And Now, Back to You — Chapter no 33

CHAPTER 33

JACKSON

It’s like the universe doesn’t want me to get back to Delilah.

First I have to deal with Aiden’s bumbling attempts at emotional connection in the booth, then my programmed weather reports, and then a hasty meeting with the corporate HR representative about the promotion Maggie dropped in my lap like a grenade. Any hope of a late lunch after Delilah’s Canton report disappears with school pickup, and then I’m living my waking nightmare.

I’m supervising the girl’s ice-cream date with our mother. In my kitchen.

Adeline decided she wanted to tentatively establish contact, and I decided I could let go of my own hurt and frustration to give the girls what they needed. I told Camille she could have one supervised evening, and we’d go from there.

Letting her in the door had been difficult, though.

“You need to try this time,” I warned her. “You need to listen. You need to be here.”

Her kohl-lined eyes had widened in the yellow glow of the porch light.

“Of course I’m going to be here. This was my idea, remember?”

Then she waltzed through my front door and greeted the girls like two long-lost sorority sisters instead of the daughters she willingly signed over custody for. I spent the duration of her visit in the living room, pretending to read the Farmers’ Almanac, trying not to eavesdrop on their conversation. But I did hear Camille’s laugh when she spotted the

whiteboard next to the fridge with all of our important dates listed out. Her light and breezy He still does that, does he?

When I walked her out an hour later, I stopped her on the sidewalk in front of a cherry red Mercedes that looked like it was held together by optimism and sheer force of will. The bumper had duct tape, for god’s sake.

“Don’t mess this up with them,” I told her, nudging my glasses up my nose, ignoring the familiarity in the curve of her chin and the blue of her eyes. I spent so long looking for scraps of affection from this woman. I refuse to do it in adulthood. “This will be your last chance. Do you understand?”

“Always so serious.” She smiled and pinched my cheek. “Don’t worry so much, Jackson. You’ll get wrinkles.”

Then she slipped into her car and peeled away.

Now I’m here. Standing at the bottom of the narrow steps that lead up to Delilah’s row home, staring at the screen of my phone, wondering if I’ve made a mistake. But the girls are back at Aiden’s for a pre-promised sleepover after their ice-cream date, and I felt the walls of our empty house pressing in on me. I was in my car before I could think too much about it.

Hey, I finally type out. Are you busy?

“Stupid,” I grunt. I’m no better than a sixteen-year-old boy. Might as well start throwing pebbles at her window.

But her answer comes through almost immediately. A picture of her in another ridiculous, oversized novelty T-shirt, holding a carton of Chinese

next to her face.

Very, she says.

I grin at my phone.

Want some company?

“Hey!” Someone shouts from across the street. “What are you doing over there?”

I turn. An old man in a matching velour jumpsuit is leaning over the railing of his front porch, brandishing a pair of . . . knitting needles. An ancient portable heater sputters at his feet, a lumpy, presumably hand-knit blanket tossed over the aluminum folding chair behind him.

“Yeah, you!” He gestures at me again with the needles. “It’s the middle

of the night.”

I clear my throat. “I’m waiting for—”

“Get out of here!” he interrupts before I can finish. He lifts his weathered

fist, scowling. “Go on! Shoo! This is a nice neighborhood, you vagrant!”

A porch light turns on at the house next to Delilah’s. Two doors down, a dog begins to bark. I’m not doing anything wrong, but my fight or flight

kicks in. I debate making a run for it.

Behind me, a door opens.

“That’s enough, Mr. Ribaldi.” Delilah’s voice floats down. She sounds like she’s laughing. “He’s not a vagrant.”

Mr. Ribaldi frowns, suspicious. “Then why is he loitering?”

“That is an excellent question.” Delilah balances her hip against her doorframe, poking around in her carton of Chinese. “Jackson?” she calls.

“Why are you loitering?”

Fuck, it’s good to see her. All the tension that’s steadily been winding tighter at the base of my spine abruptly vanishes at the sight of her in her too-big T-shirt, flannel pajama pants underneath.

“I don’t know,” I yell back. “I think I’m kind of an idiot. Can I come inside?”

A loud bark of laughter drifts down the steps, curling around me like

ribbon.

“Yeah,” she laughs. “Come on up.”

I can see her T-shirt better when I get to the top of the steps. It’s one of those oversized bathing suit cover-ups with the figure of a woman in a hot pink bikini stenciled on. Delilah is airbrushed across the bottom in lime green. She spreads her arms wide, kicking out one leg and pointing her toe.

She still has my socks, apparently.

“I got it at the Boardwalk in Ocean City. Do you like it?”

“I do.” I stop at the top step and gaze up at her in the halo of golden light that spills out from her house. “Hey,” I breathe.

Her smile is quietly delighted. “Hello.”

“Sorry for just showing up like this.”

“Don’t be. Come inside before you get cold. Or Mr. Ribaldi shoots you with his BB gun.”

“He has a BB gun?” I eat up the space between us with three easy steps, brushing past her. She shuts the door behind me, resting her back against it.

“He’s appointed himself as head of the neighborhood security detail. He takes it very seriously.”

“While I’m not thrilled with his methods, I’m glad you have someone looking out for you.”

Delilah’s smile broadens before she looks down at her takeout box, poking at it. “In the very loosest of terms, yes. Mr. Ribaldi looks out for me.” Her voice sounds sad. Wistful, almost. Like I’ve touched a barely healed wound. She pushes off the door. “Come on. I was eating dinner and watching Jeopardy!”

Like most homes in this neighborhood, the layout is small but cozy.

Family room, dining room, kitchen, all stacked in a straight, narrow line. I didn’t notice the last time I was here, but colorful artwork crowds the walls.

A combination of photographs and hand-painted canvases, including the patron saint Dolly Parton presiding over the dining room table where Chinese cartons are spread out.

The furniture is simple, but colorful and well loved. A cozy-looking armchair sits next to an overstuffed bookshelf, a thick blanket tossed over one of the arms, a book still open face down in the seat. There are two mugs of something left abandoned. A plate with half a muffin and a scattering of

crumbs.

Delilah in every single detail.

“Expecting company?” I ask.

Delilah blinks up at me from where she was rummaging around in one of the bags. “No.” She emerges with a fortune cookie, shuffling over to the back of the couch and throwing herself over it. She lands with a huff, her hair wild around her shoulders. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason.”

“Is it because I ordered enough Chinese for a family of six?”

“No.”

“It’s okay. The restaurant gave me four forks. When the DoorDash guy came, he was looking over my shoulder for the party I was having.” She pops open the cookie wrapper and grins at me. “Party of one. I couldn’t decide what I wanted, so I just got a little of everything. I’ll eat the leftovers during the week.”

I slip off my jacket and toss it over the back of a velvet green armchair that I’d bet my next paycheck was rescued from Facebook Marketplace.

“Oh!” Delilah leverages herself up, leaning over the back of the couch.

She reaches for the bag on the dining-room table, knocking over one of the chairs. I grab the back of her thigh to keep her from falling and she grabs one of the cookies with a small cry of victory. She tosses it at me.

“Congratulations on your promotion.”

“Thank you.” I catch the cookie. “Though I don’t think I’ll ever understand Maggie’s decision-making.”

Delilah’s face softens. “You deserve that promotion, Jackson. You work hard.”

“Debatable,” I mumble. I rip open the plastic and crack the cookie. I read

the fortune and snort.

“What does it say?”

I look at the tiny scrap of paper. “A light heart carries you through the hardest of times.”

“That’s better than mine. Mine said, A soft voice may be awfully persuasive.”

I grin. “Should I start talking in a whisper?”

She laughs. “Depends. What are you trying to persuade me to do?”

“I have a list.”

“You and your lists.” She tosses the rest of the cookie into her mouth and chews thoughtfully. “Where are the girls tonight?”

I drag my hand through my hair. “Back at Aiden and Lucie’s. I think the initial excitement of my early return wore off. There was some show they wanted to watch together, and the promise of peppermint hot chocolate.”

Delilah smiles. “It’s nice they have that together.”

I think of the way the girls ran upstairs when I dropped them off. The happy chatter. Aiden’s beleaguered sigh from the living room.

I know more about Olivia Rodrigo’s discography than I ever wanted to know, Jackson.

“Yeah, it’s good.” I let myself collapse onto the couch and turn my face toward her. I’ve been missing this. Seeing Delilah at the end of the day.

Having someone to talk to and share with. Unpacking all the things twisting me into knots and having someone carefully work their fingers through the strands, smoothing and settling until I’m calm again. We only spent one week in the mountains, but it was enough to have me wanting her in all the

empty spaces around me.

“I’m sorry about our lunch.”

Her smile dims and she readjusts her legs, tucking them close to her chest. “It’s fine, Jackson.”

I reach out and curl my fingers around her ankle, tugging until her foot is pressed against my thigh. I trace the jut of her ankle bone, then squeeze.

“We haven’t had much time together since we got back.”

“It’s all right.”

Frustration plucks at me. She’s so good at minimizing her own reactions, I sometimes don’t know what she’s really thinking underneath everything

else.

“Do you forgive me?” I ask.

Her smile is half-hearted, her eyes meeting mine for the briefest of seconds before floating away again. “Of course I do.” She tucks her chin to her shoulder and looks toward the kitchen. “Do you want some lo—”

“Don’t do that,” I interrupt.

Her lips quirk. “No? I’ve got egg rolls too.”

“I’m not talking about the egg rolls.” I turn so I’m facing her fully, draping one of her legs over my lap, the other trapped between the side of the couch and my hip. My arm stretches out over the back of the couch, fingers reaching. “I want you to tell me the truth. Tell me what you want. I want—I want you to demand more,” I say.

She stares up at me, her brown eyes cautious. “I don’t understand.”

I shift again, closer, the inside of her thigh pressed to my rib cage. I pinch the hem of her ridiculous shirt and rub the material between thumb and forefinger. Affection tangles with desire, so sharp and warm I have to swallow around it.

“Don’t smile when you’re not happy and don’t forgive me if I’m not forgiven. Talk it through with me when I’ve hurt your feelings.” I let go of her shirt. “Ask me to do better. Tell me what you need.”

The smile she’s holding on to like her life depends on it slips, inch by inch, until there’s only Delilah left. More solemn than I’ve ever seen her.

“I don’t know where we stand now that we’re home,” she confesses quietly. “I don’t want to lose all the things we let ourselves have in the mountains just because we’re here.”

I nod to myself, settling my palms on her thighs. I ease them up her legs until my fingers are braced around her hips, thumbs digging into that dip that drives me insane. The material of her shirt bunches at my wrists. I hold myself perfectly still.

“I don’t want to lose that either,” I tell her.

She nods, her attention caught somewhere between my eyes and my

mouth. “Okay.”

I shake my head.

“No, Delilah,” I say softly. “You’re taking it too easy on me. Do you

want to be friends, or do you want to be something else?”

Her eyes are wide as she gazes up at me. Almost afraid. “I want to be your best friend,” she whispers.

My throat tightens. I turn and press up on my knees, hovering over her before planting one hand by her head, the other at her hip. She’s a perfect fit for me, all her softest parts fitting against my hardest edges. I lean forward and brush my nose against her cheek, my lips ghosting over the corner of her mouth.

“Demand more from me,” I rasp. “I promise I’ll give it to you.”

Relief eases across her face as her eyes search mine. She’s starting to understand now. Her hands find the front of my sweater and she pulls my body down to hers. Her chin tips up and she catches my mouth with hers.

She does exactly as I requested; harsh, demanding kisses that punish. I grunt and match her frenzy, working my mouth against hers, sucking in a sharp breath when her teeth clamp down against my bottom lip.

I missed this.

“Shit,” I mutter.

She soothes the pinch with a swipe of her tongue. Her hands haven’t moved from the front of my sweater, like she’s afraid I’m going to change my mind and pull away. I sink more of my weight against her, urging her thighs wider with mine to make room for myself.

“Sorry,” she mutters.

“Stop apologizing to me.”

I cup her jaw and press my thumb against her chin, urging her mouth open, kissing her deeper with another dark sound that punches out of my chest. I hold nothing back, working my apology into her with my tongue and my teeth, hoping she understands how fucking desperate I am for her.

“You feel like—” She arches back into the couch, neck exposed. “You feel like you’re trying to prove a point,” she laughs.

“Good. You’re finally getting it.”

All the things I’m feeling, all the words I haven’t been able to say. I drag my mouth down the line of her throat and work a mark against her pulse point. I hope she has to wear extra makeup tomorrow. That she has to pick something with a high collar when she goes on the air. I hope every time the material chafes against her skin she thinks of this. Me, pressing her down into the couch. Her knees inching higher against my sides.

“There’s nothing to prove, Jackson,” she whispers against my forehead,

her hands finally releasing their grip on my sweater. She smooths them over my shoulders, up the back of my head. “Do you want me?”

I have to swallow before I can answer. “So much,” I whisper.

She cups my face, forcing my head up, her thumbs tracing over the sides of my glasses hooked over my ears.

“Even the messy parts? The ones that need a little bit of work?” She presses her lips together. “What about the parts that disappoint you?

Because I don’t know if I—”

I rub my thumb over her bottom lip, quieting her. We’ve slipped from desperate to achingly still. “Trust me,” I whisper.

“I do.” She laughs. A short puff of warm air against the hollow of my throat. “That’s the problem. I let you in so fast, Jackson.”

When I was a kid, I never had the luxury of being greedy. I had to learn how to stretch out the things I wanted; break them into pieces just to make them last.

But with Delilah, I don’t want to be patient. I want everything, all at once.

I slip my hand around her back and press my palm to the base of her spine, gathering her close, treating her like the precious thing she is. I was careless before. But I can fix it now. I can show her.

She’s made her demands. I’m going to fulfill them.

I reach for the bottom of her shirt. “Can I?”

She nods, lifting her arms above her head. I pull the soft, threadbare material over her, grunting when I see nothing but smooth skin and bare

breasts.

“You’re not wearing a bra.”

“Surprise.”

She doesn’t hide, doesn’t look away. She hooks her thumbs in her pants and slips them down too.

“All of it,” she breathes, and I nod, my hands covering hers, taking over, pulling the soft material from her smooth legs and letting it drop by the side of the couch. She stretches out beneath me, completely bare. Heavy curves and creamy skin. She asked me once what colors I saw when I looked at her, and right now it’s pinks and golds. Amber eyes that burn hot.

I set my hands on her knees, my thumbs tracing a half circle. I haven’t taken off a single thing, but this isn’t about me. It’s about Delilah and giving her everything she deserves. Reassuring her.

“From that very first kiss,” I tell her, “I knew I wanted more from you. I think I tried to convince myself I didn’t, but I’ve always been a bad liar.”

I sink down over her, ducking my head to her chest, catching one rosy nipple in my mouth. I lick and I suck and I drag my teeth against her until she’s tugging at my hair. Pushing me down. Trying to pull me back up.

She’s indecisive and bossy, and I love every second of it.

“I want to be your best friend too,” I whisper, right above her heart. “I want to keep you safe. I want to hold you steady. I want to—” I drag my mouth back and forth against her skin and laugh. “Fuck,” I whisper. “I want to go sledding with you in a stupid doughnut. I want to be right here with you.”

“Jackson,” she gasps, back arched. I press another careful kiss to the curve of her breast, then slip down her body until I’m between her legs, hands caged around her hips, angling her the way I need until—perfect, she’s perfect—one thigh is tossed over my shoulder and my chin is just beneath her belly button.

“Will you let me take care of you, Delilah?”

I drag my mouth back and forth, teasing, savoring every shaky breath in and out. The way her lungs expand and fill beneath me. The way she trembles when I sink lower.

I press my mouth against her in a slow, thorough kiss, gripping the curve of her thigh when she wiggles and whines. I hold her still as I learn what she likes best, then let her go as she leans into it. Her thighs press against my ears. Her hands crawl into my hair.

I reach up and pull off my glasses, tossing them toward the coffee table.

They hit the floor with a metallic sound but I’m already working my mouth against her again. Wet and slow and deep, my eyes closed, thumbs rubbing where I’m holding her open for me.

I reach down and frantically yank at my jeans, curling my hand against my hard cock as soon as I can, fingers wet with her, riding the edge of pleasure and pain. It’s so good with Delilah it hurts. I’m reduced to sensation and action.

When she comes, it’s with the bitten-out sound of my name. I have to hold her firmly down while she works through it, her voice whispering my name over and over, a curse and then a praise, her body softening as my mouth lightens. The last time she says it, it twists up at the end, caught around the start of her laugh. I grin into the soft skin of her thigh then wipe

my mouth there, crawling back on top of her. I wrap my arms around her and lift until I’m sitting with my back against the couch, Delilah draped over my lap. I want to memorize the feel of her when she’s like this, boneless and satisfied, smiling so wide her kiss is messy.

“Do you understand now?” I whisper against her bottom lip. I flex my hands against the curve of her ass. “Do you see?”

All the things I haven’t been able to tell her. I’m shit with words when it matters, but I can be good at this.

She laughs, breathless and winded. “Yeah. I get it.”

“Do you?”

She nods, nose against my cheek.

She’s so warm against me. Bare breasts, bare hips, bare legs. Wild hair, tumbling down her bare back. Her naked body, curled on top of my fully clothed one. I groan and bite at her skin. Sink my mouth against her collarbone and whisper out a quiet, Fuck, Delilah.

She rocks her body against mine and I palm the length of her thigh.

“This is how I want it to be with us,” I murmur, panting open-mouthed against the hollow of her throat as her hands reach between us, tracing the open fly of my jeans. I’m so hard I’m dizzy. Just the scrape of her fingernail is probably enough to set me off. “Don’t settle. Ask for what you need. Let

me give it to you.”

“Don’t let you off easy.”

I nod. “Yeah.”

She sinks her hand down into my waistband and curls her fingers around me, pushing my jeans over my hips.

“Then give me this,” she whispers, so sweet and breathy it makes me ache. “I think I need you, Jackson.”

I think I need you too, I almost whisper back.

Instead, I groan. A rough, broken sound. She’s rolling her hand against me, and I can barely think, my entire body vibrating. I tuck my forehead to hers and look between us, watching the way her hand works at me. She shifts her body and presses my bare cock against her, right where I’ve made her warm and wet. She rolls her hips in tight little circles, grinding against me.

My fingers bite into her hips. “Delilah.”

A laugh catches in her throat. “Please tell me you have a condom in your wallet.”

“I do, but—” I wet my lips. I’m having trouble stringing sentences together. I came here because I missed her. Not because I expected this. “I don’t want you to think I do this sort of thing, Delilah.”

“Hush,” she whispers. “I know who you are.”

She’s still moving her hips. Getting me wet. Making everything smooth and easy. My cock nudges at her clit with every roll of her body, and her head drops back, the ends of her hair brushing over my still-clothed thighs.

“Like this, okay? Just for a second. Then I’ll let you get that condom. But I’m—” A deep, satisfied sound rolls out of her. “I’m always careful and I’m protected. You can have me like this, if you want.”

I almost laugh. If I want. I squeeze her hips so hard I bet she’ll have fingertip-sized bruises tomorrow. Ten perfect presses of blue and purple.

The shape of my need for her.

“Me too,” I grunt. The rest of my explanation eludes me. “I’ve never missed a physical.”

She laughs into the corner of my mouth. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Health is important.” I nip at her bottom lip and smile. “You sure?” I whisper.

She nods, fingers curling in my hair. “Very much so.”

I black out, a little bit, at that. Gray creeping into the corners of my vision while the desire fists so tight my lungs burn. I urge her off my lap and pull off my clothes, chest heaving, hands shaking. I reach for my wallet, fingers fumbling with the packet, then tearing. Delilah helps, which is no help at all, and then it’s my bare skin against hers, my hands smoothing over her hips and turning her until her spine is pressed tight to my chest, my arm hooked around her middle.

“Sit back,” I tell her quietly. “Like this.” I gently press her legs wide, hooking her thighs over my knees. I angle my cock against her as she reaches down, lightly tracing the length of me. A few tight strokes and then hot, blunt pressure as she eases back. Delilah works herself over me slowly, taking me bit by bit.

Her breath hitches about halfway. It’s the most excruciating pleasure of my life. “I don’t think I can—”

I bare my teeth against the back of her shoulder, my sanity in pieces somewhere on the floor. “You can,” I rasp. I drift my hand down over her belly and swipe my fingers across her clit, trying to ease my way. She whines and I exhale a sharp sound. “That’s it. You’re perfect. A little more.”

She angles her body forward and takes the rest of me with sweet little rocks of her hips, her body shivering once I’m all the way inside her. She wiggles and groans and sighs and makes a thousand other tiny, bitten-off sounds that I want to sink my teeth into.

I hook my chin over her shoulder and stare down the length of her body. I can’t make out much, but what I can see makes me groan, my hips rocking under hers. The pink-tipped swell of her breasts as they bounce in time with each smooth roll of my body. My arm, a pale band across her middle as I hold her tight.

All blurry smudges of an indecent picture.

I wish I hadn’t thrown my glasses across the room when I put my mouth on her.

“Did you think about this?” I rumble below her ear. “In that hotel room?”

“Yes,” she breathes, chasing my hips, grinding down harder. Her hands plant on my thighs, working herself against me, her nails digging half- moons into my skin.

She laughs, breathless. “I thought it might be like this,” she says. Her hand finds mine and she tangles our fingers together. “That I would tell you what I want and you would take what you need. That I’d be so, so good to you, Jackson.”

I clench my teeth around a moan, then tighten my arm around her waist. I shift forward, kicking at the coffee table, pressing us down on the floor. I’ve never been like this before. Rough. Demanding. Taking instead of asking.

Completely out of control.

“Put your hands—yeah, like that.” Delilah grips the edge of the coffee table and I roll back into her. She hiccups a sound that settles like a boulder at the base of my spine. “Fuck,” I breathe. “No.”

Delilah tosses her head back, looking at me over her shoulder. “No?”

I shake my head. “Want to see you.”

She laughs as I pull out of her and roll her over, letting me arrange her body against the carpet. I grab a random pillow and shove it under her hips, then press back inside. The way is easier now. She’s soft and warm and so, so wet. She stretches her arms above her head and yeah. This is better. This

is what I needed.

All of Delilah. Right in front of me.

I slide my palm down her thigh while my hips work and press my thumb between her legs. I draw sloppy circles and her breath hitches.

“Jackson,” she breathes, and her body tightens around mine. Her knees ease wider and she says my name again, a sharp whisper that pinches and

prods. “You’re going to make me come.”

“Good.”

Her orgasm steals her breath and then it steals mine. More heat, more wet, and that’s it. I’m gone. I grip her hips and work myself against her, lightning rocketing down my spine, pulsing through my body in time with her small panting breaths. I come with a deep groan as I collapse against her on the floor, my forehead against her shoulder, my body trembling.

It lasts a long time—the loud panting of my breathing and the tremors that shake free of Delilah’s body. I let myself sink further against her and brush soft, gentle kisses over every inch of skin I can reach. Her shoulder.

The hollow of her throat. The faint impression of my teeth marks on the curve of her breast. She laughs when I hit a ticklish spot and I groan again, rocking my forehead against the space between her breasts.

Her fingers scratch through my hair. Down my neck. Her knuckles bump against the collar of my sweater and a breathless laugh slips out of her.

“Is your sweater still around your neck?” she laughs, sounding dazed.

I hug her body closer to mine, my arms around her middle. “I think so.” I peck a kiss against her shoulder. “I don’t know. I’m not really worried about it.”

She laughs and tries to wiggle out of my hold. I make a low sound of annoyance and grip her tighter. She reaches for something I can’t see, palm patting at the rug beneath us, shifting some of the pillows that tumbled free while I wrestled her to the floor, arm stretching and body twisting and— “Here,” she says, easing my glasses over my face. Her thumbs rub at the curve of my ears. “Now you can see.”

I look at her smile, so wide her eyes crinkle shut. The tousle of her hair and the pink on her cheeks. My heart gives an unsteady thump, right in the middle of my chest.

I think I know what this feeling is. This ache. This . . . hollow wanting whenever she’s not around.

I think I fell in love with Delilah in the middle of a snowstorm.

My mouth opens, then shuts.

“Yeah.” I swallow hard. “I can see.”

DELILAH STEWART: The birds are singing, the clouds are clearing, and the sun is shining today, Baltimore!

DELILAH STEWART: That big winter storm was more of a blip by the time it made it to us, wasn’t it? The snow will continue to melt as temperatures warm, with no other winter events on the horizon.

DELILAH STEWART: A new season is just around the corner.