Page 13 of Deliah
I couldn’t speak. My brain had short-circuited. I was wrecked. Not broken. Not weak. Just used in the best possible way. I had let go. Completely. No thoughts. No fear. No pretending. Just flesh and friction and filthy fucking freedom. He kissed my forehead like we hadn’t just slapped and spat and fucked like animals, and I laughed—lightheaded and wild.
Afterwards, we lay there—sweaty, breathless, ruined—and then we laughed. Proper belly laughed. That post-sex madness where everything feels lighter, ridiculous, euphoric. My legs were still trembling, my chest rising and falling like I’d just run a marathon, and he was grinning like he’d won one.
“I think I won that match,” I said smugly, stretching out beside him, my limbs sore but satisfied.
Jay turned his head slowly, his lip swollen from where I’d bitten it. “You think? Deliah, I had you begging.”
“Excuse me?” I shot up on one elbow. “You were the one making noises like a fucking wounded animal.”
“That was strategy,” he said seriously. “Psychological warfare.”
I burst out laughing. “Babe, if this were a competition, I scored at least five goals.”
“Yeah, and I hit the crossbar four times and still finished on top.”
“Not every time.”
He smirked. “Yeah, but your legs gave out first.”
“Only because you were cheating,” I said, flicking his thigh. “Spitting in my mouth? Filthy. Unfair advantage.”
He shrugged. “And you swallowed. So who really won?”
I threw a pillow at him.
We didn’t sleep much. We fucked again. And again. Slower, messier. More laughing. More bruises. More bite marks. Every time I thought I’d had enough, he touched me again, and the ache returned like it never left. It wasn’t just lust—it was release. By the time the sun started sneaking in through the blinds, I was curled against his chest, finally still, the soft thump of his heart under my ear. When I opened my eyes, it was daylight. My hair was stuck to my face. My thighs were stuck to his. Mybody felt battered, my hips sore, my throat rough. And I’d never felt better. I blinked and groaned, rolling over slowly. Jay stirred beside me and cracked one eye open.
“Alive?” he rasped, voice husky from hours of moaning and God knows what else.
“Barely.” I looked at the state of us. “I’ve got bruises in places I didn’t know existed.”
He looked at me smugly. “You’re welcome.”
I rolled my eyes. “I meant from the headboard, perv.”
“Still counts.”
We lay there for a few more minutes in silence, the air thick with that warm, post-fuck haze. My body was wrecked, but my mind was calm. Clear. That ache that had been building in me for weeks was gone. He’d pulled it right out of me—over and over again.
It wasn’t love. It wasn’t even romance. It was exactly what I’d needed.
Jay turned onto his side, brushing a hand down my back. “So,” he said, casually, “we doing this again?”
I glanced at him, trying to hide the fact that I was already grinning. “Hmm,” I said, pretending to think. “I’ll let you know.”
“Oh, fuck off.” He laughed. “You want round three.”
“Three?” I snorted. “I’m pretty sure we’re on round six, babe.”
“And you’re still walking?” He smirked.
He reached for me again, fingers trailing down my thigh, slow and deliberate.
I slapped his hand away, giggling. “Save it. I’ve got work later.”
“So cancel.” He shrugged.
I raised a brow. “You gonna pay my rent?”
