Chapter 479 The Almost

Delia’s POV

Noah cooked again.

He set the plate down like the night could still be simple if the food was good enough. I sat across from him and watched his hands. Younger than Elliot’s and kinder. The same mouth in a softer shape. I hated that I was doing it, lining them up in my head like two options on a menu I should not have been reading.

“You are quiet,” Noah said.

“I am tired.”

He nodded and accepted it, because that was what he did. He accepted things. Elliot took them.

We ate. He asked about my day. I lied in small pieces. I did not say his father’s fingers had been on my nipples. I did not say I had kissed a man I should have spat on. I sat in my husband’s house with my cunt still remembering a wall.

My phone lit up under the table.

Unknown.

Then the message made the name unnecessary.

Same place. One hour. Wear something I can get my hand under.

I locked the screen.

Noah glanced at it.

“Work?”

“Something like that.”

I stood, kissed the side of his face, and felt like filth for using his mouth as a cover.

“I won’t be long.”

He believed me. That was the part that hurt.

Elliot was already there when I walked in. Jacket off. Sleeves rolled. He looked at me like he had been thinking about my tits the whole day and had not bothered to hide it.

“You came,” he said.

“I came to tell you no.”

“Then come closer and say it where I can test it.”

I should have stayed by the door. I crossed the room. He backed me to the same wall, and this time his hand went straight under my blouse. No warning. Fingers inside the bra, pinch, twist, a sound punched out of me before I could swallow it.

“Still sensitive,” he said. “Good. I like a girl who remembers me in her nipples.”

“Stop.”

He stopped pinching. He did not move away. His thigh pushed between mine again. Hard cock against my skirt. He rolled once, slow, dirty, like last time, and my body answered before my mouth could catch up.

“You hate that,” he murmured. “You hate that your pussy got wet when your husband’s father played with you. Say it.”

“I hate it.”

“And you still came.”

His other hand slid up my thigh, under the hem, not inside my underwear yet, just pressing the damp fabric against my clit with two fingers. I grabbed his wrist. I did not pull.

“Work with me,” he said against my mouth. “Help me bury Julian and that sister of yours. I will put you where you thought Julian would put you. On top. Visible. Rich in a way Noah cannot quite reach yet. And I will fuck you like a prize, not a project.”

“You are using me.”

“Of course I am. The question is whether you are tired of being used by men who pretend they are not.” He kissed the corner of my lips. “Noah married you because he was told to. I want you because I looked at you and decided I would enjoy ruining you.”

He kissed me full. I let it happen. His tongue was sure. His hips kept a filthy grind against me. My underwear was a mess. I thought about him shoving the skirt up and pushing in, right here, father of my husband, and the thought made my stomach drop and my cunt clench at the same time.

His fingers hooked the edge of my panties.

That was when I broke.

“No.” I turned my face. “Not this. Not tonight.”

He went still. Not kind. Interested.

“Not tonight,” he repeated. “That is not never.”

“Let me go.”

He took his hand out of my clothes like he had all the time in the world. He fixed my blouse with two fingers, almost tender, which made it worse.

“Go home shaking, sweetheart. Think about my cock when my son kisses you. When you are ready to stop almost, you know where I am.”

I left with my legs unsteady and my mouth swollen.

In the car I sat until the shaking dropped to something I could drive with. Guilt sat on my tongue. So did him. I kept seeing his hand on my breast. I kept feeling the pinch. I hated my pussy for the way it had fluttered like it had been waiting for the wrong man.

Noah was on the couch when I came in, jacket off, watching something he was not really watching.

“You were gone longer than you said.”

“I know, I’m sorry.”

I crossed the room and kissed him before he could ask the next thing. It was not fair. I did it anyway. I climbed into his lap, straddled him, and pulled at his belt with hands that still remembered his father.

“Delia.”

“I need you.”

He looked at my face, worried, then hungry, then worried again. I got his cock out, stroked him until he was hard, pushed my underwear aside, and sank down on him in one wet slide.

He groaned.

I rode him hard. No sweetness. I used his cock to chase the ache Elliot had left in me, hips slapping down, tits in Noah’s hands, my head tipped back so I would not have to look too long at the son while I was still full of the father. Noah held my waist and let me take what I wanted. He always let me.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “That’s it. Take it.”

I ground down until the angle hit, then I did not stop. The couch complained. My orgasm came sharp and mean, a clench that had Elliot’s pinch still ghosted across my nipples. I came on Noah’s cock with my face on his neck so he would not see whatever was on it.

He followed soon after, buried in me, arms tight.

For a minute neither of us moved.

Then Noah’s hand came up to my cheek.

“Are you okay?”

The question was gentle. It should have been easy.

I stayed on his lap, full of him, and I did not know how to answer without setting the house on fire.

“Yes,” I said.

It was the second lie of the night. The first was that I had gone out for something like work. The truth sat under both of them, ugly and simple.

I had almost let his father take me. And part of me was already wondering when I would go back.