Samson's Lovely Mortal
Page 53
Another weird dream.
She pushed it away to make space for more delightful memories.
Snuggling back into the sheets, she soaked in his scent, all male and sexy. Samson was gone as he’d said, but she could still feel his skin on hers, taste him, smell him. She’d never had a night like the last one.
Without regret she’d given control over to him, a complete stranger, and had enjoyed every second of it. In fact, it had been liberating not to have to take charge, but to let herself fall. He’d caught her every time.
She sat up and looked around the room. Dark blinds obstructed the view out the windows, and in addition heavy drapes hung on each side of them. Delilah smiled. Somebody was not a morning person.
She leapt out of bed and pulled up one of the blinds. It was bright outside. She turned her head and checked the antique clock on the mantle: Eleven thirty? How could she have slept till eleven thirty? The fact that she’d had wild and passionate sex with Samson most of the night—at least a half dozen times—probably had something to do with it.
She’d obviously needed the sleep to recover. Just as well that, as an independent contractor, she could pretty much set her own hours. She’d just have to work a little later tonight to make up for it.
In a hurry, Delilah headed for the bathroom and stepped into the shower. Even as she took the soap and lathered her skin, she couldn’t stop thinking of the events of the previous night. It all felt so surreal! She’d never met a man who could be so passionate and at the same time so tender—and completely and utterly insatiable. She’d felt his hunger and had developed her own craving for him very quickly.
She’d never laughed so much with a man in bed and had discovered how playful he really was. While she knew exactly what he liked in bed, what turned him on, and what drove him absolutely wild, she still had no idea who he was or what he did. He’d told her that he had business meetings all day, so she assumed he was some sort of corporate manager or director. Not that it mattered. As long as he had no wife coming out of the woodworks, she didn’t care what he did.
Delilah knew she shouldn’t snoop, but once she’d dried off and wrapped herself into his robe, she figured a little exploration couldn’t hurt. If he’d left her alone in his house, surely he didn’t have any skeletons in the closet he didn’t want her to find. Samson had practically invited her to make herself at home. And that was exactly what she was going to do.
What better way to make oneself at home than to open a few drawers and cupboards? If he didn’t want something to be found, it would probably be under lock and key anyway. No harm done then. Having justified her actions sufficiently to herself, she strolled through his bedroom.
His generous walk-in closet was filled with the typical wardrobe a man of means would have, except for his choice of color. Where most man would have gray, navy blue, and brown suits, most of Samson’s pants and shirts were black. Delilah ran her hand over the neatly stacked t-shirts. She was sure he looked utterly sexy in black. With a sigh she closed the closet doors.
The bedside tables released no important information. There were novels and books on art. Nothing really revealed anything about him. She glanced at the small wooden bureau in one corner of the room. Writing utensils, old books, and a pad of paper were strewn upon it.
Delilah moved the pad to look at the book covers when a sheet of paper slid out of what she recognized as a drawing pad. Fascinated, she pulled it out completely. It was a drawing of a woman, a naked woman in bed. She blinked—and recognized herself. While she’d slept, he’d drawn her!
The picture was beautiful. She knew she wasn’t as beautiful as he’d drawn her. He’d completely glossed over her slightly chubby hips and the extra pounds she carried on her belly. And no way were her thighs this slim. But the woman in the picture was clearly herself, yet he’d drawn her beautiful and perfect. Was this how Samson saw her? Or how he wanted her to be?
A twinge of insecurity hit her. Did he draw all women he slept with? She wasn’t naïve enough to think she was the only one. A look through the pad revealed no other pictures. Maybe he discarded them when he was done with a woman. It was better not to think of it.
Delilah placed the drawing back where she’d found it and turned. Her gaze locked on the painting she’d admired the night before. A picture flashed in front of her eyes. A boy with dark hair drawing on a white piece of paper, then lifting it and handing it to an elegant lady he called “Mama.” The mirage disappeared as quickly as it had appeared.
Delilah shook her head. She definitely hadn’t had enough sleep. But she couldn’t dilly dally any longer.
She pushed it away to make space for more delightful memories.
Snuggling back into the sheets, she soaked in his scent, all male and sexy. Samson was gone as he’d said, but she could still feel his skin on hers, taste him, smell him. She’d never had a night like the last one.
Without regret she’d given control over to him, a complete stranger, and had enjoyed every second of it. In fact, it had been liberating not to have to take charge, but to let herself fall. He’d caught her every time.
She sat up and looked around the room. Dark blinds obstructed the view out the windows, and in addition heavy drapes hung on each side of them. Delilah smiled. Somebody was not a morning person.
She leapt out of bed and pulled up one of the blinds. It was bright outside. She turned her head and checked the antique clock on the mantle: Eleven thirty? How could she have slept till eleven thirty? The fact that she’d had wild and passionate sex with Samson most of the night—at least a half dozen times—probably had something to do with it.
She’d obviously needed the sleep to recover. Just as well that, as an independent contractor, she could pretty much set her own hours. She’d just have to work a little later tonight to make up for it.
In a hurry, Delilah headed for the bathroom and stepped into the shower. Even as she took the soap and lathered her skin, she couldn’t stop thinking of the events of the previous night. It all felt so surreal! She’d never met a man who could be so passionate and at the same time so tender—and completely and utterly insatiable. She’d felt his hunger and had developed her own craving for him very quickly.
She’d never laughed so much with a man in bed and had discovered how playful he really was. While she knew exactly what he liked in bed, what turned him on, and what drove him absolutely wild, she still had no idea who he was or what he did. He’d told her that he had business meetings all day, so she assumed he was some sort of corporate manager or director. Not that it mattered. As long as he had no wife coming out of the woodworks, she didn’t care what he did.
Delilah knew she shouldn’t snoop, but once she’d dried off and wrapped herself into his robe, she figured a little exploration couldn’t hurt. If he’d left her alone in his house, surely he didn’t have any skeletons in the closet he didn’t want her to find. Samson had practically invited her to make herself at home. And that was exactly what she was going to do.
What better way to make oneself at home than to open a few drawers and cupboards? If he didn’t want something to be found, it would probably be under lock and key anyway. No harm done then. Having justified her actions sufficiently to herself, she strolled through his bedroom.
His generous walk-in closet was filled with the typical wardrobe a man of means would have, except for his choice of color. Where most man would have gray, navy blue, and brown suits, most of Samson’s pants and shirts were black. Delilah ran her hand over the neatly stacked t-shirts. She was sure he looked utterly sexy in black. With a sigh she closed the closet doors.
The bedside tables released no important information. There were novels and books on art. Nothing really revealed anything about him. She glanced at the small wooden bureau in one corner of the room. Writing utensils, old books, and a pad of paper were strewn upon it.
Delilah moved the pad to look at the book covers when a sheet of paper slid out of what she recognized as a drawing pad. Fascinated, she pulled it out completely. It was a drawing of a woman, a naked woman in bed. She blinked—and recognized herself. While she’d slept, he’d drawn her!
The picture was beautiful. She knew she wasn’t as beautiful as he’d drawn her. He’d completely glossed over her slightly chubby hips and the extra pounds she carried on her belly. And no way were her thighs this slim. But the woman in the picture was clearly herself, yet he’d drawn her beautiful and perfect. Was this how Samson saw her? Or how he wanted her to be?
A twinge of insecurity hit her. Did he draw all women he slept with? She wasn’t naïve enough to think she was the only one. A look through the pad revealed no other pictures. Maybe he discarded them when he was done with a woman. It was better not to think of it.
Delilah placed the drawing back where she’d found it and turned. Her gaze locked on the painting she’d admired the night before. A picture flashed in front of her eyes. A boy with dark hair drawing on a white piece of paper, then lifting it and handing it to an elegant lady he called “Mama.” The mirage disappeared as quickly as it had appeared.
Delilah shook her head. She definitely hadn’t had enough sleep. But she couldn’t dilly dally any longer.
