Delilah wasn’t supposed to be in his room.
It was early, the air still crisp with morning dew. Her godmother had left for a weekend retreat with her girlfriends, trusting Delilah to lock up the house and behave. That word — behave — rang in her ears like a joke. Her body still pulsed with soreness from the night before, thighs sticky, lips chafed from how hard he’d kissed her. But she didn’t feel bad.
She felt alive.
She felt hungry.
Which was why she was in his room, barefoot and wearing one of his old shirts, oversized and hanging low on her thighs. She shouldn’t have been there. She knew that. But she wanted something — she didn’t know what — maybe a piece of him to hold when he wasn’t inside her.
She wasn’t trying to snoop. Not really. But curiosity pulled her to the bedside drawe
