Filfthy(38)

Delilah’s hips widen, her hands bracing herself along the back of the counter.

“I’m going to make you come so hard,” I promise, slipping my free hand up the nape of her neck and gathering a handful of her hair. “And then I want you on your knees, Delilah. I want my cock between those beautiful lips of yours. But first, I’m going to taste you. And you’re going to taste what I do to you.”

The slam of the hotel door renders both of us frozen solid.

“Shit. Shit. Shit.” Within seconds, Delilah is scrambling to get down from the counter, frantically gathering towels and covering up. “My sister’s back.”

Great fucking timing, Daphne.





Chapter 13





Delilah



“Hey, hey.” Daphne wears a sheepish smile as she plops down on the edge of my hotel bed in last night’s clothes.

“Good lord. I was beginning to wonder if you were ever coming back.”

“Weston is the sweetest.” Daphne pulls her entire body up onto the bed, sitting cross-legged. “We literally walked around all night talking. We didn’t sleep at all.”

“Mm, hm. I bet that’s all you did.”

“Not joking. He didn’t even try to kiss me. He was the perfect gentleman.” Daphne sighs, and I recognize that far-off, dreamy look in her eyes. I’ve seen it before. Many times. Her sweet, adventurous nature also translates well into her love life. The girl is a chronic love-at-first-sight-er. “You ever meet someone and you just click?”

“All the time,” I sass back.

“Well, I never have,” she says. “Sure, I meet people and I like them. Whatever. But I’ve never met someone who just got me. It’s like we never ran out of things to talk about. And we have so much in common.”

“Really?” My face wrinkles. Not that I’m not happy for her. I agree. Weston seems like a great guy. But I never would’ve pinned those two together. She’s all artsy and he’s this macho footballer who’s easily more than two times her size.

“Yeah. I think I’m in love.” She presses her hand against her chest.

“I feel like now would be a good time to warn you that Zane’s in the bathroom,” I say.

Daphne’s dreamy exterior fades in an instant and her expression sobers. “What?”

The sound of the shower running from the bathroom confirms my announcement.

“He got kicked out of his room last night. I let him sleep on the couch.” I scrunch my shoulders to my ears.

“Oh, whatever, you naughty minx.” Daphne grabs a pillow, throwing it at me.

“Nothing happened.” I throw it back. “And besides, can we talk about how you ditched me last night? Seriously, Daph. Not cool.”

She shrugs. “I was doing you a favor. Anyone with half a brain can see you have a thing for him. You two needed to be alone. And the bickering was getting old fast. Forgive us for wanting a little reprieve from that.”

“Oh, so now you and Weston are an ‘us’?”

She laughs. “Maybe someday.”

Have to hand it to Daphne. She falls hard and she falls fast.

Daphne swats her hand in the air. “He’s a good guy. I had a good time with him. Forgive me for wanting to feel special for a few hours, but if it’s any consolation, I did feel bad for leaving you. But it’s not like I left you with some random guy you didn’t know.”

I glance at my sister and suddenly remember how her sweet little heart is still on the mend. Pierre obliterated it. I’d never seen her so distraught a couple months back. I had half a mind to fly to Paris and deal with him myself, and I almost had our brother Derek convinced to come with me.

“Forgiven,” I say. I can never stay mad at my sister for very long. Either of them. Or my brother for that matter. “I’m glad you had a nice time with Weston.”

“Anyway.” Daphne kicks her legs over the edge of the bed. “As soon as your guest is finished with the facilities, I say we get cleaned up and try to salvage the rest of our girls’ trip. I heard there’s an amazing little Cuban café on the corner with the best brunch, and I’m dying to try a café Cubano.”



“We’re back,” I call into Rue’s foyer Sunday evening.

“In here,” she yells from the kitchen.

We place our bags by the door and follow the sound of her voice and the sizzle of something frying in a skillet.

“I’m making fried green tomatoes,” she says. “Sit down, girls. I want to hear all about Miami.”

She brings over a ceramic plate covered in grease-soaked paper towels and golden-fried tomatoes, placing it between us all before sitting down.