Delilah Green Doesn’t Care

CLAIRE WATCHED IN awe as Ruby threw her arms around Delilah. She’d come out here about ten minutes ago to tell her daughter that Tess’s mom had called and asked about a sleepover, but then she saw Ruby and Delilah talking, how the younger girl pressed her face into the air between them, eager and searching and fascinated. Ruby had taken Delilah’s phone and started circling around their old birdbath, the one Claire had been meaning to clean out for ages but, in the grand scheme of things, was relatively low on her priority list.

Now she was glad she hadn’t.

There was something beautiful in that leaf-filled bath, and Delilah was helping Ruby see it. Or maybe Ruby had already seen it and Delilah was just a guide. Either way, Claire felt breathless as the process unfolded, how Ruby bent and twisted with the phone, how Delilah quietly watched her with this look that Claire could only describe as pride.

And then . . . Ruby had hugged her. For the past couple of years, Ruby didn’t give away her affection easily. She loved lying in bed at night with Claire right next to her, snuggling and talking when her body was less alert and ready for rest. During the day, though, her kid was on the go, always moving, talking, observing, wondering, and whenever Claire reached out for a hug, Ruby would pat her mother on the back and then dart off like the Flash to the next thing. She barely even let Iris or Astrid hug her anymore.

And yet.

Claire felt an ache in her throat, watching her daughter reach out into the world and have the world . . . reach back. She took a shuddering breath as Ruby and Delilah broke apart, shook her head to clear it, wiped the sudden wetness from under her eyes.

“Hey, Rabbit?” she called.

Ruby turned and looked at her mother. “Yeah?”

“Tess called. Want to spend the night?”

“Yeah!”

Her daughter raced toward her, Delilah forgotten, but as she pounded up the porch steps, she stopped and turned back to the other woman.

“Thanks,” she said.

Delilah smiled. “You’re welcome.”

Then Ruby dashed inside, flip-flops loud against the hardwood. Claire watched her disappear around the corner to her room and then turned back. Delilah was ambling across the grass, her lithe limbs graceful, like she was moving over water instead of earth.

“Where’s Iris?” she asked as she approached the porch.

“Gone. She and Grant had a movie night planned.”

Claire might have imagined it, but she swore Delilah’s steps halted for a split second at the news. But then she kept going until she was right next to her on the deck. Claire’s stomach was in knots, and she couldn’t figure out why. Could be any number of things. Josh. This camping trip. Astrid.

Or Delilah.

It could be Delilah, standing right there and watching Claire with a soft look in her eyes, and how Claire knew if she pressed her face to Delilah’s neck, she’d smell like rain and grass.

It could be Delilah and the soon-to-be-empty house behind them. Claire realized with a cold wash of nerves that she owed Tess’s mother a drink. She wanted Delilah to stay. She wanted to be alone with her. She knew it was stupid, knew it could never go anywhere, but ever since their kiss at the spa—no, before that, way before that—she couldn’t stop thinking about Delilah. And it wasn’t just physical either. There was something about Delilah that made Claire’s throat ache, made her want to spill her secrets, made her want to reach out and swipe her thumb over the other woman’s cheek like a lover would. Around Delilah—even just thinking about Delilah—Claire felt young and wild, unbound in a way she hadn’t experienced since before Ruby was born.

Delilah bit her bottom lip as she gazed at Claire.

Okay, maybe in a way she’d never experienced. Not even Josh made her feel this crazed, this desperate just to brush her fingers over the pulse under another person’s ear.

Which was a problem, because Delilah didn’t do anything but physical. Claire knew this—whatever this was—could only ever end, but she couldn’t help it. She still wanted this. She wanted Delilah. Maybe Claire could do casual. Maybe she didn’t need dates and squealing with her friends. Maybe she really did just need a good lay.

Even as she thought the words, though, something flickered in her chest. She ignored it. She could do this. It would be good for her. She could reclaim what was supposed to have been her wild twenties while she was busy changing diapers and pushing swings at the park.

“Want to stay for a glass of wine?” she said, but at the exact same moment, Delilah had also spoken, “So I guess I should go” falling out of her mouth like a bomb.

“Oh,” Claire said, again, at the same time as Delilah’s own “Oh.”

The two women looked at each other, then started laughing. Claire’s cheeks heated, and she was thankful for the dim lighting that covered her blush. At the same time, she wanted to know if Delilah was blushing too.

Probably not. She couldn’t imagine Delilah Green blushing over anyone.

“Sorry,” Claire said. “Do you need to go?”

“Not right away, I guess,” Delilah said. “I’ll take that glass of wine.”

“Oh. Great.”

“Great.”

“White or red?”

“Whatever.”

Claire nodded, then continued to stand there like a doofus as Delilah tilted her head at her. “Right. Yeah, let me see what I’ve got.”

Delilah laughed. “Lead the way.”

They walked inside just as Ruby tore down the hall with her backpack, heading for the front door. “Mom, I’m going!”

“Hey, hang on, Rabbit,” Claire said, walking over to her.

Ruby halted and endured a hug from her mother. Claire smiled into her hair, pressed a kiss to her head.

“Mom.”

“Okay, okay. Have fun. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Ruby waved at Delilah and then bolted through the door. Claire stepped outside on the front stoop, watching her daughter walk down the sidewalk to the navy blue bungalow three houses down. When Ruby was safely inside, she stepped back into her own house and closed the door.

The quiet hit her first.

Then the pop of a cork, the glug of liquid into a glass.

She turned to find Delilah in her kitchen, lifting a glass of white wine to her lips.

“I found this already open in the fridge,” Delilah said, angling the pale yellow contents from a bottle of pinot grigio into a second glass. “Hope that’s okay.”

“Totally fine,” Claire said, watching her for a beat. Delilah’s face was her usual calm, but also . . . there was something else there, something in the way she inhaled a slow breath before she took a sip of her drink, the way her cheeks puffed out, just a little, as she exhaled even more slowly.

Was Delilah . . . nervous?

The thought felt like a warm spring rain on a cool afternoon. It opened up a space inside Claire’s chest, made her walk over to the kitchen island and pick up her glass, take a long gulp.

“Does it feel like all we ever do is drink around each other?” Delilah asked.

Claire laughed. “Yeah, a little bit. But, you know, wedding.”

Delilah nodded. “Wedding.”

“And diabolical plans.”

“Those too.”

“So . . . maybe we should do something else, then,” Claire said.

Delilah’s eyebrows lifted, a little smile tilting the corners of her mouth. Claire felt blood rush into her cheeks. God, she was the opposite of smooth. She hadn’t even meant that. Not that she wasn’t thinking about that, constantly and fervently ever since their kiss, but in this moment, all she wanted was to not think at all. Not worry. Not wonder.

Not need.

Before she could think through it, she grabbed the oracle cards her mother had just sent and held them up. “Want to try these out with me?”

Delilah took the box and looked at the front, which featured a woman with dark hair parted down the middle. “Is that . . . Emily Brontë?”

“Very nice, you know your female Victorian authors.”

“More like I was forced to suffer through them during senior English.”

Claire placed a hand on her chest, gasping dramatically. “Suffer?”

“Suffer.”

“Okay, I’ll give you that Wuthering Heights is the least romantic book in the history of Victorian romances, but Jane Eyre?”

“Is that the one where the douchebag hid his wife away in the attic and then lied about it to the girl he wanted to bang who was, like, half his age?”

Claire winced. “Well, when you put it like that.”

“I didn’t put it like that. Brontë put it like that.”

“Okay, fine, yes, Victorian literature was a little messed up.”

“Poor Jane,” Delilah said, sipping her wine. “She deserved better.”

“Let’s see how she’s been immortalized, shall we?” Claire wiggled the box.

“She better damn well have some wisdom beyond stand by your man is all I’m saying,” Delilah said as she grabbed the wine bottle and followed Claire to the couch. Claire settled into one corner, and she definitely did not notice how Delilah sat close enough to her that their knees touched, even though it was a full-size sofa and there was plenty of room to spread out.

Nope, she didn’t notice that at all.

“Okay, how does this work?” Claire said, removing the plastic wrap around the box. Inside was a small coral-colored guide book and a hefty stack of smooth, thick cards. There were thirty cards featuring female writers and forty cards that depicted what the creators called “witch’s materials.”

“Have you ever had a reading done?” Delilah asked. “Tarot or anything?”

Claire tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Does my amateur mother count?”

“Depends. How’d the reading go?”

“I think true love and great wealth were mentioned more than once.”

“Well, damn, let’s put these babies to work,” Delilah said, grabbing a card from the top of the pile. She frowned at it. “It’s . . . a praying mantis.” She turned the card so Claire could see it—indeed, against a cream background, was a solitary praying mantis.

Claire laughed. “Oh my god, are you going to bite my head off later?”

Delilah’s brows went up again, though it took Claire a second to realize what she’d said.

Praying mantises only bit off their lovers’ heads.

“I hadn’t planned on it,” Delilah said, her voice low and a little growly.

Heat pooled into Claire’s cheeks—as well as a few other places—and she flipped through the guidebook until she found the praying mantis.

“Actually,” she said very formally, “the praying mantis symbolizes wit, manipulation, and fun.”

Delilah blinked.

“So . . .” Claire went on, “you’re going to use your unsurpassed wit to manipulate someone for the hell of it.”

“Shit, I sound like a real piece of work.”

The two women stared at each other for a second, all seriousness, until Claire finally broke and both of them dissolved into laughter. Delilah’s shoulder brushed hers, the scent of summer and blueberries swirling between them like a drug.

“I don’t think we’re doing this right,” Claire said when they recovered. She flipped to the directions, reading all about shuffling and intentions and splitting the deck into three intuitive stacks. They went through the ritual, then Claire chose a card off the top.

It was a praying mantis.

Both women immediately started cackling. Claire laughed so hard, tears bloomed into her eyes. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had this much fun, felt this . . . carefree. Praying mantis notwithstanding.

“Okay, okay, there has to be more than lover-eating, manipulative insects in here,” Delilah said. “Let’s do it again.”

Delilah went through the motions before pulling wildflowers, which symbolized renewal, romance, and awakening; a peacock for splendor, the divine, and craving; and Gertrude Stein, who apparently represented perspective.

“So I’m a butch lesbian goddess looking for love,” Delilah said, shrugging as though to say obviously.

“Oh yeah, that’s the clear message here,” Claire said, and Delilah winked at her.

God, that wink.

Once Claire recovered and had taken another sip of wine, she shuffled the cards and pulled her own: an apple, Sappho, and a volcano. Her stomach flipped at Sappho—she knew the ancient poet represented something homoerotic. Before she could look up what the apple and volcano symbolized, though, Delilah slipped the guidebook from her hands.

“Hey!” she said, making to grab it back.

“Oh no. You read mine, I read yours.”

Claire pursed her lips, but they still managed to twist into a smile. Flirting. This was flirting, wasn’t it?

“Okay, let’s see here,” Delilah said, flipping through the book. “Sappho . . . well, we all know and love her, don’t we?”

Claire laughed, fighting a blush. “We do.”

“She represents the beloved, desire—of course—and taking flight.”

“So it sounds like I’m running away from what I want?” The interpretation flowed out of her mouth before she could stop it, the first thing that popped into her head.

“I don’t know, are you?” Delilah asked, the teasing lilt to her voice completely gone.

Claire cleared her throat and picked up both the apple and volcano cards, peering at them carefully. “But I’m also very hungry and . . . am . . . simmering with anger?”

Delilah flipped through the book. Her eyebrows popped up, a little grin settling on her face. She flipped from one page to the other, back and forth, over and over.

“Oh my god, what?” Claire asked, reaching for the book again, this time succeeded in taking it back. She found the apple.

The senses, hunger, and . . . sex.

Her belly tightened, but she didn’t look at Delilah, turning to the page with the volcano card.

Patience, repression, and—oh, for fuck’s sake.

Lust.

She blinked at the pages. Next to her, Delilah was silently cracking up, one hand over her pretty mouth. Claire waited to feel embarrassed, even mortified, but she didn’t. Instead, she felt like smiling, like flirting and playing. Hell, like telling the truth and being unashamed.

“Okay, so, I’m extremely horny,” she finally said, shrugging and tossing the book into Delilah’s lap. “So what?”

“But you’re really patient about it,” Delilah said, tapping the volcano card.

“Or incredibly repressed,” Claire said, and they both laughed, poured more wine, and that was that.

For the next hour, the women lost themselves in the cards. They pulled chickens and Sylvia Plath, teacups and gloves and Octavia Butler. They made wild and unlikely interpretations—as well as a few that felt soft and gentle, like a whisper. They’d barely touched their most recent glasses of wine, but Claire’s head was still perfectly fuzzy. She wasn’t drunk, but she was definitely something. It took her a few minutes to come up with the right word.

Happy.

She was happy.

“So,” Delilah said, tapping a card featuring a ghost against her knee. “You’re heading out tomorrow?”

Claire sighed, leaning her head against the back of the couch. “Looks like it. I’m not sure what Iris thinks is going to happen on this camping trip. Astrid hates camping.”

“You don’t say.”

Claire grinned at her. “Hey, she could do outdoorsy stuff.”

“As long as there was air-conditioning and a soaker tub waiting for her after the hike.”

“Okay, true. But she’ll sleep in a tent for me.”

Delilah tilted her head. “That I believe.”

Claire watched her for a second. “You’re coming, right?”

“Camping?”

She nodded.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not? Ruby wants you there.”

“Astrid probably doesn’t. It’s not a wedding event, and the whole point is to get Astrid nice and vulnerable so she realizes that she’s not in love with Ken.”

Claire frowned. “Ken? His name is—”

“I know, Claire. Ken as in a Ken doll.”

“Oh.” Claire laughed and rubbed her forehead. “God, sorry. I’m usually better with jokes than this.”

“Well, you’ve got a lot going on. With Josh and everything.”

Delilah’s tone was suddenly razor-sharp, cutting through all that previous happy and making Claire freeze. She looked at the other woman, at the cool expression on her face.

Too cool.

Delilah’s mouth was tight and her fingertips were white on her full wineglass. She seemed to realize quickly that she was all locked up, because she suddenly stood, tossing the ghost card onto the sofa before grabbing the wine bottle and heading into the kitchen.

“Your stress is understandable, is all I’m saying,” she said as she went.

Claire got up too, stacked the oracle cards on the coffee table, and followed her. “Delilah.”

Delilah set the bottle and glass on the counter, then waved a hand like she hadn’t just spit Josh’s name out like she was talking about the bubonic plague.

She was . . . jealous.

Holy shit, Delilah Green was jealous of Josh.

Claire’s pulse picked up, her breath short and fast in her lungs. She needed to figure out what to do here, and quickly. On the one hand, she was positive Delilah wanted her to act like it had never happened, but on the other, Delilah’s jealousy made Claire want her even more, made everything in her hum and pop.

She set her own wine aside and then rounded the island so she was perpendicular with Delilah. Not quite next to her, but closer. Baby steps.

“Are . . . are we going to talk about the other night?” she asked. The perfect segue, and dear god, she actually really needed to talk about the other night.

Or replicate it immediately. Either one.

Delilah sighed, tucked her hair behind her ears. Her locks were so thick, the strands popped right back out. Claire had a desperate urge to reach over and push her hair out of her face herself.

“We probably shouldn’t,” Delilah said.

“Why not?”

“Because I drew the praying mantis card and that could mean terrible things for you.”

“Well, I drew every single sex card in the deck, apparently,” Claire said, laughing to try to bring back the lightness between them.

Delilah didn’t laugh though. “We shouldn’t talk about it because . . .” But then she didn’t finish her sentence. She just looked at Claire, gaze searching, flicking down to her mouth, lingering there before moving back to Claire’s eyes.

“Because?” Claire said.

“Because Josh,” Delilah said.

“He’s my co-parent,” Claire said. “He’s not . . . We’re not like that.”

“But you have been? I mean, since you’ve broken up?”

Claire blinked but wanted to be honest. “Yeah. But not for a while. Over two years ago.”

“But it’s still complicated.”

“Why do you care?”

The question slipped out, spoken sharply and softly at the same time. Delilah watched her for a second and then slid around the island’s corner, closer and closer. Claire’s body shifted with her until they were standing right in front of each other, her lower back pressed against the quartz.

Delilah stepped into her space, arms on either side of Claire’s hips, braced against the counter and hemming her in. Instinctively, Claire’s hands went to Delilah’s waist, fingers curling through the cotton of her shirt. She tugged a little, pulling Delilah that much closer. Their hips aligned, breasts, not an inch of space between their bodies.

Delilah leaned in, her bottom lip barely whispering against Claire’s.

“I don’t care,” she said.

And that was all it took for Claire to slide a hand into Delilah’s hair and close the last bit of distance between them.

THIS KISS WASN’T like the one at the vineyard. That kiss had started slow and tentative, a crawl toward a walking pace.

This kiss was a starter pistol, a leap off the block into a sprint. Tongues and teeth, gasps into open mouths. Claire had never felt so desperate to get close to someone. She wanted to climb this woman, rip her clothes off, and lick a stripe from her navel to that pretty dip in her collarbone. She buried both hands in Delilah’s curls, tilting her head to get a new angle, tongue sweeping and tasting, wine and spring rain, a whisper of mint. Delilah’s hands roamed, sliding up Claire’s arms to her face, then back down again to her hips. Her fingers curled under Claire’s shirt, skin against skin. Goose bumps erupted, and a moan slipped out of Claire’s mouth into Delilah’s.

“Get up here,” Delilah said, pulling Claire up toward the countertop. Claire jumped while Delilah lifted, and immediately parted her knees as soon as her ass hit quartz. Delilah slid her hands up Claire’s jean-clad thighs, thumbs dipping into the creases where her hip joined her legs as their mouths met again. Delilah’s hands moved up to Claire’s waist and under her shirt, skating across her ribs and then over her bra.

Claire leaned back just enough to start unbuttoning her blouse, but Delilah stopped her.

“Let me,” she said.

Claire smiled and rested her palms against the cool counter. Delilah kept her eyes on Claire’s as her fingers popped one button and then the next, revealing the black lace bra underneath. Claire felt a rush of gratitude that most of her bras were pretty, bordering on sexy. Her underwear was a different story, but she’d worry about that later. Because right now, Delilah was spreading her shirt wide open and, as Claire sat a little bit above her now, the other woman was in the perfect position to press her mouth to Claire’s sternum, which she did, flicking out her tongue for a little taste. At the same time, her hands came up, cupping Claire’s breasts and sweeping her thumbs over her already hardened nipples.

Claire moaned and tipped her head back. She clamped her mouth shut, trying to rein it in, but she’d always been noisy in bed, and she had a feeling Delilah was going to pull out every scream that had been locked in her chest since her last non-self-induced orgasm.

“God, your tits are perfect,” Delilah said, pulling down a bra cup and sucking a nipple into her hot mouth.

“Oh god,” Claire said, tightening her legs around Delilah’s hips. She tried to focus. “Really?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“You . . . you don’t think they’re too . . . ?”

Delilah paused, releasing Claire’s nipple, much to her chagrin, and looking up at her. “Too what?”

Claire swallowed, her lungs pumping like a marathon runner. “Just . . . you know, they’ve always been big, and I’ve had a kid, so they’re not what they used to be and—”

Delilah rolled her nipple between her thumb and forefinger, causing Claire to suck in a ragged breath. Then Delilah slid the straps down her arms, unhooked the back, and threw the bra deftly over her shoulder.

“Perfect,” she said again, massaging Claire’s tits as she kissed her, sucking her bottom lip between her teeth. Delilah’s fingers stayed busy on her nipples, squeezing and sweeping until Claire was literally panting into her mouth, her underwear so wet she could feel the dampness on her thighs. She pulled away, plucking at Delilah’s black T-shirt. She needed skin on skin, sweat and fingertips and tongues.

“Off,” she said. “Now.”

Delilah grinned up at her, then leaned back far enough for Claire to pull her shirt over her head.

Claire groaned out loud at the sheer yellow bralette covering Delilah’s smaller, but just as perfect, breasts. Her nipples showed through, dark pink peaks already hard and waiting for Claire’s mouth and hands. Her tattoos were gorgeous, art unfurling over her skin, including a delicate but heavily thorned rose on her sternum.

Claire reached out, touching the thorns, the petals, causing Delilah to shiver.

Suddenly, being shirtless wasn’t enough. As much fun as sex on the kitchen counter sounded, she wanted space to move, to feel Delilah’s thighs around hers, the curve of her ass, and how wet she was between her legs.

Oh god, they were actually doing this.

“You want to move to the bedroom?” Claire asked.

“Hell yes.”

Delilah backed up so Claire could hop down, but then yanked her flush against her hips, kissing her hard as she started moving them toward the hallway. Claire walked backward, her bare breasts rubbing against Delilah’s bra and creating a delicious friction.

“I don’t know where I’m going,” Delilah said against her mouth as she entered the hallway.

Claire laughed and turned them around so she could lead, but didn’t let go of Delilah. She couldn’t. If she did, she might wake up, or Delilah might change her mind, or hell, she might change her mind, and all she wanted right now was to not think about anything except getting this woman on her back.

Claire directed them into her room, then kept moving until Delilah’s legs hit the bed, causing her to fall back onto the mattress, laughing.

Which was exactly how Claire wanted her.

She climbed on top of her, unbuttoning her jeans and pulling them down her thighs. Delilah had on a pair of hot pink lace cheekies, because of course she did. Claire’s mouth literally watered as she ripped Delilah’s pants off her feet and then glided her hands over Delilah’s firm stomach, thumbs brushing over the top of her underwear. She started to pull those down too when Delilah sat up and flipped Claire onto her back.

“Oh no. Your turn to lose these pants,” Delilah said, unzipping and sliding just as Claire had done, revealing her plain white cotton undies, her dimpled thighs, and her stretch marks.

A wave of self-consciousness flooded over her. She’d always been full-figured, and she’d been happy to be so, confident even, but the first time in bed with someone new always sent a brief wave of shyness through her. She went to cover her stomach with her hands, but Delilah caught her arms, moving them until they were settled above Claire’s head. Then she sat back, knees on either side of Claire’s legs, and looked her up and down. Claire felt her face burn, but her pulse throbbed between her thighs at the look in Delilah’s eyes, like Claire was dessert and Delilah was still very hungry.

Delilah shifted, sliding up her body to kiss her. “Do you know how sexy you are?” she asked into Claire’s mouth.

Claire let out a little laugh. “Um . . . well . . .”

Delilah’s tongue blazed a hot path to her neck. “Very. Very fucking sexy.”

Claire feathered her hands down Delilah’s back, then pulled her bralette over her head. Both women released a soft moan as their breasts touched.

“Just so you know,” Claire said. “I . . . I haven’t done this in a while.”

Delilah lifted her face from where she’d been nipping at Claire’s collarbone with her teeth. “This?”

“Sex.”

Delilah just smiled, then slid one leg between Claire’s, pressing her thigh into Claire’s center.

“Oh . . . my god,” Claire said, gripping a fistful of her duvet cover as a bolt of pleasure shot up her spine. She could feel Delilah’s arousal on her own leg, wet and warm even through her underwear.

“I think we’ll be just fine,” Delilah said, undulating her hips again, causing friction right where they both needed it. “Fuck,” she said into Claire’s neck. “I need to taste you. Tell me I can.”

The rumble of Delilah’s voice went straight between Claire’s legs, and the idea of that hot mouth closing around her clit—

“God, yes,” Claire said, body rolling upward, seeking more pressure.

Delilah pressed a kiss to her throat, then started a slow, tortuous journey down her body. Tongue, lips, teeth, pausing to explore one nipple, then the other, before continuing a wet glide down her stomach. Claire watched those dark curls descend, feeling every scrape of Delilah’s nails as her fingers hooked through the top of her underwear and tugged the cotton down her thighs and off her feet. Claire’s legs fell open, her hips rising to meet Delilah as the other woman settled between them.

“Goddamn,” Delilah whispered, pressing a kiss to the inside of Claire’s thigh. “You’re gorgeous.” The other thigh, another kiss. “And very wet.”

Claire released a shaky laugh. Fuck yes, she was wet. Her clit throbbed, desperate for contact, but Delilah seemed to be in no hurry, brushing her mouth gently against Claire’s center, tongue darting out for a taste everywhere except where Claire needed it. When Delilah licked a slow path from her entrance to her clit, then blew a puff of warm air over her and—holy hell—hummed against her skin, Claire nearly lost it.

“God, Delilah. Please.”

Delilah grinned up at her. “Please what?”

Claire groaned in frustration, hips reaching for the ceiling.

“Tell me what you want,” Delilah said, her mouth so close, that warm breath sliding over Claire’s skin again.

“Fuck me,” Claire said, fingers tightening through Delilah’s hair. “Please, fuck me with your mouth.”

It turned out, Delilah was excellent at taking directions. She hooked her arms around Claire’s thighs, pulling her closer. Then her mouth got to work, doing exactly what Claire had begged her for. She kissed and licked, her tongue slipping into Claire like silk. A low keening sound ripped from Claire’s throat, a sound she didn’t think she’d ever made before, but fuck, she didn’t care, because Delilah’s fingers replaced her tongue, curling inside Claire and pressing against her wall. Delilah’s mouth closed around her clit and sucked, then licked, then sucked again. Claire’s thighs trembled, her hands pulled at Delilah’s hair in a way she hoped wasn’t too hard, but she couldn’t think, couldn’t worry, couldn’t do anything but gasp and moan as Delilah’s teeth and tongue and mouth lapped at her, fucked her just like she’d asked until she finally broke. Her legs tightened around Delilah’s head, nails digging into the other woman’s scalp as she yelled obscenities at the ceiling.

Delilah stayed with her until her body stilled, gentling her back down to earth, soft presses of her mouth to Claire’s sensitive skin. Finally, when Claire could see straight, she pulled Delilah up her body and kissed her, the taste of herself on the other woman’s tongue like striking a match low in her belly.

“Good?” Delilah asked.

Claire just laughed into her mouth.

“You were loud as hell, so I’ll take that as a yes,” Delilah said, and Claire froze.

“Oh. Shit, I’m sorry, I—”

But Delilah cut her off with a tug of her teeth on Claire’s earlobe. “Are you kidding me? That was the single fucking hottest thing I’ve ever heard in my life.”

“Really?” Claire could hardly believe it. Delilah had surely heard a lot of women coming underneath her in her time.

But Delilah just nodded, tongue flicking out to taste the sweat on Claire’s neck. Her hips pulsed, seeking and needy. Claire tugged at her curls again, pulling a low, rumbling moan from Delilah’s chest, which, okay, was maybe the single hottest fucking thing Claire had ever heard in her life. It made her feel feral, desperate, and she wanted to make Delilah come as hard as she had. She pawed at the other woman’s underwear, which was, ridiculously, still on her body. Delilah quickly caught on, angling away from Claire and yanking the lacy cotton off with very little grace before throwing it into a dark corner of the room.

“Good call,” Claire said, running her eyes over Delilah. The other woman was shaved, nothing but a perfect dark landing strip to guide the way. Claire gripped Delilah’s hips and nudged her legs apart, pulling her until she was sitting up and straddling Claire’s thighs, palms braced on Claire’s ribs. When the hot slide of her center met Claire’s mound, both women groaned.

“Best fucking decision I ever made,” Delilah said, her breath ragged.

Claire rolled her own hips, then circled them so her pelvic bone hit Delilah right where she needed it. Delilah gasped and threw her head back, all of her undulating for friction. Claire felt her own desire building up again, a coil tightening in her lower belly more and more each time Delilah released those lovely, breathy gasps. Claire couldn’t take her eyes off Delilah sliding over her body. She reached a hand between them, fingers playing in Delilah’s soaked heat.

“Oh god,” Delilah said to the ceiling. “Yeah.”

She lifted her hips just enough for Claire to slide first one, then two fingers inside her. She was so tight, so perfect, and the back of Claire’s hand pressed into her own clit.

Delilah leaned back and pumped her hips. “Fuck. Yes,” she said, before her body clenched tight. She tangled one hand in her own hair, pulling the curls down over her face as she cried out, causing her body to press into Claire’s hand so hard and perfect, Claire came too, their moans mingling with the smell of sweat and sex, their bodies arching and slowing, their breathing rough and ragged.

Delilah’s hand closed around Claire’s wrist between them, removing her hand and holding it to her chest before—dear god—she opened her mouth and licked Claire’s fingers clean. The feel of Delilah’s tongue, the way her eyes closed as if in bliss, almost had Claire ready to go again, but she was exhausted enough to simply enjoy the view, marveling at this woman in her bed. She pulled her hand free, wet fingertips lingering on Delilah’s lips before settling on the woman’s upper thigh. Delilah collapsed onto the mattress next to her, and they lay like that for a few minutes, legs still entangled, their lungs’ pulls for more oxygen the only sound in the quiet room.

Delilah lifted her head and met Claire’s eyes. “Holy shit.”

“Holy shit is right,” Claire said. She curled her arms around Delilah’s waist, not wanting the moment to end, but then saw Delilah’s hair.

It. Was. Huge. Haloing around the other woman’s face, the curls were tangled and frizzy and wild, the very definition of sex hair.

And it was just about the cutest fucking thing Claire had ever seen.

She let out a long laugh, relieved and sated and just plain happy, cupped Delilah’s face—after she found it beneath all that hair—and kissed her hard.