Hey There, Delilah... (15 page)

Mo
nday mornings suck.  But this Monday morning sucks in particular because I know Delilah isn’t coming in today.  My schedule is packed, I have no secretary, no coffee, and I know Delilah is home suffering. This whole day is going to blow.

I hear a hesitant knock at my door and I look up to see Carmella standing there. Her usually impeccable appearance is disheveled, and she looks sullen.  She is looking at the floor and doesn’t speak right away.

“Good morning, Nick. I hope you had a nice weekend,” she rasps. Now I can tell she has been crying.

“Uneventful, but better than yours, I see. Are you doing all right?” I ask, legitimately concerned by her morose disposition.
Well, not completely uneventful. I did get my socks rocked by LaLa Saturday night.  I am still unpacking my bag, but engage in the conversation.

“I will be
okay. It was just such a shock.  I actually stopped by Delilah’s house on my way in to work to check in on her.” At the sound of Delilah’s name, she has my full attention.  I snap my eyes up to see her watching me.

“How is she doing?” I ask, genuinely wanting to know.
I am walking a fine line here because I don’t want Carmella to get the wrong idea.

“I would be lying if I said that she was
okay.  When I left, she was just getting over a crying spell.  She looks frail, like she hasn’t eaten since we told her on Thursday.  She seems to be taking it very hard.  It makes me so sad to see her suffering.”  Carmella’s words were like a dagger through my heart.  I can’t stand the thought of Delilah being in pain.  As much as I fight it, I know that I have come to really care about her. As a friend, of course. Nothing more. Just a friend.

“Is there a
nything I can do? For you? For her?” I ask, expecting her to say ‘no.’

“I will be fine. I just need some time to process everything. But Delilah?  You should stop by
her place on your lunch break.  Express your condolences.  Maybe you can get her to eat something,” she coaxes. Well, shit.  That seems kind of boyfriend-ish, not something a boss would do.

After thinking long and hard about what Carmella said, the guilt wins out, and I agree that I sh
ould go and check on Delilah. I try to get through my morning meetings quickly, and when my lunchtime rolls around, I head over to her apartment.

I
am standing here staring at her door for a minute before I knock. I hope being here is the right thing to do. I don’t want to intrude, and I don’t want Delilah to get the wrong idea as to why I am here.   I am here to offer my support, as her boss.  I knock twice and it only takes a few seconds before the door swings open. And there she is. And she looks…um…she looks… beautiful?  Shit! I can tell that she has been crying, but my dick doesn’t care.  As soon as I lay my eyes on her, it begins to stir in my slacks. She is wearing a skin tight Grateful Dead t-shirt, probably from when she was a teenager, a pair of low cut jeans, and she is bare foot.  I can see
everything
, and
goddamn it she has a body most men only dream about taking. She seems startled to see me at first, but then her good manners kick in and she invites me in. 

As I walk through the door, I notice a very pretty blonde stand
up from the couch and head our way.  Delilah introduces her as her best friend, Charlie, and I smile while I extend my hand, realizing what a dickhead I am. 
Dumbass!  You were jealous of a chick! Charlie is the one who sent her the ‘I love you’ text!

“Nice to meet you,” I say politely, as I shake her hand.

“You, too.  So, you are the hot boss?” she asks. Delilah smacks her on the arm and shoots her a dirty look.  I let out a quick chuckle, but stifle it when I realize how embarrassed Delilah is.  Then again, that red blush creeping up her neck is quite enticing.  Actually, LaLa has the same thing happen when she is uncomfortable. Shit! Stop thinking about LaLa.

“You look really familiar. Have we met before
?” I ask.  I rack my brain trying to figure out where I have seen her before, and I have seen her before.

“I don’t think so. Unless you know any celebrities? Or have the need for an agent?  I am a personal assistant at a well known talent agency
,” she answers, shaking her head and shrugging her shoulders.

“
Actually, I am good friends with Parker Hamilton.  Do you work with him?” I reply.

“
Yeah! He is one of our biggest success stories,” she says cheerfully.

“
Small world.  I went to law school with him.  Parker, Calvin, and I were roommates. Do you know Calvin?”  I ask her, but am really uninterested in her answer. She is cute, but her bubbly demeanor is getting on my nerves. She is the type of girl I usually try to avoid. And I also find myself wanting to spend time with Delilah. Alone.

“I don’t think so.  But that still doesn’t explain where you would know me
from,” she says with an annoying smile. Time to end this conversation.

“Maybe y
ou just have one of those faces,” I murmur and leave it at that.

Delil
ah asks Charlie if she would like to sit with us and I internally groan. She declines, thank God! 

“I’m
gonna head out. I need to get back to work,” she says as she kisses Delilah on the cheek and heads toward the front door. “If you need anything, you call me,” Charlie soothes, “I love you.” I smile at the exchange. She may annoy the fuck out of me, but she is a good friend to Delilah, and she needs and deserves that. I also laugh at myself again, being reminded of the text and how irrationally jealous I was.

“Nice to meet you, Charlie,” I offer half-heartedly.

“Take care of my girl,” she throws over her shoulder as the door closes behind her. If she only knew how badly I want to “take care” of
my
girl. My secretary, not my girl. 
Get your shit together, Santino!

Delilah and I
both sit on the couch, a little too close for my comfort, considering the things I want to do to her.

“How are you holding up?” I ask, already knowing the answer.  

“I am not sure it has completely hit me yet. I can’t believe she is gone,” she answers depressingly. She looks at me with her sad eyes and my heart breaks for her. I try to think of a way to lighten the mood, but this really isn’t the time or place, so I opt for empathy.

“I know how you feel. I lost my mother when I was young,” I share.  What the hell am I doing sharing personal stories with her?  She doesn’t need to know about my childhood.  Every time I am around Delilah my walls seem to come down…just like LaLa.  Oooh,  LaLa.  I need to text her and make sure we are on for Saturday. 
She was on fire at our last encounter.  So passionate, like she was trying to prove something.  And that new tattoo.  I can’t wait to get my tongue on it. It was too new and too tender for me to touch last time. I need to get laid like now!  I wonder if she would be willing to meet me during the week.

“I didn’t know you lost your mother. I was wondering why only your father came to take you out for your birthday lunch,” she says, looking at me warily. She is probably just as shocked as I am that I shared that bit of personal information with her.
Or maybe she realized my mind wandered there for a minute.

“I did. But I am
here to support you, not discuss something that happened to me over twenty years ago,” I answer, making it perfectly clear the topic of ‘me,’ is officially closed.

“Thank you for coming. It was very thoughtful,
” she whispers in a soft cry as she leans over and lays her head on my shoulder.

It
is breaking my heart watching her fall apart like this. She is usually so composed, such a strong girl. I rub my hand over her shoulder and down her arm, trying to soothe her.  My body involuntarily leans toward her and I kiss her forehead. She is still crying softly, and I just can’t stop myself.  I kiss her forehead again, and then move down to her eyes.  First her right, then her left, trying so hard to kiss away her tears.  I kiss her cheeks next, first her right, then her left, and notice the crying has stopped.  I pull my face a few inches away from hers and wait for her eyes to snap up to mine. What is she thinking?  What am I thinking?  I don’t think I am thinking at all because all I want right now is to taste her. I know 100% in my head that this is the wrong thing to do. She is mourning and very vulnerable, and I don’t want her to think that I am taking advantage of her. But I can’t look away.  Her eyes are mesmerizing, and I am trapped.  The heart wants what the heart wants, so I lean in slowly, giving her ample time to pull away.  I brush my lips lightly against hers, again giving her the chance to say no.  But just as I begin to lean back in, she licks her succulent lips, and that’s all it takes to break my will power.  I take control of the situation, as I always do, and do what I have been dreaming about doing these last few months.

I wrap my hand around her tiny waist and lift her onto my lap so she is straddling me. 
Ever since that day she fell into me at the office, I have dreamed about having her body close to mine again.  I grab the back of her head, a little roughly, and pull her lips back to mine. I nibble on her bottom lip a few times trying to gain control over myself, but my need for her wins. I lick her lips a few times, just as she had, and coax them open with my tongue. She lets out a soft sigh and I go in for the kill.  I plunge my tongue into her mouth seeking hers out. I kiss her passionately, and for a second I am reminded of my first kiss with LaLa on the dance floor.  I feel my dick hardening, and there is no way Delilah doesn’t feel it, too, since she is on my lap, her warm center against mine.  I refocus from my stray thought of LaLa, and my hands wander briefly to Delilah’s jean clad ass.  Damn, it is perfect! I have always been a sucker for a little junk in the trunk.

But as I was distracted with her ass, something happened. Now, I am not saying that it means anything in particular, but something happened that
totally, utterly, completely, fucked with my head. So, here we are, kissing and rubbing on each other like virgin teenagers, and when I get distracted – mostly by her ass - she does it!  She fucking does it!  She swirls my tongue, and then sucks on it!  What the fuck?

I pull away and lean my forehead on hers.  I run my hand affectionately through her hair so she doesn’t think she did something wrong. I have learned that the hard way. Most women need the reaffirmation.  But, I am so confused.  When I am with Delilah, all I can think about is LaLa. I compare them even down to the way they kiss, and the
y kiss exactly the same! And then when I am with LaLa, I am wishing it was Delilah, smelling her scent, and sometimes hearing her laugh. But first and foremost, I just kissed and dry humped my secretary! I need some time alone.

I know it
’s time for me to leave, so I tell Delilah that I need to get back to work. I lean in for a hug and my arm lightly brushes her hip. I see her wince slightly, and then flinch.

“
Are you okay?” I ask worriedly.

“
Yeah, just still a little sensitive,” she responds, rubbing her hip.

“
Sensitive? Your hip?” I ask, confused.

“
Yeah, I got a little something in memory of my mom,” she answers, as her eyes well up a little.

“
On your hip?” I ask again, still confused.

“
It’s just a little dancing bear,” she mutters.

“
A dancing bear?” I confirm.

“
Yeah, you know. She’s a DeadHead, remember,” she explains.

“
Of course, I remember. Let me see...”

She pulls up the edge of her shirt, and
I almost pass out. It just can’t be. I look at the tattoo, then her eyes, then her mouth. Tattoo. Eyes. Mouth. Tattoo. Eyes. Mouth. No! No! No! It can’t be!

“
When did you get that?” I ask almost accusatorially.

“Friday,” she mumbles, sounding bored with this conversation.

“
So you had it Saturday night?”  I ask, frustrated.

“
That’s usually how it goes. Saturday does come after Friday,” she answers snarky, obviously not liking the way I am questioning her.

I nod slowly and look toward the ceiling. I take a step back and turn around to compose myself. I take a deep breath, exhale, squeeze my eyes shut tightly, and rub my temples. Practically willing for it
not to be true. I turn back around and open them slowly, looking deeply into her beautiful hazel eyes still rimmed in red from crying and still puffy from mourning her loss. Mother fucker! Those are the same eyes that wish me good morning and hand me my coffee five days a week. The same eyes that I get lost in while I am screwing her every Saturday night. The same eyes that I dream about every night, and wish I woke up to every morning. Fuck me!  I chuckle ironically to myself… I guess I pretty much do wake up to them.    And now she is watching me warily, shooting me a funny look.  Most likely because of the way I am behaving.  Fuck! I need to get out of here.

“I need to
get back to work,” I state firmly.