Deconstructing Delilah, page 11
As if I could be so wanted that a man couldn’t help but fall at my feet.
With a past like mine, I’m not sure it’s natural to dream of a happily ever full of picket fences, beautiful children, and a doting husband. And I don’t wish for all those things. My fantasies are different. They aren’t those bright hopes of childhood when you don’t know any better, when you don’t know the evil that exists in the world. I’ve known for too long, and it is that knowledge that has shaped me. Warped might be a better word.
Cookie sometimes calls me The Enigma. Partly because of the views I already have established. Partly because she never knows what new ones I’ll settle on next. My mission of self-discovery since I met her has been a roller coaster for us both.
When I decide on something, I jump in fully. Like taking the jobs I have. The first being at Jasmine’s talent agency, which in some ways isn’t so different than the life I ran away from. Selling people for their beauty. And now I’m at a sex club.
The line between my old life and this one is thin and blurry. I believe that’s why it’s so easy for people like my father, and my uncle before him, to convert people into their way of life. If there weren’t similarities between this world and his, it would be harder to entice people over.
Like I do every day before I head downstairs, I double check the list of everything I needed to accomplish during my office hours. I rely on lists to help keep me focused and on task. When I first started school, it was still easy to let my mind wander. Dr. Price helped me create tools to help with that. Though I don’t need them much anymore, it’s a habit now. And healthy habits are good. My to-do list is complete, so I check my email inbox one last time and shut down my computer at the same time a text message notification chimes on my cell phone.
Fig
Heading your way.
My guardian.
Me
I’m about to go downstairs. Damian is here.
Fig
Okay, see you in ten.
It’s quiet in the salon when I enter, not surprising for a Tuesday night. Attendance picks up on the weekend and any night there is a special event happening. But Lupus et Agnus is open seven nights a week for their clientele’s convenience.
Damian sits by himself in a darkened corner booth. A glass waits on the table in front of him, so I grab myself water before accompanying him.
“Always hiding in the dark, Mr. March.”
“We can’t all be shining lights of this world, Delilah.”
“I’m hardly that,” I laugh.
“You don’t have a shred of self-awareness, do you?”
“I like to think I do,” I say, feeling the crease in my brow.
“Forgive me, I shouldn’t have stated it so harshly. You know yourself very well in some ways. Your inner strengths and brains, for sure. But you don’t have a fucking clue the effect you have on people.”
“Good or bad?” I ask with honest curiosity.
“Good. Of course good,” he says, setting his elbows on the table and leaning toward me. “You have an uncanny ability to encourage hopefulness with every shy smile. You are more thoughtful than anyone your age should be, you don’t rush to words or opinions. And in case you never look in the mirror, you’re more beautiful than most of the women in this city.”
“Are you drunk?” I laugh.
“No. I’m honest. It’s your whole style,” he says, waving a hand my way. “You don’t overdo it; you rarely have makeup on, and you don’t flaunt your curves with teeny clothes. You keep it a mystery to us all. Even here.” Damian raises an eyebrow and drags his gaze down over my chest.
Once again, I’m in a dress that covers my chest and shoulders. I’m accustomed to showing more legs, but I rarely wear anything less than short sleeves or anything low cut. New Orleans has so much rich food that I’ve fallen deeply in love with, I’m not a thin woman because of it. My abundant curves have added to the anxiousness I’ve always had about showing too much skin.
“You don’t believe him?” a deep voice asks behind me.
“No,” I answer both Damian and Pope without turning around. He must have come in right after me. I know he wasn’t checked in before I came downstairs. I know because I check all too often.
“There isn’t a man in this place that wouldn’t jump at stripping you out of your clothes,” he says dangerously close to the shell of my air. Steeling myself against a visual shiver, I clench my body tight.
Aside from you.
“Well, no one has attempted that yet.”
“Careful what you wish for,” Damian says with a devious smile.
“It’s bound to happen sooner or later,” I say, shrugging. “It’s a sex club and I’m here more than I’m at home.”
“A moment of your time, Delilah,” Pope requests from behind my back.
“Of course, Mr. Blackwell.” Standing, I turn to find his eyes narrowed on me as if I’ve angered him. “My office?”
“That won’t be necessary.” He palms my elbow and leads me through to the hallway, heading to the first door on our right.
“Not the White Room,” I rush the words, and Pope instantly deviates course to across the hall to another empty room. He shuts the door behind, not turning on any light. Unseeing, I’m pressed up against the door and feel Pope closer to me than he’s ever been before. His breath wafts over my face and tickles the hair at my neck.
“What’s wrong with that room?”
“I don’t like it.”
“Why?” He presses even closer, and I raise my hands to his chest. A mistake because it takes effort not to drag them down over the hard muscles beneath them.
“It’s a reminder of something unpleasant,” I whisper.
“The Offering Room,” he says. He remembers. It’s stupid that I cling to that. I do it anyhow, liking that he listened when I spoke.
“Yes.”
“One day, that place will burn to the ground.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“Have faith,” he says at my ear again.
“What did you need to speak to me about?” I ask him before I get carried away by his presence. Whatever Damian thinks about me, I have the same feelings toward Pope. He’s still somehow a candle in the window showing me the way.
“I don’t want you partaking in the pleasures of the club.”
Pope delivers the words with such calm ease, almost as if it’s just a casual thing to say. It’s nothing of the sort.
“Your want is noted, Mr. Blackwell. I’ll be sure to file it away with all the other suggestions made by members.”
“Don’t fucking push me, Delilah.” His shoulders pull up, asserting a dominant stance as he stands so many inches above me.
“Or what?”
“Trust me when I say, you don’t want to find out.”
Oh, but I do.
I’d do so much for more of this man’s attention; I’d push every boundary and walk down every dark alley.
“I’ve told you before, I’m not afraid of you, Pope,” I say to the bristly skin below his chin.
“And I’ve told you, you damn well should.” His hands come to my waist, and I have a quick flash of triumph. Except his touch is only to lift me out of the way of the door. Once clear, he flies through it. Leaving me to catch my racing thoughts.
Pope spins me in circles with every short encounter we have. I hardly know him, truly. Yet it feels like he carries a piece of me with him every time he steps away from me, leaving an emptiness inside until he’s back in view.
He isn’t even kind to me, that alone should be enough to kill my girlish crush. So why hasn’t it died yet?
When I return to the salon, it’s to find Pope having a discussion with Damian and Fig. Neither of my friends looks at all fazed by the imposing figure speaking what looks like angry words to them. He walks off as I approach, leaving me curious.
“What was that about?”
“I’m sure it was about the same thing he spoke to you about,” Damian answers.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, Fig. That’s just Pope,” I say with some exasperation.
“You don’t mind it,” Damian says quizzically, cocking his head to the side as he studies me.
“No.”
“I think we have a brat in our presence,” he says with a grin to Fig.
“You just said I was a light in this world,” I complain. “Now I’m a brat?”
They just laugh, completely at my expense and incomprehension.
“Where to tonight, Delilah?” Fig asks me.
“Are you accompanying me instead of running off on your own?”
“I think I’d like to hang out with you tonight, yes,” he says with a conspiratorial look at his best friend.
“To the second floor,” Damian says before downing his drink and taking my hand to drag me behind him with Fig following. I don’t know what they have planned but I won’t argue. If I don’t like something, I know I’m in control and can walk away. Not a small thing, nor something I take for granted.
I am in control of my life. Not my father. Not Pope. Not these two playful young men.
Me.
So, when they find another dim corner for us to lounge in, I don’t fight it. Instead, I enjoy the attention they’re paying me and the words they say quietly as they describe the scenes and bodies in front of us. Teaching me the way in which that man is pleasuring his partner with his mouth, telling me the techniques involved. Or the tricks this woman is using while she performs orally on the two men she’s with.
Damian and Fig tune me into the small details, the ones they promise me matter the most.
I don’t leave when Damian’s hand finds my knee or when I realize it’s slowly inching higher, taking the hem of my dress with it. I barely notice that I’ve been lifted and shifted so that I sit between Fig’s widespread legs.
They both check in with me, regularly asking if I’m okay.
I feel better than I ever have.
Free.
“What do you want, Delilah?”
“To be touched,” I answer Damian as I watch a man play with a woman.
“Where?” This time, it’s Fig.
“Like that.”
“Say the words, be clear. There can be no misunderstanding between us.”
“Touch my pussy, Fig.” For a moment, I’m surprised I’m not struck down. There are no flames licking at my heels. God isn’t here to smite me for my sinful, sinful desires. I know that He can’t. That He wouldn’t because so much of what’s in this room is in the Bible, too. I’ve read it and re-read it so many times, each with a clearer mind. A mind not full of sermons and other’s interpretation. God knows I’m a good person even if I experience this type of pleasure.
“Fucking hell, that was hot,” Damien mutters.
“You’re sure?”
“Please, Fig.” I arch back into him, spreading my own legs open another inch or two. Fig’s hand finds my inner thigh, soft and gentle. I want something harder, but I’ll take what he gives. A hand on my breast and a finger tickling the edge of my panties. No time is spent wondering what this does for my relationship with Fig, or Cookie for that matter. I only focus on how nice it all feels. When the finger dips under the edge, sliding against my sensitive fold, I audibly make my sensations known.
The soft light from the center of the room shuts off, and I blink up to the darkness. Except, the lights haven’t been turned off; instead, a body stands in front of me, blotting it out.
Pope.
He doesn’t give me a chance to speak a word as he hauls me off Fig’s lap and over his own shoulder.
“I didn’t even have the chance to taste her, Blackwell,” Damien complains. Though I should be mortified by it, I laugh instead. Which only prompts Pope to grip tighter on my thighs as he stomps to the stairs, not stopping until we’re up on the third floor.
“Code,” he demands, setting me down between his large body and the closed door of the room that shares a wall with my office.
“What?” I say, somewhat dizzy from the blood rushing back to all the places it’s meant to be.
“Type in the goddamned code, Delilah.”
I do and the lock whirls open. Pope quickly pulls me inside and latches the door behind us. The room is set up like any number of hotel rooms around the world; king-size bed, nightstands on either side, large mirror on one wall. Simple, comfortable, efficient.
“What did I fucking tell you?”
“I don’t have to listen to,” I begin but can’t finish because Pope shoves two fingers in my mouth, depressing my tongue with them before sliding out the smallest amount.
“I will not stand by while you get gangbanged in the corner.” He spits the words with such venom. As if there weren’t people having sex all over that room, some in groups. He didn’t haul any of them up, in fact, I bet he watched them with entertained glee.
The argument doesn’t come though, it can’t with my mouth full. I stare up at him and suck his fingers like the woman sucked on the two penises downstairs. Back and forth, allowing them to get wetter and wetter. Swirling my tongue around the tips, like Fig described liking.
Pope’s eyes glaze, and I rejoice.
“I’m going to punish you,” he says, and I hum in agreement. His eyes narrow even more. “I told you not to push me. Hands on the bed.”
Pope removes his fingers and takes a step back, allowing me to move to the bed. A tremble runs through me, but not in displeasure or fear. It’s anticipation. It’s the manifestation of so many years waiting for him to pay me this sort of attention.
The dress I wear is on the shorter side, falling above my knees, but still raised from Damian’s and Fig’s ministrations and Pope’s manhandling. I don’t fix it, opting to instead raise my ass higher in the air as I lean over to dig my fingers in the sheets of the bed. A part of me doesn’t trust that this is happening, that Pope will follow through on his threat. If he’s meant to walk away from me tonight, I’m determined to make it as hard as possible for him. He’s disappeared before; I’m not prepared to have it happen again. I’ll push myself past every obstacle and take him along with me.
CHAPTER TWELVE
POPE
Crimson.
It’s the only thing I see as Delilah lifts onto her toes, the heels of her shoes slipping off the back. That fucking luscious ass teasing me to bite it. It took every ounce of control I have to not throw fists in Parnell’s face for touching her the way he was.
I know Delilah isn’t the innocent young thing she was when I first met her, but she isn’t part of this world either. Tonight, I’m going to teach her why she shouldn’t venture out of that office of hers.
“Was I unclear earlier?” I ask her, pushing her chest down and raising her chin with a hand on her throat.
“I’m not yours to boss around.”
I deliver a swat to her ass. Not hard, just a warning to her fleshiest part.
“What was that?”
“I do what I want.”
“And what you want,” I say, leaning over her body so I can say the words quietly in her ear. So I can feel her body under my own, “is to be bare and fingered in a room full of people?”
“It’s not your business, Pope,” Delilah says, but her voice has changed. Defiance flees to make room for need.
“I’m making it my business, Lamb.” I reach a hand between us, easily finding the side of her panties and ripping them free as she gasps in surprise. “Who’s doing this to you, Delilah? Say my name.”
“Pope.”
“Good, just like that. Keep saying it. Every time you feel my hand on you, you say my fucking name.” I pull myself off her and immediately feel the loss. Delilah does things to me no woman has done before. She’s dangerous. Yet too alluring to walk away from. Bringing her panties to my face, I indulge myself in the scent before I toss them next to her face. “Is that for me or for Fig?”
“Both.”
Fucking brat.
Kneeling, I remove her shoes, setting them neatly aside as she digs her toes into the plush rug under her feet. Starting at her ankle, I slowly walk my fingers up the back of her leg, feeling every anticipated shiver she can’t control.
“Pope,” she whispers shakily. When I get to her now bare ass, I pull it apart just enough to drag my nose through her scent again. Delilah rewards me with the longest muffled moan, which I immediately follow up with another swat to her ass.
She flinches away, and I pause to see what she’ll do next. What wins, fear or something else?
“What’s my name, Delilah?”
“Pope,” she whimpers.
“Who am I?”
“Pope.” This time, I hear the strength she’s had all night, and she shifts back into the position I placed her in.
“Why am I punishing you?” I ask her with another palm to her ass, this time the opposite side.
“I didn’t do what you wanted.”
Over and over, I deliver more and more. Each time she calls my name and rights her position again. There is no complaint, no cry, no plea to stop.
She is perfect in her punishment. Delilah is a wet dream in flesh and blood. I keep at it until both cheeks are the same pretty pink as her blush used to be. Her thighs shake with fatigue and her fists bunch into the sheets of the bed. She’s spent and it’s fucking gorgeous.
I pick her up gently and lay her on her stomach across the bed. Opening the bedside table, I find the arnica gel packets that are always stocked here amongst the variety of other toys and aftercare items.
“How do you feel?” I ask her while I warm the gel between my hands. Her system is already shocked, no need to add to it with cold cream.
“I’m okay,” she says after a moment, brushing the hair off her face so she can watch me.
“I’m going to put this gel on you. It will help with the discomfort.” I begin to rub it on the red blotches. I wasn’t hard on her, but this is her first time. Or… “Has anyone done this to you before?”
