changed. Our dynamic had strengthened, our relationship blossomed into something truly special, and I felt like this woman truly saw me, truly accepted me.
I glanced at her from across the room, where she set the table. I was standing behind the kitchen counter, putting the finishing touches on dinner. She tossed me a wink and then sucked on the tip of one of her fingers, a motion that sent bolts of desire straight to the head of my cock. My aching, nearly weeping, hard cock. Thank fuck for the kitchen counter, hiding my arousal from view. I thought back to earlier today, where I’d had her spread out on that very table. I’d laid her on her back, tugging her down to the end until her head hung off. She’d taken my cock into her mouth, licking, and sucking and driving me fucking wild while I teased and tortured her sweet clit. She’d made a mess on the table. A glorious mess of her sweet arousal, which we had sadly had to clean up.
She was so embarrassed I think she disinfected the table a dozen times before our guests arrived, not twenty minutes ago. As it was, she and Ruth were quietly chatting, making me only a little nervous as they would throw a glance my way here and there as they spoke. Gossiping, sexy little chit. It made me want to take her over my knee and spank that pretty ass red.
Yeah, there was no way we were going to get to bed tonight without having another scene. I needed her curves under my hands and her screams bouncing off the walls as I made her cum.
I squeezed my hand discreetly around my throbbing erection, willing it to go down and stay under control.
“Food about ready, bro?” Gideon asked, reaching over, and trying to snag a piece of garlic bread from the tray Delilah had set out on the counter. Her skills with Italian food knew no bounds. My stomach grumbled at the smell of the sausage and red pepper baked penne she had made for dinner.
“Yeah, so keep your grubby hands off of it until we’re at the table. Delilah worked hard on this meal,” I chastised him, throwing him a look.
“I can tell. I’m literally salivating over it,” Gideon agreed. My eyes found my hot as fuck wife across the room.
“Salivating is certainly the word,” I agreed, meaning something entirely different. Christ, I just wanted to touch her. I wanted her sweet little pussy dripping onto my fingers again. The siren made me damn near insatiable.
“Alright, cavemen. Time to eat,” I hollered, calling them all into the dining room. I handed the tray of garlic bread to Delilah, who whispered the faintest thank you, Daddy, and looked up at me through her lashes. “Little minx,” I teased, walking behind her carrying the dish of penne to the table.
We all dug in, trading out our use of the English language for guttural groans and damn near sex noises as we each filled our bellies with Delilah’s excellent cooking.
“So, Malachi —”
