Dear Enemy

I burst out laughing, doubling over. “Oh, shit . . .” I try to stop. Honestly, I do. But my mind keeps replaying that moment in slow motion. Evil old Lynch’s pinched mouth going wide in horror, the wet slap of pie as it hit her face. I lose it again, and I hold up a hand as if to say, “Give me a moment here.”

“You’re just asking for a dunk in the pool at this point,” Delilah deadpans.

I wipe my watering eyes and straighten. “Okay, I’m good.”

She raises a brow, and my lips quiver. Delilah gives me a grudging smile, her hands going to her hips. The action thrusts out her breasts. And all my good intentions fly out the door.

“You’re staring at my boobs.” Her tone is wry but somehow not insulted.

“I am aware.” I should be sorry, but I’m not. “I’m staring at your peachy butt, too, if we’re being totally honest here.”

“Macon.”

I glance up at her. “Your body is fucking luscious, Delilah. Bitable in the best way possible. A juicy peach, a sweet apple covered in caramel. Do you know how much I’d kill for a caramel apple right now, Tot? And me stuck on this hell diet. It’s a torment, I say.”

“I don’t think this is very professional,” she says weakly.

“I should hope not.” God, I love teasing her. Her whole body lights up when I do it. Foreplay. Does she realize that’s what we’re doing? “I was just thinking—”

“What did I say about you thinking?” she warns.

“They don’t look like bananas now, Tot.”

“Oh my God, you’re terrible.” But she’s grinning now. Fighting damn hard not to show it, but definitely grinning.

“More like peaches. Ripe, juicy peaches.”

She sways in my direction before catching herself doing it and shifting her weight. “You called my butt peachy.” A dry complaint. “My boobs can’t be peaches too.”

“Maybe I have a thing for peaches.”

Somehow, we’re only a foot apart, the space between us humming with something. It licks over my tender skin, tickles the back of my neck. Take it slow, Saint. She’s skittish. Back off. My body resents this greatly and strains toward her warmth.

Her voice is a thread, drawn tight. “You’re still staring.”

“Paying proper respect,” I amend quietly. “You don’t ignore a body like yours. It would be rude.”

“Pretty sure you have that backward.” She’s breathless now, her glorious breasts rising and falling with agitation.

I lean down, take in the warmth of her scent. “Come on, Tot. I’ve grown up, seen the error of my ways. Give me your bountiful banana pie.”

Again she sways into my space, laughing softly. “Pervert. You’re not getting any pie from me.”

I hum, heat and need making my head swim. “But I have this craving.”

She’s whispering now. “Disappointment can be character building.”

“I’ll need my strength for that. How about peach pie?” Kiss me, Delilah. Or let me kiss you. I’m not picky.

The pulse at the base of her tanned neck visibly beats. The scent of her skin is like honey.

“I thought you wanted banana cream,” she says, a dazed look in her eyes.

The tips of my fingers touch the collar of her shirt. “I don’t think pie is what I want anymore.”

Her breath leaves in a whoosh. I’m more aroused than I’ve ever been. I want to press up against her and ease the tight ache in my dick. But the moment is gone; she’s backing away. “I’ll make you pie later. I’m on break now.”

A nice reminder meant to set us firmly back into our places of boss and servant.

I might have walked away, let it go. But she whisks her shirt off, revealing a tiny sixties-style bikini top and that body with curves for miles. She is glorious, her peachy ass swaying as she drops the shirt like a dare, then saunters to a lounger. Yeah, I might have let it go if she hadn’t looked back, a quick glance as though to make certain I was still there.

I’m still here, honey. And I’m not going anywhere.

Delilah

What was that? I swear I almost kissed Macon Saint.

My heart is beating like an angry metronome. I’m tender and flushed between my legs. All from a little banter with Macon. I want to lie to myself and say it wasn’t anything different than the light meaningless flirting we’ve been doing since I walked into his office all those weeks ago. Except it isn’t meaningless anymore. Something fundamental has changed.

Macon’s direct gaze has always been powerful, capable of evoking a visceral reaction: annoyance, rage, suspicion, resentment—anticipation, amusement, attraction, craving. Today, he looked at me with intent. With lust.

If it were anyone else but him, I’d already have dragged the man upstairs. But it is Macon. And this . . . lust, this need for him is weird for me. I don’t know what to think. Sex has always been about pleasure for me. I have no doubt sex with Macon would be incredible. But having sex with Macon would mean opening myself to every vulnerability I have. Never mind the fact that we have to live together afterward—with the knowledge that we’ve been thrust together by Sam’s theft.