Dear Enemy

The sight is so patently sexual, so insanely hot, that my sex swells and slicks. I press my legs together to alleviate the pressure. My hand moves up and down his long length, a steady rhythm. “Is this what you needed?” I rub my thumb over his tip on the downstroke. “Me tugging on your big cock?”

“Oh, shit,” he whispers, his throat working. “Oh, shit. Delilah . . . I . . .” His wide chest hitches on a caught breath.

The tips of his fingers turn white as he grips the edge of the tub. He’s tensing, all those finely wrought muscles clenching. I jerk at his cock, squeezing a bit harder, going a bit faster.

“You needed it, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” he says, panting. “Fuck yes.”

Macon’s eyes close, his brow pinched. He licks his lips as he moans—whimpers, really. That I’ve reduced this strong, stoic man to this quivering mass has my head spinning. I want to crawl in the damn tub with him. Sink down onto this beautiful dick and take him. But this time is for him.

“Are you going to come for me, Macon?”

At the sound of my voice, his eyes snap open. The heat in them sears me. “You want to see me come, Delilah?”

“Yes.”

His lashes flutter. “Then make it hurt, honey.”

The next downstroke has the water frothing. I give him no mercy, pumping him, pulling on his cock as he grunts and thrusts. He’s panting, his straight brows knitted in a look of near pain, but he keeps his gaze on me, silently begging for more.

“You’re beautiful,” I whisper, squeezing his shaft. His nostrils flare as his hips lift, and a long, agonized groan tears from him. He comes in a fine arc over his chest and sinks back into the water with a shuddering sigh.

I gentle my hold but stay with him until he is limp and replete. We fall silent until suddenly Macon moves, grasping the back of my neck to haul me close. His kiss is quick but messy, like he’s all wrung out but needs to convey how much he liked what I did.

The dark fringe of his lashes are clumped and wet from his bath as he stares into my eyes. “Thank you.”

He kisses me again to punctuate the sentiment.

I smile against his mouth. “You’re thanking me for a hand job?”

He huffs out a laugh, his lips tickling mine. “I’m thanking you for trusting me enough to give one.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Delilah

Make it hurt . . .

With a gasp, I wake up in my bed, flushed and fevered and wanting him. I’m slick and swollen between my legs, the soft linen sheets almost coarse against my sensitized skin. I’ve been dreaming of him. My hand still feels the imprint of his hard dick, the weight of it, the girth.

“Sweet Jesus,” I mutter, wiping an unsteady hand over my damp brow.

I actually jerked Macon Saint off in the bath. And it was glorious, gorgeous, hot as hell. His orgasm was the sexiest thing I’ve ever witnessed. Logically, I’m glad I asked to take it a bit slow. Physically? I want to fuck him and forget the world.

Cheeks burning, I take a long cool shower and then pour myself a glass of juice from the little bar set up in my room. It’s early, not quite sunup. Part of me wants to go to Macon now, tell him . . . what? Do me? Can I touch your cock again? Pretty please.

I laugh at my neediness. A little decorum, Delilah. Just a little.

But I’m happy. And slightly shy at the prospect of facing him. I mean, I jerked off Macon. Macon Saint. The world truly has turned over on its head. Butterflies go to war in my belly, and my fingers are twitchy with anticipation.

Humming “Where Is My Mind?” by the Pixies, I sit back and watch the sun rise over the Pacific. I’m almost totally relaxed when my phone rings.

Picturing Macon on the other end, having come up with some new devilry to tempt me, I answer without looking. “What now?”

I’m teasing, and I know he’ll get that. But there’s a protracted silence, then a soft, feminine laugh. “And here I thought you’d be happy to hear from me.”

My entire world screeches to a halt. “Sam?”

I almost can’t believe it. I glance at the bedroom door, my heart trying its best to pound its way out of my chest. Part of me wants to run and find Macon, tell him that Sam is on the phone. But she’d only hang up, and he’d probably blow up.

“The one and only.” Her voice is light with false bravado.

My back teeth clench. “Where are you? Where have you been? What the hell, Sam?”

“Whoa.” She laughs, but it’s tight with annoyance. “I didn’t call to get grilled.”

“You had to expect it,” I retort. “I mean, come on!”