Samson's Lovely Mortal
Page 9
Now that he was looking at her with his puppy-dog eyes, he looked warm and kind. He hadn’t looked like that only minutes ago. She had felt as if she had been his prey. He’d looked like a hunter. His kiss had been experienced, hungry, hot. And unfortunately, exactly the way she liked it, which was why she hadn’t been able to resist him and finally kissed him back.
Delilah had felt his body pressed against hers, his hands touching her intimately. He had aroused her. She assumed it was merely a reflex her body produced, but deep down she knew that no reflex in the world could make her open up to a man who attacked her unless she wanted him.
During his kiss she’d felt flames of hot fire shoot through her as if her blood had started to boil. Nobody had ever kissed her like that. None of the guys she’d dated had come even close to making her body melt like it did under his touch.
But this wasn’t right. He’d just attacked her like a wild beast, because he thought she was some cheap stripper. There was no doubt in her mind as to his intentions. His erection was proof positive that had she not stopped him, he would have had her right there in the living room. It was not her idea of romance, no matter how long she hadn’t had sex.
She glanced at the woman in the nurse’s uniform. Disgusting! Her boobs looked fake, and so did just about everything else about her. She looked cheap, and Delilah was sure the woman wasn’t just a stripper, but probably also a hooker. She could just about imagine what the tramp was hired to do.
So he had some crazy friends who gave him an even crazier birthday present. Unfortunately he had tried to unwrap the wrong present. Could she really be mistaken for a stripper that easily, or did the guy need glasses? Delilah looked down at herself and realized only now that her white blouse was completely soaked through, making it transparent, and her latest barely there Victoria’s Secret acquisition shone through. She secretly cursed her love for black underwear. No wonder he thought she was a stripper. Maybe this was all much more innocent than she’d initially thought.
“Dry clothes you said?” she finally asked him. Despite the warmth in the house, she felt cold and knew her nipples were uncomfortably hard, almost aching.
The beginning of a soft smile twisted the corners of his mouth upwards, and he nodded. “I can get you a sweater and some sweatpants. You can dry off in the bathroom.” He looked almost like a schoolboy now. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
She followed him with her eyes as he stalked up the stairs, strong legs taking two steps at a time, his tight backside shifting under the fabric. All muscle, no fat.
“I’m Ricky,” one of his friends introduced himself. “Sorry; I guess it was all my fault. I told Samson to expect a stripper. He’s normally a real gentleman. Please don’t hold this, uh, occurrence against him.” He was tall and good looking, with a boyish face of freckles and a full head of red hair. She detected a hint of an accent in his speech. Irish maybe?
“Absolutely,” the next one chimed in. “I’m Amaury.”
Amore? Like Italian for “love”?
What an odd name for a man. He stretched out his hand. She hesitated, but shook it nevertheless. His handshake was firm. “He’s been under a lot of stress lately. Please forgive him.” He was a large, burly kind of guy with dark hair reaching to his shoulders. But he wasn’t a hippie. He seemed well-groomed, and his long hair suggested he wasn’t of this era. Rather he looked like he belonged in a historic novel, riding a horse to save his favorite lady. His blue eyes were piercing, his smile disarming as it spread from his lips to light up his entire face.
Each of his friends tried to make excuses for him. They seemed to be close. A man who had decent friends like that couldn’t be all bad. Of course, Charles Manson probably had friends too at some point, and it didn’t make him a good guy. Same went for Jack the Ripper. The Zodiac Killer came to mind. And her imagination was galloping off again.
“He’s really a great guy,” another one professed. “Thomas. Nice to meet you, Ma’am.”
Ma’am? Now that was formal.
His warm smile was in complete contrast to his attire: Thomas was dressed entirely in leather, his motorcycle helmet clenched under one arm.
A fourth guy was in the back. He seemed a little shy and just nodded at her. He was dressed in the same biker outfit as Thomas.
“That’s Milo,” Thomas introduced him and put his arm possessively around his shoulders. The presence of a couple of gay guys made her feel a little safer. How bad could things get if there was a gay couple in the room? At least she got the feeling that there’d be two guys who wouldn’t hit on her and would potentially protect her.
Delilah had felt his body pressed against hers, his hands touching her intimately. He had aroused her. She assumed it was merely a reflex her body produced, but deep down she knew that no reflex in the world could make her open up to a man who attacked her unless she wanted him.
During his kiss she’d felt flames of hot fire shoot through her as if her blood had started to boil. Nobody had ever kissed her like that. None of the guys she’d dated had come even close to making her body melt like it did under his touch.
But this wasn’t right. He’d just attacked her like a wild beast, because he thought she was some cheap stripper. There was no doubt in her mind as to his intentions. His erection was proof positive that had she not stopped him, he would have had her right there in the living room. It was not her idea of romance, no matter how long she hadn’t had sex.
She glanced at the woman in the nurse’s uniform. Disgusting! Her boobs looked fake, and so did just about everything else about her. She looked cheap, and Delilah was sure the woman wasn’t just a stripper, but probably also a hooker. She could just about imagine what the tramp was hired to do.
So he had some crazy friends who gave him an even crazier birthday present. Unfortunately he had tried to unwrap the wrong present. Could she really be mistaken for a stripper that easily, or did the guy need glasses? Delilah looked down at herself and realized only now that her white blouse was completely soaked through, making it transparent, and her latest barely there Victoria’s Secret acquisition shone through. She secretly cursed her love for black underwear. No wonder he thought she was a stripper. Maybe this was all much more innocent than she’d initially thought.
“Dry clothes you said?” she finally asked him. Despite the warmth in the house, she felt cold and knew her nipples were uncomfortably hard, almost aching.
The beginning of a soft smile twisted the corners of his mouth upwards, and he nodded. “I can get you a sweater and some sweatpants. You can dry off in the bathroom.” He looked almost like a schoolboy now. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
She followed him with her eyes as he stalked up the stairs, strong legs taking two steps at a time, his tight backside shifting under the fabric. All muscle, no fat.
“I’m Ricky,” one of his friends introduced himself. “Sorry; I guess it was all my fault. I told Samson to expect a stripper. He’s normally a real gentleman. Please don’t hold this, uh, occurrence against him.” He was tall and good looking, with a boyish face of freckles and a full head of red hair. She detected a hint of an accent in his speech. Irish maybe?
“Absolutely,” the next one chimed in. “I’m Amaury.”
Amore? Like Italian for “love”?
What an odd name for a man. He stretched out his hand. She hesitated, but shook it nevertheless. His handshake was firm. “He’s been under a lot of stress lately. Please forgive him.” He was a large, burly kind of guy with dark hair reaching to his shoulders. But he wasn’t a hippie. He seemed well-groomed, and his long hair suggested he wasn’t of this era. Rather he looked like he belonged in a historic novel, riding a horse to save his favorite lady. His blue eyes were piercing, his smile disarming as it spread from his lips to light up his entire face.
Each of his friends tried to make excuses for him. They seemed to be close. A man who had decent friends like that couldn’t be all bad. Of course, Charles Manson probably had friends too at some point, and it didn’t make him a good guy. Same went for Jack the Ripper. The Zodiac Killer came to mind. And her imagination was galloping off again.
“He’s really a great guy,” another one professed. “Thomas. Nice to meet you, Ma’am.”
Ma’am? Now that was formal.
His warm smile was in complete contrast to his attire: Thomas was dressed entirely in leather, his motorcycle helmet clenched under one arm.
A fourth guy was in the back. He seemed a little shy and just nodded at her. He was dressed in the same biker outfit as Thomas.
“That’s Milo,” Thomas introduced him and put his arm possessively around his shoulders. The presence of a couple of gay guys made her feel a little safer. How bad could things get if there was a gay couple in the room? At least she got the feeling that there’d be two guys who wouldn’t hit on her and would potentially protect her.
