Page 71 of Deliah
“You wish you did.”
He wasn’t wrong.
The more I looked at him, the hornier I got. It was annoying, actually—how smug and composed he looked sitting across from me, sipping espresso like he hadn’t ruined my entire existence just last night. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, jaw ticking slightly as he listened to some story the waiter was telling about wine pairings. I didn’t care about the wine. I cared about the way his hand looked wrapped around the stem of the glass.
I crossed my legs under the table. Uncrossed them again. He didn’t even glance up.
Brat mode: activated.
I leaned back in my chair slightly, letting my dress ride just a little higher, the soft cotton hem resting dangerously on the tops of my thighs. I caught his eye, then slowly—deliberately—spread my legs beneath the tablecloth. No knickers. His gaze dropped. Just for a second. Blink-and-you-miss-it kind of moment. But it was enough. I smirked and sipped my drink like butter wouldn’t melt.
“You think you’re funny?” he asked casually, like we were talking about the weather.
“I don’t know what you mean.” I tilted my head, innocence dialled up to eleven.
His eyes darkened. “Don’t test me in public.”
“Why not?” I said sweetly. “Scared you’ll fail?”
His jaw clenched, and I swear I saw his hand twitch. Then, without warning, he pushed his chair back and stood. “Up. Now.”
I blinked, but the way he said it—low, tight, full of that simmering control—I was up before I could think. He grabbed my wrist and led me through the restaurant like we were just acouple heading for a smoke break, nodding politely at the staff as we passed the bar. We didn’t stop at the door. He dragged me through a service corridor, past crates of wine and swinging kitchen doors, until we burst out the back of the restaurant into a quiet little alley tucked between two buildings. I barely had time to gasp before he spun me to face the wall.
“Hands flat. Legs apart.”
“Damion—”
“Now.”
I obeyed, heart hammering, the rough brick cool against my palms as I braced myself.
I felt him step behind me, his body heat closing in. One hand grabbed my hip, the other slid between my thighs—fingers already slipping through wetness I couldn’t hide.
“Filthy little brat,” he growled in my ear, pressing his fingers inside me so fast I gasped. “You planned this, didn’t you? Walking around with no fucking knickers like you’ve got no shame.”
“Maybe,” I breathed. “What are you gonna do about it?”
He curled his fingers inside me, just enough to make my knees buckle. “Don’t tempt me, baby girl. I’ll fuck you right here if you keep running that mouth.”
“You wouldn’t.”
His breath hitched near my ear. “Try me.”
His fingers started moving—slow, then faster, dragging against that spot that made my whole body clench. He had one hand covering my mouth, the other working me like he owned every inch of me. Which, let’s be honest, he kind of did.
“You don’t come,” he whispered. “Not until I say.”
I whimpered into his palm, hips rocking, legs trembling.
“You want to be a brat?” he continued, filthy words pouring like poison. “Then take the punishment. You wanted attention—now you’ve got it. You feel how wet you are for me?”
I nodded frantically.
“I’ll count down from five,” he growled. “You come on one. Not a second before, or we’re doing this all fucking day.”
I was shaking now, the pressure unbearable.
“Five…”
