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

by Rachel Billings

  And so he could see her capitulation.

  He did nothing but fuck into her. There were no sweet caresses, no enticing kisses or hot words. Just hard, relentless fucks. And that hard assessment, that driven watching of her, that let her know he knew.

  He knew when she relented, when she gave way to his will. He knew when she heated, when she didn’t just consent to this claiming fuck but when she wanted it.

  And then when she needed it. Finally, when she begged for it.

  He gave her just enough to get from her what he wanted. He drove into her until she was warm and wet, until she rocked her hips to have more of him. Then he stopped and waited.

  Waited until she quivered, until she moaned a little complaint and flexed against him to urge him on.

  When she’d done that, when she’d acknowledged her need, he gave in. He fucked her higher then, higher until she nearly came. Until her body bucked up to meet his, until she rode every thrust of his cock.

  He paused again when she hung at that precipice, a needy mess. When her breath was a harsh ache, her want a crushing command.

  “Ben.”

  He was with her. It cost him to stop there, she could tell. His own breaths came in savage groans, his body quivered with the strain of holding back. But he wouldn’t give into it until he had what he wanted from her.

  “Ben.”

  “Say it.”

  “No.”

  He slammed into her, shaking the bed. “Goddammit.”

  Delilah was almost coming. Her body arched, impaling herself on his cock, begging for him to end it. It was devastating, the need she had, the urgent, primal want of it.

  “Ben. Please.”

  He dropped his head down on the bed beside her, turning hers to face him. His gaze bored into hers, their noses bumped, and they breathed the same air.

  With a growl he started fucking her hard. He was wild with it, feral. His huge, hard cock mastered her, claimed her body as its vessel.

  She wailed as she started to climax, tears filling her eyes with the blessed relief of it. Her body shuddered. Aching spasms coursed through her. She was ravaged, wrecked.

  He got her there and then went with her. He cried her name as she did his. He howled when he came, a long, guttural roar of victory. His lasts thrusts were wild, uncontrolled.

  And the hot jets of his cum spurted into her, a symbolic giving of himself, marking her as his.

  * * * *

  He’d wanted her to tell him she loved him. Fuck caution, fuck prudence. Ben wanted Delilah beyond all rational thought.

  It fucking sucked to be in this position. To want her when he knew his best friend Linc wanted her, and very likely his other best friend Austin would, too.

  He’d tried. He had, dammit. He’d tried to be a friend to her, tried to let her guard her heart. Tried to not make matters worse for her.

  But he’d fallen. And if she hadn’t fallen, too, well, then, he was screwed. In that case, all he was doing was fucking his best friend’s woman, and he’d freaking have to pay for it.

  He needed what had happened to matter to her.

  But she wasn’t going to fucking give it to him. Whether it mattered or not—and, of course, he believed it did, he believed she was holding back just out of that very fucking rational desire to protect herself—she wasn’t going to tell him.

  He was fucking fucked.

  And damned if that wasn’t just as pitiful as all shit.

  He’d finished off with his face in the mattress, roaring out as he came. He turned his head now just enough to get a little peek.

  Delilah was a goner. She had her eyes closed, and her breath was just ratcheting down from those little screeches she’d ended things with. If he thought about it they were probably pained screeches, and she was probably sore.

  He’d be lucky if they both weren’t crippled.

  He took a couple deep breaths and tried to find his decency. His all-fucked-out dick was still inside her, and she’d probably like to have her body to herself for a bit.

  Carefully he did a push-up off of her, sliding out as delicately as he could.

  She gave a little whimper, confirming his worst thoughts. He wasn’t that delicate, and she was sore.

  He moved to her side and nudged his head into the mattress again for a minute. He took a couple more of those deep, centering breaths. Taking the blanket he’d wrapped around her before, he tucked her into it again. Then he put his lips to her forehead.

  “Take a little rest, baby, while I get dinner on. After we eat I’ll take you home.”

  * * * *

  Delilah let Ben leave without commenting. She had her car at his house, so she’d be taking her own self home. But why fuss about that when there was so much else to object to? When there was quite a laundry list of protests to be made.

  She watched with one eye slit open as he grabbed a pair of shorts from a drawer and headed to the bathroom. As soon as he cleared out of there she got up and tottered in herself.

  She hurt. She had extreme tenderness in more than one body part.

  Well, that was just collateral damage. If she didn’t want a sore pussy—et cetera—she should have stopped him after that first fuck. Or at least after the second. As it was, she really didn’t have the right to complain about her well-used body. She’d benefited—greatly—from the whole deal.

  And if she took a little petty pleasure in the fact that he had trouble standing upright as he left the bed, well, she was only human. Not a woman on the planet would hold that against her.

  But she knew what he’d been about. It was clear what he was waiting for with that last insistent, controlling fuck, what he was demanding.

  She’d given him most of it. She’d let him have her body like he owned it, like he had the right to it. She’d let him fuck her, let him taunt her with it until she screamed for it. Until she begged.

  But she hadn’t given him the words.

  He’d wanted them. He’d nearly gotten them. They were her last little bit of resistance, the one hold on her heart that she could keep.

  Ben had a powerful will hidden under that easygoing veneer. She’d had a hard time standing up to it. The words had been there, in her heart, nearly on her lips.

  She took her time showering, gently cleansing all her tender parts. When she dressed again, she found him out on the porch where he’d set a small table. There were candlelight and flowers.

  He’d grilled salmon and fresh asparagus and had tossed pasta with a light cream sauce. He indicated she should sit while he poured her a glass of wine and served the meal.

  He’d looked carefully at her when she’d first stepped onto the porch. His gaze had been watchful, assessing. He hadn’t touched her, had hardly spoken.

  Delilah noticed that he didn’t eat much. She knew he’d worked hard that day—surfing and then, well, his vigorous activity in bed. She was surprised he didn’t eat more. And driven to worry a bit, when she realized he’d stopped meeting her gaze.

  She put her own knife and fork down and waited.

  He was aware of the change, of her watching him now. He reached across the table and took her hand. He lifted it and turned it side to side.

  “What happened to your hands?”

  They were covered with the little scratches and cuts that were an inevitable result of the work she’d done that morning. “I was working with bamboo, making the withes to weave later.” She shrugged a shoulder. “It’s what happens.”

  “Don’t you wear gloves?”

  “I do, for some of it. But they get in the way for some of the finer work.”

  “I want you to be careful.”

  She smiled wryly. If she was being careful, she wouldn’t be sitting across from him, all fucked to hell and back. “And that’s why you said you’d take me home?”

  “Yes. I don’t like the idea of you driving alone at night.”

  She took her hand back, a little tug of war that he eventually let her win. “I have my car
here. And I’m perfectly capable of driving myself home.”

  He looked up at her, finally making eye contact. “Of course you’re capable. I just don’t like it. We can leave your car here and I can take you home. You ride your bike to work, right? I can pick you up after work tomorrow and bring you back here.”

  “I’m not really intending to be back here tomorrow, Ben.”

  “I want you to. I need you to.”

  Ben shoved away from the table and walked to the edge of the porch. He looked out into the night, his hands tucked into the pockets of his board shorts.

  His posture was stiff, unhappy.

  It was long moments before he turned to face her. “I only have a week with you. I want to spend all of it, as much as I can, with you.”

  Delilah’s stomach sank like she had just swallowed rocks. She knew her face was pale, her eyes big as she looked at him in pained confusion. “Only a week? What do you mean?”

  He looked at the floor. “I mean, I have to leave you in a week. Next Sunday.”

  “You have to leave me? What does that mean? Are you moving? Are you part of the Mars mission and it’s suddenly ready to go? You have a deep undercover assignment in You-suck-istan?”

  That got his attention. Or maybe it was the way her voice rose with each question. In volume. In pitch. She’d stood at the end of it, aware that she was nearly screeching.

  He looked at her, his face set, his jaw flexing. He crossed his arms over his chest. “It means what it means. I can’t see you after next Sunday.”

  She walked closer, just out of reach. She couldn’t believe she was having this conversation again. Same talk, different asshole. “And when did you know this, Ben?”

  “I knew it the first time I saw you.”

  Delilah turned her back and wrapped her arms around herself. She felt bare, unprotected. She wished she’d worn more clothes. A snowsuit, maybe. With boots and gloves and a big furry hood that covered her face. Images of her time with Ben flashed through her brain. Her first impression of him, when he appeared unavailable. Their friendly games and bike rides. Those last moments in his bed.

  “What did you want me to say when we were in your bed, Ben?” She turned just enough to look at him. “You were waiting, wanting me to say something. Pushing me to say it. What was it?”

  His mouth twisted bleakly, but he didn’t duck the question. “I wanted you to tell me you love me.”

  “For a week? You want me to love you for a week?”

  He cursed and turned to look out at the night again, tearing his fingers through his hair. “I wanted to be your friend, Lilee. I tried to be just that, and I couldn’t.” He faced her again. “I couldn’t, goddammit!”

  He strode forward and took her arms, forcing her to face him fully. “So, yes. I want you to love me. I want to have you. For this week. Because it’s all I fucking have!”

  Delilah had been pushing back against him but that stopped her. “Ben! Are you sick?”

  He rolled his head in obvious frustration. “No, Lilee. I apologize for making you think that, even for a second.” He took his hands off her and walked away. He spoke next with his back to her, almost as though he was talking to himself. “But I might have to blow my brains out before this is over, so maybe you could think of it that way.” He glanced over his shoulder at her. “A week with Delilah. The one and only item on my bucket list.”

  Delilah sighed. “Before what is over? I so don’t understand this.”

  “It’s easy, Lilee. Weird, but easy.” He turned to face her but leaned his shoulder into a column of the porch. “I love you, Delilah Owens. And I have only a week to be with you. I’d like to spend it loving you, being with you, in any way I can. I’d like to spend as much of every day with you as you’ll let me. I’d like to be in your bed, or have you in mine, every night.”

  “And next Sunday?”

  “Next Sunday I’ll say good-bye.”

  “No matter what happens between us?”

  “No matter what happens.”

  “And I don’t get to know why?” He shook his head, no. “How can you expect that?”

  “I can’t. I can’t expect it. I can only ask. Hope. Beg. Would any of those work?”

  She shook her head. “I’m going home.”

  He started to speak, and she held her hand up, stopping him. “Myself. I’m driving myself home.”

  “Will you call me when you get there? Let me know you’re safe?”

  “No.”

  “A text, then? Please? I won’t even answer it.”

  “Maybe. Goodnight.”

  He walked behind her out the front door and to her car, unwelcome company. He probably thought she couldn’t make it all that way by herself. She did her best to ignore him. But when she got into her car he held the door against her effort to close it.

  “Tomorrow night at eight o’clock I’m going to come to your house and knock on your door. I’m just telling you that so if you’re not going to let me in, you won’t need to waste a trip down the stairs to see who’s there. But if you don’t come down and open the door for me, I’m going to sit there on your front porch and wait for you. I’ll wait for an hour at least. Maybe longer. Maybe all night. And if you don’t let me in, I’ll be back the next night. And the next.”

  “Until Sunday.” It wasn’t a question but a bitter acceptance.

  “Yeah, until then.”

  “You’re a freaking nut, Ben.”

  She tugged hard on the door, but he didn’t let go of it until he’d answered her. “Yeah, but I’m your nut, Delilah.”

  * * * *

  For a stinking week. What the hell good did it do a woman to have her own hot, handsome, sweet, freaking nut for one week?

  Delilah drove home, struggling to keep her attention on the unfamiliar route rather than on the too-familiar conversation she’d just had. What was it with California men? How could she have had the misfortune to run into two men, so appealing, so seductive, and so inexplicably unavailable?

  Well, not unavailable, exactly. But, like the best TV offers, available for a short time only.

  A week.

  Was it a new twist on guys’ reluctance to commit? A version of love-them-and-leave-them that let them feel less guilty, less skanky, than a one-night stand?

  A one-week stand?

  Of course, she had to remember that with Linc, it hadn’t even been a week. Just that one intense and loving weekend. Correction, not loving. Fucking.

  It was so strange. A matter of honor, Linc had said. It means what it means, Ben said, easy and weird.

  No explanation at all, really. And no choice for her—no input, no power to change things. Like her feelings didn’t count. Like she didn’t count. Whatever their relationship might be, it was like it had been decided before she even knew.

  After Linc, Delilah had searched her soul. She must have misread the situation, must have mistaken hot lust for feelings of love.

  But with Ben, she couldn’t even make that argument. He’d wanted her to admit her love for him. He’d said he loved her. In its way, that was even worse. If he wanted her love, if he loved her, then what would take him away?

  At least, what would take him away that he couldn’t tell her about?

  If Linc had only wanted a weekend of hot sex from her, well, she could protect herself from that in the future. But when Ben appealed to her heart, when he turned those soulful eyes on her with love, well, how the hell could she defend against that?

  Delilah made an effort to unclench her hands from the steering wheel and put a halt to her mental wanderings. She was where she was, and it didn’t really help to curse her fate. She could have a week with Ben, enjoying what she could from a short-term relationship, or she could tell him to stuff it—up the body part of his choice.

  She wouldn’t be blue over it. It wasn’t her fault, and it appeared she had no control over it. She could only be grateful she’d held back those words.

  When she got home s
he parked in her little carport. She went upstairs and out to her deck, taking her time about turning the withes over so they’d dry evenly. Then she went to the bathroom and changed into her nightshirt.

  Finally, just before she turned out the light, she picked up her phone. I’m home, she texted. It might be small of her, but she didn’t mind if he’d been kept pacing, worrying.

  Her phone buzzed almost before she could put it down.

  You’re late, he wrote. You’re lucky I’m not over there already, checking on you.

  She sent back, You said you wouldn’t answer. Liar.

  She told herself not to read his reply, but she looked anyway. I might lie about some things. But not this. I love you, Lilee.

  Delilah turned her light off, still holding her phone in her hand. She wasn’t sure who’d won that round. She wasn’t sure what the contest was.

  She wasn’t sure whether she’d open the door at eight o’clock tomorrow.

  * * * *

  Ben was in the lab early on Monday morning. He’d woken happy and with a good buzz on.

  He’d gone to sleep with a stupid grin on his face, holding his phone like a schoolgirl in the throes of her first crush.

  Delilah had answered his text. And then hadn’t answered.

  He thought that was good. If she really hadn’t wanted to hear that he loved her, she probably would have bitched back at him. Wouldn’t she have?

  Could he be any more of a girl?

  Whatever. He had hope, and he was clinging to it.

  Somehow he wasn’t surprised when Austin meandered in with his mid-morning cup of coffee in hand, or when the object of his visit had to do with the same brown-eyed blonde who was messing with Ben’s head. Turning him into a girl.

  Austin came near and leaned over Ben’s shoulder to read his screen. “You’re working on that organic cell conversion?”

  Pure diversion. Ben knew what the man was after.

  “Yeah. I open it up once in a while, see if a new thought will kick in.” It was a problem they both wrestled with, the breakthrough they needed to really get a workable renewable energy plan. That would make them not just dabblers doing interesting work, but real players.