Three Men and a Woman: Delilah (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour)

by Rachel Billings

  “I can’t do it. I l—”

  Austin raised his hand, cutting him off. “Don’t say it. You can back out of the agreement if you want, but only to the extent of giving up your month with her. You can’t take away Ben’s month or mine.” He leaned over, hands pressed on the table. “And you can’t talk about it.”

  He took his tray to the industrial dishwasher and loaded his own dishes just like every worker there did. Then, with one more hard glare at Linc, he stormed out.

  Feeling guilty and wrong, Linc met Ben’s gaze.

  Ben took a breath, settling into that calm, centered place he went to. “Are we going to hurt her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you see any way around it?”

  Other than breaking his word, trashing his friendships, maybe even destroying the business? “No.”

  “Then we should do what we can to minimize the damage, yeah?”

  He looked back at Ben and scrubbed his hands over his face. “Yeah. Fuck.”

  * * * *

  Lincoln stayed to make the most critical calls to Asia and decided to screw the rest. Then he drove home and ran. There were trails up the canyon and into the forest, and he took them, pushing himself until it was dark.

  When he dragged himself home he showered and then stood in the dark looking out over the city to the black sea.

  None of it helped.

  He hated himself. He’d thought he was so smart, engineering that stupid agreement. He had to admit now that it had been all about getting what he wanted. He hadn’t really cared about his friends having a chance with a woman they’d desired in the past.

  He hadn’t even really cared about Delilah’s feelings, the potential for her to be hurt. He’d figured it would just all go his way. That he’d be able to indulge himself, wooing and fucking Delilah to any extent that he wanted. And if he wanted it, wanted her, she’d want him back, would accept whatever terms he put out there.

  He hadn’t really considered that his feelings for her would knock him on his ass. Or that taking a few months’ break and letting his best friends in the world, good men, have a shot at her, maybe even letting one of them win her away from him, would drive him to thoughts of murder.

  Or that the idea of letting her believe—for one day, even, to say nothing of for four or five months—that he didn’t love and want her would have him thinking about sticking a knife in his gut. Have him feeling like the knife was already there.

  He was a fucking idiot and deserved whatever he got. But Delilah didn’t.

  She was innocent in this—entirely innocent. She’d been trusting and open and hadn’t protected herself at all. He knew it.

  She hadn’t hidden her feelings from him. She’d let love shine in her eyes. She’d given her body—her self, her dominion—over to him. Without qualm. In good faith. In trust.

  Ben had told him what he had to do—whatever it was that would hurt her the least. But what the hell was that?

  He stared out into the dark but didn’t find any damn answers.

  * * * *

  Delilah was in bed and wondered if her thoughts had conjured him when her cell vibrated and she saw his number.

  Lincoln hadn’t been far from her mind all day. She was aware of it from the first moment she woke. The buzz of it, the sweet energy that came from what they’d had together, what they’d done, had her relishing her shower, powered her brisk morning bike ride, and made her eager and energetic at work.

  That first, sweet blush of new love.

  Sure, a weekend of hot sex could have generated some of it.

  But she knew in her heart there was more. Sarah had called it. She was in love.

  She held it close to her heart like a precious secret.

  Mr. Wright had noticed it. He’d raised an interested brow and commented on her sunny disposition, but he’d respectfully let her hug it to herself a while longer. Brian Davis had come by, telling her what a great time she’d missed on Friday evening, sharing all his weekend adventures and trying to wheedle out hers. She sent him away frustrated.

  When she got home she washed her sheets and remade her bed, though she still felt she had Linc’s scent there. Like he’d left his mark in some more ethereal but indelible way.

  Before she slept, she thought of him. The incredible warmth of his arms wrapped around her, the safety and contentment she felt there. The wild power of his body and the sexual ecstasy he drove her to.

  A dozen times that day she’d cautioned herself to slow down. She had enough sense to know that, for men, a weekend of hot sex could be nothing more than a weekend of hot sex. That their hearts, their feelings, didn’t have to be involved in order for their cocks to get hard.

  But it was a tough sell.

  True, Lincoln hadn’t used many soft words, loving words. And some of what they’d done together—well, much of it—might have been purely about fucking.

  Still, he said he’d never wanted that way before. And she’d seen the wonder of it—if not love—in his eyes.

  So no matter how much her brain urged her to be careful, her heart had its own will about it. She would do what she could to be circumspect. She would own her feelings and not assume Linc shared the same ones. She would enjoy the moment she was in and let the future take care of itself.

  But, oh, she had such hope.

  And she couldn’t contain the foolish, girlish giggle when she saw his call. “Linc?”

  “I’m downstairs. Can I see you?”

  “Of course. I’m coming.”

  She didn’t read any concern, any worrisome thoughts, into his words until she got a look at him through the windowpanes of her door.

  He stood with his hands fisted in the front pockets of his faded jeans. He wore a white cotton fisherman’s sweater, and his shoulders hunched inside it. His face was grim, distressed.

  Suddenly she was cold, dressed only in her skimpy undies and the silk robe she’d wrapped around herself on her way downstairs.

  Without thought she opened the door. “Linc. What is it?”

  She took his hand, nudged it from his pocket and pulled him inside. She pushed the door shut behind him and put her hands on his face. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

  She went up on tiptoes to touch his lips with hers, to warm him. She stayed close, rubbing his cheek with hers, sharing his breath.

  Finally, with a groan, he unfroze. He wrapped his arms hard around her and pulled her into his body. His lips took hers, a long, urgent kiss.

  In just a moment he was hard, rocking into her, securing her with a hand on her ass. He whispered her name between needy kisses.

  “Delilah.” The tone was anguished, and she tried to lean her head back to look at him, but he held her too hard, refusing let go.

  With another groan he lifted her, and she wrapped her legs around him. He carried her up the first flight of stairs, and then fell with her onto the leather sofa that faced her fireplace.

  His grip on her was hard, his mouth relentless. He brushed one hand over her, slipping under silk and roughly chafing her breast. Then he opened his jeans and plunged into her. He didn’t even remove her undies, just tore them aside so he could find her.

  It hurt a little, that abrupt claiming. It was such a tight fit, and she wasn’t entirely ready for him, distracted by worry. He paused just a moment, giving a kind of grumble that might pass for an apology and going back to work her breast some more.

  He lifted his head to look at her, an intense gaze that seemed to burn its way into her heart. Her body eased. He was aware of it and started stroking into her. Gently, at first, as he intently watched her.

  She whimpered, as always, driven by his forceful sexuality and now seduced by the power of his need.

  He fucked her and it was an urgent, primal mating. Each stroke was a complete taking, ending with a pause when he was fully embedded in her, staking her. He was so big, stretching her, impaling her. And that hard, passionate gaze, demanding her consent, her complais
ance.

  Her body shivered in response. She gripped his head, tethering herself, holding to him in this storm of extreme pleasure, extreme emotion. It washed over her, powerful waves that tumbled her into ecstasy.

  “Lincoln. Lincoln.”

  His hard gaze on her compelled her to stay with him, to keep her eyes open to him, to share her orgasm with him.

  At the last moment he joined her, pressing his forehead against hers, rearing up for his last clutching, spasming, roaring thrusts.

  She wailed with it, and he howled, a forceful shared, gripping, almost painful climax. Her body convulsed as he fucked into her, his own spasms filling her with his cum.

  They were both left panting harsh, urgent breaths.

  “Linc,” she said, her fingers still weakly grasping his hair. “I l—”

  But his hand was there, suddenly covering her mouth. He dropped his head into her shoulder and moaned. “No,” he said. “Don’t say it.”

  The misery in his words chilled her, and she jerked her head, pulling away from his hand. “Why not?”

  Linc lifted up, still breathing hard. He met her eyes, harsh this time, hard, and she was not just chilled but frozen.

  “Because I can’t say it back.”

  Delilah stilled, her heart jabbed with sharp pain.

  This. When she’d seen him on her front step, all in distress, she hadn’t thought this. She’d thought of some tragedy, some terrible loss that had him seeking her for comfort.

  It hadn’t even occurred to her that it would be this—that he was coming to tell her she’d mistaken the meaning of their weekend together. That they—he—hadn’t been falling in love.

  “Get off of me.” Out of me, she meant, but couldn’t say. His cock was still inside her, not with the piercing hardness of when he’d first taken her, but still claiming her, still making them one. Making her his.

  “Delilah.” Her name sounded sad on his lips. Like he was in pain.

  “Off.” She turned her head away and grieved as he pulled out. She felt it acutely, the loss of connection that she’d thought had meant something. A sharing, a binding.

  Not just a fuck.

  She couldn’t believe she’d so misread things.

  He’d risen and turned his back to her. He was fixing his clothes, tucking his cock back in and zipping his jeans.

  He hadn’t done further than unzip and let his damn cock free so he could fuck her.

  She felt suddenly very defenseless and exposed. Her robe was open, her panties twisted and not even covering her most private place.

  And worse, she felt the wetness of his cum soiling her. His cum that she shouldn’t even have allowed into her body.

  What a fool she was. She hadn’t protected her heart—that was bad enough. But she hadn’t even protected her body. Idiot.

  She rolled off the couch and hurried into the small powder room off the kitchen. Lincoln called to her but she ignored him. She had a compulsive need to clean herself.

  She ran water in the sink and washed herself. The scented soap and decorative hand towel seemed incongruous to the grim task.

  She dropped the soiled cloth to the floor, thinking she’d likely never use it again. She wet another with cold water and held it to her face.

  Delilah took her damn time in the bathroom and could only hope that Lincoln Banks would have the courtesy to leave.

  The bastard didn’t.

  When she walked back to the living room he was still there. His hands were on the back of the sofa, his head down, his gaze on the seat where he’d just fucked her. Before he’d told her he didn’t, wouldn’t, love her.

  He kept his head down, and his body language said it all. She hadn’t misinterpreted his words. He didn’t love her.

  Wrapped tightly now in the meager cover of her robe, she looked at him. “So, I guess you’re married.”

  “Lilah. No.” He looked up at her, distressed as though it wasn’t the obvious thing. As though he should be offended that she’d even think it.

  “I thought this was real, Linc. I thought we were—” She stopped herself from saying it. “How wrong I was.”

  He came around the sofa, stalking her until she stopped him with a raised hand. “You weren’t wrong, Lilah.” He spoke quietly, softly, like it wasn’t a lie. “We were falling in love.”

  She believed him. His words were so damn consistent with what she’d felt that, like a fool, she believed him. She looked up at him, trying so hard to squash the bit of hope that wanted to tease her heart into beating again.

  “You’d split up with her, but she came back and asked you to try again.”

  He shook his head. “I’m not married, Lilah.”

  “You broke up with your girlfriend, but now you’ve found out she’s pregnant.”

  “No.”

  “Well, you’re not fucking gay, Linc, so what the hell is it?”

  She could see he wanted to smile, to laugh at her irate tone, and if he’d done it she’d have had to kill him. Lucky for him he squelched the urge. She didn’t have any implements at hand that would make it a painless death.

  “Lilah.”

  She waved away whatever he was going to say. “If you cared at all, you’d at least have the decency to make up a reasonable lie.”

  “I do care, Lilah. I care a lot, and so I won’t lie to you.”

  “Then tell me what it is.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You can’t.” She turned away, walked to the windows, and looked out. And then watched his reflection as he came to stand behind her. “And furthermore, you couldn’t say it before you fucked me.” It was a bitter statement. A bitter feeling.

  One that made him mad. “I made love to you.”

  “No, Linc. No. That’s not a word we’re using, is it?”

  “It’s what it was, Lilah.”

  She shook her head and covered her face with her hands. How had she gotten herself into this position?

  He pressed up behind her, his hands on her shoulders, and she let out a single, gasping breath.

  “Don’t touch me.”

  “I’m sorry, Lilah. I’m so sorry.”

  “Tell me why, Linc.”

  “I can’t. It’s a matter of—honor.”

  Oh, how she wanted to cry then. Honor. What could that possibly mean? “Go away.”

  He squeezed her shoulders. “Someday I’ll make this right. One day I’m going to ask you to forgive me, Delilah.”

  “It won’t happen, Linc.”

  “I’ll make it happen.” He kissed the back of her head and met her gaze in the window. “Good-bye, Lilah.”

  Chapter Five

  “Hey, Shell. Give me a kiss, will you?”

  Michelle Bednarek paused in the process of stripping down to her sports bra. “What are you up to, West?”

  Ben helped her finish the job with her shirt, lifting it over her head. Then he put his hands on the bare skin at her waist and pulled her in. “I need you to sell it, too.”

  He ignored the suspicion in her eyes and kissed her—not like deep tongue or anything, but a good, warm kiss, like a guy who’d got lucky and knew it would give his girlfriend in public.

  Shell gave him back pretty good. She wasn’t the only lesbian on Ben’s Saturday league Ultimate team, but she was the hot one. And she had game.

  He’d given a little fist pump when he’d seen Delilah ride through the gate at the far side of the field. He’d employed a stealth strategy to get her here, and it had paid off.

  He’d known she played. Back when he’d met her, that semester he spent in Japan, they’d talked about it. A group of the Americans at that Thanksgiving dinner where they’d met had played, and they were trying to get up a team to take on the Japanese that spring.

  Ben wouldn’t be there, but they were urging Delilah to commit.

  He didn’t know if she had any skill, but like the guys in Japan no doubt felt, he’d be happy to have her play anyway. She brought other stuff, like tha
t pretty face and sweet body. Besides, being open to all skill levels was, like, spirit, right?

  In a stroke of genius, modestly speaking, he’d maneuvered her here. He’d printed up flyers saying women players were needed for a mixed team. Then he stalked her, papering the places she happened to be with the flyers, and taking them away once she was out of sight.

  It wasn’t like he needed a bunch of women. Just one.

  The third time, when she’d left her bike chained to a rack to wander a street fair, she’d taken the bait. He’d tucked flyers into the cables of every bike there. When she came back, she read the flyer and then stuffed it into her backpack.

  With a little suppressed victory dance and looking, he hoped, only slightly shady, he’d gathered up the rest of the flyers and tossed them.

  He’d started the strategy two weeks ago when Linc, looking as sorry-assed as he’d ever seen the dude, had said he’d stopped seeing Delilah. Things hadn’t gone well there, but Ben suspected that it was because things had, in fact, gone really well.

  He’d concluded that Linc had truly fallen for her. And when Austin had refused to consider letting him out of the agreement, he’d manned up and pulled back. Yeah, it was looking like their plan was a stupid idea, but it seemed there was little choice but to go through with it, at least to some extent.

  They really hadn’t considered enough the possibility that they’d end up hurting Delilah. Ben figured they had, and he’d decided he’d take his designated month and attempt to be a friend.

  It was possible she needed one now.

  If something more developed, well, he’d deal with it when it happened.

  And if the final phase of his master plan netted him a little lesbian kissing, well—bonus.

  Still, this particular lesbian was no moron. She looked across the field and saw Delilah walking her bike toward them. Giving her a long perusal—much as he had—she poked Ben’s rib. Busted.

  “Who is she?”

  “An old friend.”

  “And you want her to think I’m your girlfriend because—”

  “She’s been hurt. I’d like to try to be a friend to her, but I’m guessing she’s a bit disinclined toward men just now.”