Delilah sucked in a breath. She knew whatever had driven Claire down to the banks that day wouldn’t be a happy story. Of course not. But this, the pain in Claire’s voice even now as she talked about it, the image of a littler, even more vulnerable Ruby confused and hurt, it clawed at Delilah’s own heart. And then there was the slept with him again comment that stirred up something totally different—something hot and angry, something that felt a lot like jealousy. Delilah shoved it aside and focused on Claire, searching for the right thing to say.
“Ruby’s lucky to have you” was the only thing she could think of. And it was true. A mom like Claire, always thinking of her daughter, always trying to protect her, always, always, always. She was every kid’s dream, wasn’t she? At least, that was what kids like Delilah dreamed about, the kids who knew the alternative, the void where a loving parent should be.
“I can’t believe you were there that day,” Claire said.
Delilah swallowed thickly. “I’m sorry. I know it was a private moment, and I—”
But her words were cut off when Claire pressed a finger to her lips. Soft, feathery light.
Delilah heard herself inhale sharply, her mouth parting as Claire’s hand slid down, pulling on her bottom lip just a little, her forefinger settling on Delilah’s chin.
She left it there, and Delilah couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Her heartbeat was everywhere—in her throat, her chest, her fingertips, between her thighs. Their breaths filled the room, soft and shallow and shaky. Claire’s gaze searched her own, then flicked down to her mouth before returning to her eyes, over and over, a dance that made Delilah want to laugh or cry or . . .
Claire shifted. Closer. The finger on Delilah’s chin slid to her jaw, then Claire’s whole hand skated across her face, to her neck, and around to her nape. Delilah’s eyes fluttered closed, every inch of her skin covered in goose bumps. This was what she wanted—Claire, wanting her—but she thought she would feel triumphant, laying out a plan and succeeding. Instead, her entire body felt like it was coming apart and knitting itself back together.
When she opened her eyes again, Claire was inches away, gaze searching her own, fingertips soft on Delilah’s neck.
Delilah realized she was waiting for permission, waiting for Delilah to say she wanted this too. She forced her head to move, offering a single nod before she bridged the space between them and touched Claire’s mouth with her own. She kissed her, soft and slow, her mouth closing around Claire’s bottom lip. The other woman inhaled sharply, then seemed to let go, gently pressing back.
It was nothing like Delilah’s normal first kisses. Usually, by this point, things were frenzied, desperate, wild and alcohol-infused, nothing but sensation and skin, and Delilah loved every minute of it.
But this. The way Claire exhaled into her mouth, fingers sinking into Delilah’s hair, sliding her body closer so that every part of them aligned, everything slow and electric . . . this wasn’t like any first kiss Delilah had ever had. Not even with Jax.
She cupped Claire’s cheek and deepened the kiss, sucking on her bottom lip for a moment before turning her head for a new angle. Claire tasted like mint, a trace of wine, and something else totally different, totally Claire. The other woman released a tiny moan, and the sound shot straight to Delilah’s center, made her feel wild even as the two women continued to move like they were underwater. She slid her hand to Claire’s neck, then to her shoulder, gliding down her bare arm to rest at the swell of her hip. Claire shifted even closer, both hands now buried in Delilah’s hair and opening her mouth more and letting her tongue tangle with Delilah’s.
That was all it took to send Delilah over the edge. Soft was nice—beautiful even—but god, this woman. Delilah needed more, closer, harder. Fuck soft. Fuck everything but Claire and the way her breath hitched when Delilah slid a leg between her thighs. Now that—that raspy, desperate sound—was goddamn beautiful. Claire’s own hands roamed down Delilah’s shoulders to her hips, then dipped under her T-shirt before skating over the bare skin of her lower back.
“Is . . . is that okay?” Claire asked against Delilah’s mouth.
“Hell yes,” Delilah said, the breathy nature of her own voice surprising her. “Is this?” She lifted Claire’s tank, fingertips ghosting over the supple skin of her stomach. Claire nodded, keeping her eyes open as Delilah’s hands went higher . . . then higher still. Delilah could feel the imperfections in Claire’s skin, soft ridges that felt like stretch marks, and they all seemed like heaven to her, sexy and curvy and perfect.