Page 17 of Deliah
“Deliah!” he shouted across the pub, loud as ever. “Come here, you sexy fucking bitch!”
I laughed so hard I nearly tripped on my own feet. The old couple at the bar turned to stare. Someone clapped. And me? I strutted through the pub like it was mine. Because in that moment? It was. And so was he.
Chapter 8 –
Like You Love Me
The night of my twenty-first was wild. I hadn’t even been in the bar two minutes before Jay grabbed me, grinned like a feral dog, and stormed out from behind the bar like he owned me. He grabbed me by the waist, spun me around, and growled, “Come with me.” Didn’t give me a choice. Didn’t want to. He dragged me through a narrow side door into some tiny storeroom just off the bar. Half-empty kegs, broken bar stools, and a desk that probably hadn’t been cleaned since August. He didn’t care who saw. Neither did I.
Part of me knew he wanted to be seen. Knew the second I stepped through that door, it was about claiming me. That feral need to show the whole world, “This is mine.” This mouthy bitch still in her airport outfit? Mine. The second the door clicked shut behind us, he spun me around and slammed me against the wall. No warning. No sweet hello. Just hands—everywhere. He yanked my trousers down with one rough tug, my knickers following, and before I could even gasp, he bent me over the desk and thrusted his cock inside me. No hesitation. No teasing. Just a hard, brutal thrust that knocked the breath out of me.
“Fucking hell,” I gasped, fingers clawing at the desk as papers scattered around me like confetti.
The room was cold, but my skin burned. My thighs slapped against the desk edge with every relentless thrust. The sting of it made me even wetter. He was feral, gripping my hips so hard Iwas sure I’d have bruises, and I loved it. He reached around, one hand wrapping around my throat—not to choke, just to hold. To remind me who was in control.
“You missed this, didn’t you?” he growled in my ear, hot breath and filthy words melting into my skin.
I moaned, arching back against him, too far gone to play coy. He bit my shoulder. Hard. I hissed.
“You’re mine,” he muttered, pounding into me harder now, the desk groaning under the weight. “This pussy’s mine, Deliah.”
“Yes,” I breathed. “Yours. Fuck.”
I could barely keep upright. My legs trembled. The coil in my stomach was about to snap. I wanted to cry, scream, laugh—everything. It was like every dirty thought I’d had in the last two months exploded into this moment.
“I’ve missed this pussy,” he snarled, grabbing my hair and pulling me upright. “I’ve missed you.”
I came first—loud and sudden, thighs trembling, head thrown back. He came right after, grunting into my neck, one hand on my throat, the other tangled in my hair as he spilled inside me with one final thrust that nearly knocked the desk over. Silence. Just panting. Shaking. We stayed there, breathless, our bodies still tangled. My hair was a mess. My mascara was definitely smeared. We looked like a pair of deranged alley cats. And then? We laughed. Of course we did. Like we hadn’t just nearly broken the furniture. Like we hadn’t fucked with two months’ worth of silence and tension and wanting between us.
When we finally emerged—somewhat composed, still smirking—the rest of the bar gave us looks. Jay didn’t give a single shit. He slapped my arse, handed me a drink, and pulled me onto a bar stool next to him like nothing had happened. We stayedthere all night, drinking, laughing, and winding each other up. He took the piss out of my accent. He dared me to lick salt off a pensioner’s bald head. I nearly did it. We danced. Badly. At one point, he tried to twirl me, and I nearly fell over. He caught me, spun me the wrong way, and somehow, it turned into us slow dancing to a remix of Sex on Fire. We were madness. And I loved it.
Later, when the karaoke machine fired up, Jay signed us up for a duet without asking.Grease. Obviously. He strutted on stage like he was Danny Zuko himself, and I reluctantly joined him, shaking my head. “I hate you,” I muttered.
“You love me,” he said with a wink, already posing like a West End wannabe.
He was terrible. But loud. Fully committed. I, of course, was Sandy. And somewhere between the key change and his dramatic hip thrust, I forgot that we were in a nearly empty bar surrounded by expats and cheap beer. At the final line, he grabbed my face and kissed me full on. Deep, dirty, filthy, right there in front of everyone. And I let him. Because it was him. Because for once, I wasn’t worried about who saw. We broke apart to a round of applause and a loud “GET A ROOM!” from the back. He looked at me, still breathless.
“You are coming back for summer, right?”
I raised a brow, teasing. “We’ll see.”
But the truth? I already knew I was. And he did, too.
That was basically winter with Jay. He’d go to work, come home, and we’d fuck like animals. Loud. Dirty. Rough. Almost savage. There were nights he’d pin me down and use me until I couldn’t speak. Nights I’d ride him until he was breathless and begging. Sometimes I’d be screaming his name so loud the neighbours would bang on the ceiling—or worse, the walls—telling us to keep it down. But I didn’t care. Because underneath all the moaning, biting, panting chaos, something had started to shift. I was addicted. It wasn’t just the sex. I was addicted to him. To his laugh. To his smell. To his stupid little routines. The way he’d grab my face and kiss me like he’d been starving all day. The way he’d fall asleep with his arm slung over me like he was claiming territory. Like I was his.
I don’t know when it changed. But by March, it had. What started as a craving turned into comfort. What started as “I need to fuck” slowly became “I want to wake up next to you.” He still had his cocky swagger, still wound me up for fun, but he’d started doing these things—small things—that made my chest ache. He’d kiss my forehead in the mornings. Pull my legs onto his lap when we watched films. That was when I knew, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to, but I was falling for him.
One night, we were in bed—music playing softly from his speaker, some lo-fi shit he’d found on Spotify. I was on top, grinding slowly, hair sticking to my back, eyes locked on his. I knew exactly how to ride him. How to make him twitch. Make him grab my hips and beg under his breath. But that night… something was different. He looked up at me like he’d never seen me before. Like he wasn’t just watching my body—but seeing me. All of me. Then he reached up, brushed a bit of hair from my face, and pulled me down, chest to chest. A whisper: “Deliah… fuck me like you love me.”
I froze. Just for a second. Just long enough for that sentence to ripple through me like lightning. He didn’t laugh. Didn’t flinch. He just looked at me like I was the only thing in the world that made sense. And in that moment? I think I believed him.Fuck me like you love me?
I didn’t plan to say it. It just came out, like a confession that had been waiting in the back of my throat for weeks. “I do love you.”
As soon as the words left my mouth, my heart went ballistic. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t even look at him. I’d fucked it. I knew I had. But then I felt his hand on my jaw—gentle—and he turned my face back to his. And he smiled. Not a smirk or a laugh. Just a soft, honest smile. Like he’d been waiting for me to say it all along. Then he kissed me. And this time… it wasn’t lust. It was slow. Tender. His lips moved against mine like we had all the time in the world. No games or roughness. Just warmth. We moved like that for ages. Quiet, steady, like we were learning a new language in skin and sighs. He stayed inside me, his hands on my waist, our foreheads touching. I wrapped my arms around his neck, and he gripped my back like he was afraid I’d disappear. When I came, it was soft—so soft I barely made a sound. Just a whisper of his name, trembling on my lips. He came right after, groaning into my shoulder, his whole body pressed to mine like he wanted to melt into me. And when it was over, we didn’t say anything. We just lay there, tangled up, skin to skin, sweat cooling on our bodies. My heart was hammering. My throat was dry.
Then I felt him shift; he turned and looked me dead in the eyes and said, “I love you too.”
Something shifted that night. We went from fucking like animals to something slower, sweeter. Like we were trying to learn a new rhythm. Some nights, he’d hold my face like I was breakable. Trace patterns down my spine. Whisper things I wasn’t ready to hear—”You feel like home. I love you, baby.” I’d fall asleep in his arms, thinking maybe this was it. Maybe I’d finally found the kind of love that didn’t tear me apart. But other nights, he’d pull away. Go quiet. Distracted. He’d stare at his phone a little too long, leave the room when it rang, shrug off questions with a laugh that didn’t reach his eyes. I’d catch myself asking, “Are you okay?” and he’d snap, “I’m fine, Deliah. Stop overthinking everything.” It felt like a tug of war. One minute I was everything, the next I was too much.
