Page 64 of Deliah
We headed out into the warm Marbella night, the breeze rolling in off the coast like it had somewhere to be. The streets were alive—music drifting from open doors, heels clicking on cobbles, laughter echoing between palm trees and whitewashed walls. The bar was tucked into the heart of Puerto Banús, hidden down a narrow alley like a secret you had to be in on. Moody lighting. Velvet booths. Private corners. The kind of place that made you feel like you mattered just for walking through the door. Cherry saw me before I saw her—obviously—and launched herself at me with a squeal loud enough to shake the glasses behind the bar.
“You look unreal!” she shouted over the music, eyes wide, arms flung around me.
I laughed, squeezing her back. “So do you, babe, absolutely banging!” And she was—gold hoops catching the light, sun-kissed skin shimmering, Tommy’s hand casually claiming her waist like he’d carved it himself. She looked happy. He did too. The kind of love that didn’t need to prove anything. We walked inside, and it was like stepping into a time warp—every familiar face turned towards me at once. All the lads from the old crew, the original Boiler Boys, their cheers echoing over the beat as they spotted me.
“Deliah’s here!”
“No way—look at you!”
“Fucking buzzing to have you back, girl!”
They’d taken over an entire section of the club, cordoned off with ridiculous gold ropes like it was some royal gala. Within minutes, it was absolute pandemonium—bottles of Grey Goose the size of fire extinguishers, magnums of champagne delivered with sparklers shooting out the top, smoke, lights, girls hovering just outside the rope trying to get close. And us? We were right in the middle of it all. Cherry and I sat back in our throne of velvet, sipping cocktails like royalty while the madness unfolded around us. Everywhere I looked, the lads were grinning, toasting, throwing money like it was Monopoly cash. Girls were watching from the sidelines, hoping for a crack in the circle—hoping for an invite. But inside? It was loud, electric, exclusive. And somehow… peaceful. Because Damion was there. Not doing much. Just sitting with his usual calm, a glass of whisky in one hand, the other resting lazily on his knee. Occasionally, he’d take a drag from a fag like he belonged in a slow-motion mafia montage. He wasn’t the loudest in the room. He didn’t need to be. He just was. Watching. Waiting. Unbothered. And every now and then… I felt his eyes on me.
Cherry, of course, was the first to break. Three drinks in, and she was already on another planet. At one point, she climbed onto the table in six-inch heels and started twerking like we were in a music video. Tommy just shook his head, laughing, before grabbing her around the waist and yanking her down onto his lap like a naughty schoolgirl. She squealed, giggled, and kissed his neck. They were a mess. The best kind of mess. Total madness—but perfectly matched. I slipped off my seat and started to dance. Not for anyone. Not even for him. Just for me. But I knew he was watching. I could feel it. Like heat trailing over my skin. I kept my distance. Close enough for him to see, far enough that he couldn’t touch. It was a game. A bratty littlepower play. I danced slowly, hips rolling, head tilted, a teasing glance over my shoulder every so often, like,you’re not the only one who can drive someone insane.
And then—I felt it. His hand, firm on my arm. In one move, he pulled me into him and stood, his mouth crashing down on mine before I could say a word. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t soft. It was hungry. Like he’d had enough of watching. The music faded into a blur. The crowd disappeared. It was just him—his mouth, his grip, the way he kissed me like I was the only thing in the room worth paying attention to.
When he pulled back, just enough to breathe, he gripped my chin between his fingers, ran his thumb across my jaw, and looked straight into me. “Fuck, Deliah, what are you doing to me?”
And just like that—I forgot where I was. I forgot the music, the VIP rope, the lights, the people. All I knew was him. I finally came to my senses—heart pounding, skin flushed, mouth still tingling from his kiss—and looked up at him. He was still watching me. Steady. Silent. Waiting. “I’m ready,” I said, voice low but clear.
His eyes didn’t move. Didn’t blink. “You sure?”
“Yes,” I breathed. “I’ve never been more sure.”
That was all it took. Without another word, he bent down, gripped the back of my thighs, and swooped me over his shoulder like I belonged there. One second, I was standing. The next, I was upside down, legs kicking in the air, laughing in pure disbelief. The club erupted. I heard Cherry’s scream-laugh echo across the room. “OH MY GOD—GO ON, GIRL!” Followed by Tommy’s wolf-whistle and the lads whooping and cheering like their team had just scored in overtime.
Damion didn’t react. Didn’t acknowledge the madness behind us. He just carried me like he was on a mission, one hand holding me in place, the other calmly pushing past people who were suddenly very much aware something was happening. I caught glimpses of wide eyes. Open mouths. Girls on the edge of the VIP rope, clutching their drinks and watching in disbelief. One of them actually gasped and said, “Who the fuck is she?” I almost laughed. He didn’t flinch—just pushed through the crowd, through the humid Marbella heat, out the doors, and into the night. The second the cool air hit my skin, everything felt sharper. Louder. More real.
He lowered me down gently beside the car, fingers ghosting over my waist like he didn’t want to let go yet. His other hand reached for the door, pulling it open without looking away from me.
“In,” he said, voice quiet but firm.
I didn’t hesitate. The car door shut with a soft click, and just like that, the noise of the world outside disappeared. The ride home was a blur of shadows and headlights. I sat in the passenger seat, legs crossed, heart rattling around in my chest like it had been set loose. He drove like he did everything else—smooth, focused, in control. One hand on the wheel. One resting on the gearstick. His jaw clenched just enough to make me wonder what he was holding back. I stared out the window, the silence stretching… not awkward, just loaded. My hands twitched in my lap. By the time we pulled into the villa’s driveway, my breathing was shallow. The gates closed behind us, sealing the world out. And suddenly, I wasn’t Deliah-in-the-club anymore. I wasn’t laughing with Cherry or teasing Damion from across the dancefloor. I was just… me. Nervous. Excited. Terrified.
When the car stopped, I didn’t move right away. I stared up at the villa glowing in the night like something out of a dream, lit from inside like it had been expecting me. Damion got out first, came around, and opened the door for me. Not in some chivalrous, cheesy way—but because that was just who he was. In control. Always. I stepped out slowly, air thick with anticipation. He looked at me under the moonlight—calm, composed, but his eyes were burning. “This is your last chance,” he said. “If you want to stop, say it now.”
I met his gaze. “I’m not stopping.”
A small nod. Nothing else. And just like that—he took my hand and led me inside.
Chapter 23 –
Don’t Come Until I Say
His room was nothing like mine. Black sheets. Grey walls. Floor-to-ceiling windows veiled by thick curtains. Leather and steel, everything minimal and masculine. It didn’t feel like a bedroom. It felt like a command centre. A place where control lived and chaos begged to be ruled. He let go of my hand and turned to face me.
“If we’re doing this,” he said slowly, voice laced with authority, “we’re doing it properly.”
I nodded, chest tight, thighs pressed. “Yes.”
“That means you do what I say. You don’t come until I say. You speak only when I ask. Deliah, do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“You trust me?”
“Yes.”
