Page 9 of Deliah
“I don’t want just laid,” I admitted. “I want—ugh, I don’t even know what I want.”
“Try me.”
I flopped back onto the bed next to her. “I want someone who can handle me. Someone who doesn’t think they need to save me or fix me or take me away from the club like I’m some stripper Cinderella. I want someone who knows what I am and wants itanyway. Someone who doesn’t want to change me—just fuck me properly so I can get that release and then get on with my life.”
Aneeka raised an eyebrow. “So basically… you want someone to ruin you.”
I looked at her, dead serious. “Exactly.”
She sipped her wine, thoughtful. “Why not someone to love you?”
I laughed—but not because it was funny. “Because men don’t love, Aneeka. Not really. I see it every night. They buy. They beg. They cheat. They perform. But love? Nah. That’s not in them. Not the way we feel it.”
“That’s pretty dark,” she said softly.
“It’s the truth.” I shrugged. “But I’m okay with it. I don’t need love. I’ve got friends. I’ve got money. I’ve got a vibrator. I just need release. And not the kind that ends with someone snoring next to me while I lie there wondering why I ever shaved my legs.”
She laughed. “God, you’re such a savage.”
“No.” I grinned. “I’m just honest.”
The truth was, I had this filthy little war going on inside me. One part of me was done with men, but the other part… the part between my legs? Missed them. I missed the weight of a body pinning mine down. The heat of skin on skin. The grip of a hand tangled in my hair. I missed the growl in someone’s throat when they needed me. The rough kiss. The ache. I didn’t need a man. But I wanted one. Just for tonight. Someone who could match my madness. Take control when I gave it. Handle it when I didn’t. No sleepovers. No sweet texts. Just bruises and bitemarks and that filthy, mindless kind of relief. I didn’t want love. I wanted ruin. And that night? I was ready for it.
We started at a few quieter bars, working our way up. Joes was my favourite—always played R&B, always had a vibe. I’d shagged one of the DJs there back in my shot girl days. If I’m being totally honest, I went partly hoping he’d be there and still down for round two. He wasn’t. So, we mooched up the strip, half tipsy and giggly, dressed like trouble. Our heels clacked across cobbled streets, arms hooked, lipstick smudged from laughter. I was feeling myself—hips swaying, skin glowing, that dangerous kind of confidence that comes after three tequilas and a fresh shave.
And then it happened.
One minute I was mid-sentence, talking absolute shit about something Aneeka had said, the next—I was airborne. No warning. No eye contact. Just grab. Some lad had lifted me clean off the ground, tossed me over his shoulder like a fireman carrying out a rescue, and spun me around like a scarf. My dress flipped, legs dangling down his back, my entire crotch planted against the front of his face.
I screamed, “What the fuck are you doing?!”
He just laughed. Deep and loud and shameless. His mates cracked up beside him, half drunk and egging him on like it was the best thing they’d seen all week.
“FREE SHOTS FOR THE GIRL WITH HER FANNY IN MY FACE!” he shouted, as if I wasn’t mortified enough.
What the actual fuck? He eventually put me down, casual as you like, like I hadn’t just been manhandled in public like a blow-up doll. Then he slung an arm around my shoulder like we were old mates and grinned. “Come on, I’ll get you some shots.”
I blinked. What was happening? Turns out he was a PR. There were loads of them on the island—lads paid to lure punters into bars with charm and discount drinks. Most of them were forgettable. Tanned, cocky, and full of stale chat about “cheap cocktails” and “fit DJs.” But this one? Next fucking level. It took me a second to breathe and stop seeing stars, but when I did, I finally looked at him properly. And fuck. He wasn’t textbook good-looking—nothing clean-cut or polished. A square jaw, messy hair, cheeky smirk, and that sort of “don’t give a fuck” confidence that made him feel ten feet tall. He wasn’t perfect. But something about him hit. It wasn’t just how he looked. It was how he moved. That natural strength. Not the kind you get from posing in gym mirrors and counting macros. No—this was earned. Built from real things. The kind of strength that came from doing. Tall, broad, lean, all hard lines and coiled muscle. His shoulders looked like they were made to throw women around, and the worst part? I wanted him to. The way he’d picked me up without hesitation, with zero struggle—just grab, lift, spin—like I was weightless? Yeah. My pussy throbbed.
He led us into the bar like it was nothing. “Three free shots for the girls!” he shouted to the barman over the music, still grinning like he’d won a bet. Then he turned to me.
“What’s your name?”
“Deliah,” I shouted back.
“I’m Jay,” he said, like it meant something. “So… are you gonna give me your number?”
I stared at him. This man had just mock-69’d me in the street, and now he was asking for my number like we’d just met at brunch?
“No. Fuck off.”
He grinned wider, like I’d just flirted back, then slapped my arse—cheekily, not sleazily—and walked off like he owned the pavement. I just stood there, stunned, watching him swagger into the night like a walking red flag dipped in aftershave. Mouth half open. Heart slamming. Legs fucking shaking. What. The. Fuck.
“I think you liked that,” Aneeka whispered beside me, clutching her shot and raising her brows.
“I didn’t.”
“You’re blushing.”
