Page 59 of Deliah
“I’m just preparing for my future,” I said sweetly. “I like to know what kind of tax bracket I’d be falling in love with.”
He leaned forward, elbows on the table, that glint back in his eye. “If we ever got married, Deliah, the only thing you’d be signing is a deal to never leave the house in anything but red.”
“Bit controlling.”
“Bit honest.”
I let out a laugh, loud and real. God, it was annoying how easily he got under my skin. Like he had a cheat code to all my defences.
I shifted in my seat, more relaxed now. “So what about the others? The rest of the Boiler Boys. I always saw them at the club. Never you.”
His expression didn’t change, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes. “I’m not a fan of strip clubs.”
I raised an eyebrow. “That a moral stance or a control thing?”
“Neither. I just don’t enjoy paying for attention.”
“Hmm,” I hummed. “See, I always thought you were the type to demand attention. And get it.”
He looked at me then, that intense, deliberate stare that made my stomach twist. “I don’t have to demand anything,” he said calmly.
Cocky. Factual. Deadly accurate.
I shook my head. “So you just… never came? Even when the lads dragged Tommy out on his birthday and got him so drunk he tipped a girl a €100 just for licking his shoulder?”
That got another laugh. “I remember the story. And no. I didn’t go.”
“Why not?”
He paused. “I prefer intention,” he said. “If someone wants me, I want them to want me. Not pretend for a few euros and a glass of champagne.”
I tapped my nail against my glass. “You’re either the most emotionally evolved man I’ve ever met… or the most dangerous.”
He tilted his head. “Can’t I be both?”
The waiter arrived just in time to save me from saying something wildly inappropriate, like “take me now,” and placed dessert between us.
I leaned back, picking up my fork. “So, no mafia. No strip clubs. Makes money from clicking buttons. Mysterious villa in Marbella. Emotionally fluent and annoyingly perceptive.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, pretty much.”
I took a slow bite of the chocolate tart, lips curving. “I think I just wanted to see if I could rattle you.”
“And?”
“Still working on it.”
He smirked. “Keep trying.”
The walk to the car was silent. He held my hand. But my chest was loud. My brain was screaming. Every nerve in my body was buzzing, my skin hypersensitive under the weight of his gaze—even when he wasn’t looking directly at me. I felt him anyway. In the way his thumb brushed over mine, in the way our footsteps synced like something ancient. Fated. By the time we pulled into the villa’s long, winding driveway, I was on fire.
We stood by the front door, both of us still. Tense. Breathing unevenly. He looked at me—really looked. The kind of look that made time feel irrelevant.
“Deliah…” he said quietly.
Then he grabbed my face. One hand on my cheek, the other sliding into my hair, firm and steady. He tilted my chin up, paused just long enough to steal the breath from my lungs—then kissed me. And fuck. There was nothing slow about it. No teasing. No testing. It was a claim. His mouth crashed into mine with the kind of intention that made my knees buckle. His fingers tangled in my hair, pulling me to him with a groan that rumbled low in his chest. My lips parted instinctively, hips pressing forward before I even realised what I was doing. It wasn’t a kiss. It was a detonation. I caved instantly. Melted. Surrendered. All the pain, the rage, the hunger I’d buried deep inside me surged up and collided with his mouth, his body, his hands. He kissed like he could fix me. Like he wasn’t afraid of my madness—he wanted it. And I kissed him back like I never wanted anyone else to touch me ever again.
We broke apart, breathless. Our foreheads touched. My hands were on his chest, clutching fabric like I needed it to stay upright. His fingers trailed from my jaw to my waist, slow… almost reverent.
