Page 10 of Deliah
“I’m drunk.”
“You’re wet.”
I didn’t answer. Because maybe I was. She knew me so fucking well. There was something about him that I couldn’t shake. Not the way he looked at me but the fact that he really looked. Not like a sleazy guy in the club trying to pick apart my body with his eyes. Not like I was a trophy or a price tag. He looked like he saw me. All of me. Loud, bossy, chaotic, unpredictable me—and he didn’t flinch. He wasn’t scared. He wasn’t intimidated. He was interested. Powerful. And that? That did something dangerous to me. I’d spent so long convincing myself that I didn’t want a man. That I couldn’t trust them. That they all came with weak spines and wandering hands. But he didn’t wander. He took.With one swift motion, he reminded me of what I’d been aching for but too proud to admit. Dominance. That primal, reckless pull of someone who could match my madness—and maybe even outdo it. And now? I couldn’t stop thinking about what it would feel like if he really threw me around.
We had our drinks, but I couldn’t stop thinking about him. The way he picked me up like I was nothing but a prop in some reckless game of his. He didn’t even ask—just did it. As if the rules didn’t applied to him. He had this cocky, unbothered confidence that wasn’t even trying to be sexy—and somehow, that made it worse. Or better. I didn’t know. I just knew I couldn’t stop looking at him. I leaned against the bar, drink in hand, while my eyes kept flicking to the street.
He was outside again, holding court with a bunch of girls—British tourists in tiny dresses and platform sandals, the kind that said “first girls’ holiday.” They were hanging onto his every word, giggling, swaying, giving him eyes. I should’ve looked away. Should’ve rolled my eyes. But I didn’t. I watched. Wanting something I swore I didn’t need, and he soaked it up like it was oxygen. Arms moving, voice animated, flashing that smug grin that could convince you to sin without even thinking twice. And the worst part? I laughed, too. Just watching him. I couldn’t hear a word he was saying, but it didn’t matter. He was magnetic. That kind of lad energy—cheeky but self-aware—where he knew he was a bit of a dick but was so good at being one, you didn’t even care. He was confident, comfortable, loud, and completelyunfazed by the firestorm around him. I sipped my drink, letting the straw touch my bottom lip while my eyes stayed glued to him. I didn’t want to date him. I wanted to ruin him. But on my terms. He wasn’t going to fuck me. I was going to fuck him.
Later, when the bar had started to thin out, he wandered back inside. Looked like he was done for the night—off-duty and relaxed but still buzzing with that same effortless swagger. He saw me instantly. Grinned. Walked over like it was inevitable. Like we were inevitable. “Still thinking about my face between your thighs, are ya?” He smirked, sliding up to the bar beside me.
I rolled my eyes, but my pulse betrayed me. “Please,” I said. “You’re lucky I didn’t knee you in the jaw.”
He leaned in, elbows on the bar, completely unfazed. “You didn’t, though.”
“I didn’t want to ruin your face,” I said coolly. “It’s the only thing you’ve got going for you.”
“Oi!” He clutched his chest like I’d stabbed him. “That’s bang out of order. I’ve got loads going for me.”
“Oh yeah?” I raised a brow. “Like what?”
He grinned wider, ticking off on his fingers. “I’m fit. Strong. Great chat. And I’m an elite-level shag.”
“Big words.”
“Backed up by evidence.” He smirked again.
“To whom?” I scoffed. “Your right hand?”
“Nah. Just half the island.”
“Wow.” I tilted my head. “Do you want a medal or an STI?”
He laughed again, deep and unbothered. “You’re feisty. I like it.”
I sipped my drink slowly, deliberately. “You haven’t seen feisty yet.”
His eyes darkened slightly, but his grin didn’t falter. “Then show me.”
It was cocky. It was crude. It was everything I usually couldn’t stand. But fuck, he was hot. Not just in the ‘he’s fit’ way—but in the ‘he could ruin you and you’d thank him’ way. It was in the way he spoke. The way he didn’t try to dim me down or win me over with compliments. He matched my energy. Met me in the fire and smirked through the flames. He wasn’t intimidated. And that alone was enough to make me want to see him naked.
“You don’t even know what you’re getting yourself into,” I said, narrowing my eyes at him.
“Try me.”
I stepped a little closer, tipping my head up to meet his gaze. “I’m a stripper.” He didn’t even blink.
“So?”
“So, most men can’t handle that.”
He shrugged. “I’m not most men.”
I searched his face for a flicker of discomfort. A twitch. A crack. Nothing. “They try to save me,” I added. “Turn me into something I’m not.”
He leaned in so close I could feel his breath when he spoke. “You don’t look like you want saving.”
I felt it then. That throb. Deep and sharp and almost annoying. Like my body knew something before my brain could catch up. He hadn’t even touched me, and I was already there—on edge, coiled, ready.
