Coldhearted King: Chapter 24

When I walk into the architectural team’s office space that evening, it’s late enough that the place is empty. Except for Delilah. She’s sitting at her desk, and I pause for a moment to watch her.

Her long, dark hair is drawn back in a ponytail, with a few loose tendrils falling forward to frame her face as she looks down at what she’s doing. Her lower lip is caught between her teeth and her brow is slightly furrowed as she concentrates.

She’s fucking gorgeous, and my dick stirs in my pants as I anticipate the hours to come, but I don’t move from where I’m loitering at the doorway. My behavior this afternoon is confusing me. I decided to rein in my attraction to her, but after not seeing her last night, the urge to see her today had taken control of me. I canceled my planned dinner meeting with one of my old college associates and did something I hadn’t done since her team moved into the building. I went down there to see her.

The looks I received when I walked in reminded me why I rarely mingle with the workers. Everyone stiffened at my presence, then rushed to look as busy as possible. I made my way to Delilah’s empty desk, wondering where she was and what I should do now that I was there and she wasn’t.

It was then that she walked out of an office near the end of the room, looking like a fucking fantasy in a skirt that hugged her hips before flaring out to flirt with her thighs, and a pale-pink blouse which revealed the barest hint of lace beneath it.

But when Paul walked out and stood behind her, with his hands gripping her hips, a tidal wave of possessiveness crashed over me.

I’ve rarely felt the urge to punch anyone. In my position, people don’t often dare to cross me. But seeing Paul touching her—touching what I’d already claimed as mine, even if only temporarily—made me see red in a way I never have before.

And now here I am, watching her work like I’m some kind of crazy person.

Enough.

I stalk to her desk. She jumps when she notices me, her hand fluttering to her chest. Then she lets out a light laugh. “You scared me.”

“Maybe you should be scared,” I say.

She looks up at me, a playful expression on her face. “Should I? Why is that, Mr. King?”

I lean over her, bracing one hand on her desk, the other on the back of her chair. “Because before the night is out, I’m going to make you scream.”

Her lips part and her pupils dilate, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Should I run, then?”

I lean even closer and growl. “I wouldn’t recommend it.”

She blows out a breath. “Y-you’re good at this.”

I straighten with a smirk. “I’ll show you just how good I am when we get back to my place. So let’s go, before I bend you over this table and fuck you right here.”

She stands in a rush. “I’d say you were joking, but at this stage I wouldn’t put it past you.”

“Smart girl.”

She throws me a smile which will get her in trouble, but I don’t say anything. I just wait for her to gather her things together, then put my hand on the small of her back and guide her toward the door.

Jonathan has the car waiting for us outside. Delilah glances around as he opens the door for her, as if she’s worried someone might see us. I understand her concern, but it’s unlikely anyone aside from my brothers and their PAs will be loitering this late, and I’m not worried about their opinions.

But luckily for her, she doesn’t try to change her mind, sliding into the back seat and looking up at me as I follow her in.

As Jonathan pulls the car into traffic, my gaze is still tangled with Delilah’s; I can’t seem to tear it away. Visions of her laid out before me on my bed—and the things I can do to her—tumble through my mind. A smorgasbord that I get to choose from. Surprisingly, the thought of having her in my own bed doesn’t disturb me as much as I expected it to.

The thought of seeing her spread out over my black silk sheets, or her face buried in one of my pillows as I take her from behind, has blood surging south. I’m about to reach for her when a ringing from her purse breaks the connection between us.

She rummages around and pulls out her phone, her eyes darting to me.

I raise a brow. “You can answer it.” At least that way I’ll know if it’s a man or not.

“Thanks.” She swipes her screen and holds it to her ear. “Hi, Mom.”

I relax, even though I didn’t know I was tense to begin with.

“Oh . . . I’m just . . . on my way to a . . . friend’s place,” she says, her eyes darting to mine again.

I smile to myself and turn to face the window, giving her as much privacy as I can, but I can’t help overhearing her conversation in the close confines of the car. I give up trying to avoid listening.

“You know me, I like being busy,” she says. Then she laughs. “I might not go out and party every night, but I’m not exactly confining myself at home. . . . No. I’m not dating anyone else yet,” she says, and she’s lowered her voice. “Look, Mom, I’m almost at my friend’s place, so I should probably go. I’ll call you later this week.” She’s silent for a second. “I miss you too. I’ll organize a flight home as soon as I can, and we can spend the weekend together. Okay. I love you too. Bye, Mom.”

I’m struck by the genuine warmth and affection in her voice. Have I ever spoken to either of my parents that way? Maybe when I was young. Before I realized they considered my brothers and me as mere pawns in their genetic legacy.

“I’m sorry about that,” she says as she slips her phone into her purse.

“No need to be sorry.” I clear my throat. “You and your mom are close?”

She smiles, her eyes soft. “Yes. It’s only ever been her and me. We’re each other’s best friend.”

“You mentioned before that your father wasn’t in the picture.” I don’t frame it as a question—even though it is—so I’m surprised when, after a small pause, she answers.

“Mom got pregnant with me when she was eighteen. He was older than her, but he wasn’t interested in starting a family. Not with us, anyway.” Her voice is casual—almost flippant—but the shadow in her eyes tells me her tone is a lie.

“Do you see him at all?”

“I occasionally saw him around town when I was growing up, but not since I was sixteen.”

“What happened when you were sixteen?”

She shrugs. “Nothing in particular. He just walked past me in the street.”

Rising anger tightens my ribs. “Did he talk to you? Acknowledge you?”

She looks away before meeting my gaze again. “He saw me, but he just kept going. Climbed into his Mercedes and drove off. I didn’t expect anything different.”

I consciously loosen the fists my hands have tightened into without me realizing. I don’t have a lot of good things to say about my father, but I have even less to say about Delilah’s. “I’d say you were better off without him.”

“I like to think so,” she says, flashing me a small smile that has my heart doing something odd in my chest.

“What does your mom do?”

“She’s a hairdresser.” Delilah absently touches the end of her ponytail, and I imagine her mom probably cut her hair for her when she was younger.

I nod, but instead of continuing the conversation, I look out the window. I’m not used to asking this many questions of the women I’m with. My interest in Delilah is . . . unusual. Maybe because she’s different from the women I normally sleep with. Considering most of them are part of a social sphere where appearance is everything, vulnerability is considered a lethal weakness. And love . . . Well, love is a transaction.

Tonight isn’t supposed to be about getting to know each other, though. It’s about one thing and one thing only. The less we share regarding our private lives, the easier it will be for her to keep that straight in her mind.

We ride the rest of the way in silence. My penthouse isn’t far from the office, and I’m glad because I’m itching to strip her out of that outfit and finish what I started in her office this afternoon.

When we pull up outside my building and Jonathan opens the door for Delilah, she steps out gracefully and stops to look up at the building, then to the trees of Central Park looming on the other side of the street.

Her gaze meets mine. “I knew you were rich, but . . .” She glances away again, up at the huge steel-and-glass building that reaches skyward. “Sometimes reality outstrips imagination.”

I picture this through her eyes. From what she’s told me, her mom struggled to give her the things she needed, to keep a safe, comfortable roof over their heads, and now I’m about to take her up to my multi-million-dollar penthouse apartment that I purchased without a second thought.

I’m not ashamed of my wealth—why would I be?—and yet I feel something right now I’ve never felt before. Not shame, but maybe the wish that someone had been there to help support her mom and her when she was growing up.

Someone like her father.

I’m hit by the urge to find out who he is and what he does, to learn if there’s any way I can make his life just a little harder. I make a mental note to get Samson to look into it tomorrow. It won’t hurt to find out his name and see what business he’s in.

The doorman has been watching us keenly, waiting to leap into action, so I start toward him. I’ve only taken a couple of steps before I realize Delilah isn’t next to me. She’s looking across at Central Park again, a faint smile on her face as she watches a couple walk past, arm in arm, heads tipped together as they laugh at something.

I reach back and grab her hand, threading my fingers through hers. Her focus switches from the couple to where our hands are connected, then up to my face. The curve lingering on her lips and the way her fingers curl around mine send a strange pulse of warmth through me.

I clear my throat. “Let’s go,” I say, brusquely.

As expected, the doorman jumps forward, opening the door and tipping his hat at us. “Good evening, sir, ma’am.”

I give him a nod. “Good evening, Jeffrey.”

“Hello.” Delilah gives him a smile that has his grizzled cheeks reddening.

I grumble to myself and tug her after me.

We ride up to my penthouse in my private elevator, and when the doors open directly onto my foyer, I hear her indrawn breath. It’s only when I lead her out that I realize I’m still holding her hand.

I use the excuse of shrugging out of my suit jacket to let go of her, but she doesn’t seem to notice. The foyer opens directly onto the open-plan living area, and she’s focused on the view over the park and the glitter of the city skyline, both visible from the floor-to-ceiling windows that line the room.

“I can’t believe you get to look at this view every day,” she says.

I stand next to her. “You get used to it after a while.”

She tips her head up to me. “That’s a shame.” When I don’t respond, she walks past me and her mouth drops open. “Oh my god.”

The main living room is huge, sleek, and modern, with high ceilings, hardwood floors, and expensive art hanging on the walls. The kitchen is visible at the other end of the room. It’s a spotless white, with state-of-the art appliances that never get used because cooking isn’t one of my skills.

Delilah turns to me. “Your home is beautiful, Cole.”

“Then my interior designer earned her pay.” I don’t bother to mention that this place has never felt that much like a home. But then, I’m not sure if any place I’ve lived in has felt that way.

Delilah rolls her eyes at me, then laughs softly. The sound does things to me that are anything but soft.

I reach for her, pull her close and drop my head so my lips brush the curve of her neck and I can breathe her in. My already hardening cock swells even more at the feel of her against me.

I don’t want to talk about my apartment. Or her family. I definitely don’t want to talk about my family. I just want this. Her body and mine. Together.

And I’m not waiting another minute.

I TIE a knot in the condom and drop it into the trash. As I turn to leave the bathroom, I glimpse myself in the mirror. A fine sheen of perspiration coats my body, and the satisfied gleam in my eyes has everything to do with the orgasms I’ve had over the last two hours. And even more, the ones I’ve given Delilah.

Although I came only a few minutes ago, the thought of her lying stretched out and naked in my bed has me hardening.

It’s late and she’s probably tired, but I think I can drag another orgasm out of her before I send her home. I exit the bathroom, only to stop when I see Delilah standing by the side of the bed, pulling her skirt over the curve of her ass.

She already has her bra on, and as I watch, she reaches for her blouse.

I cross my arms and lean my shoulder against the doorframe. “Going somewhere?”

She glances at me over her shoulder, a tentative smile playing on her lips. “I think five is probably my limit. And I didn’t want to . . .”

“What?” I ask.

She turns away. “Overstay my welcome.”

I want to go to her, strip her naked again, and throw her back on my bed. But I don’t. Because it is late. And she’s right. I should have had enough of her by now. The goal might be for me to fuck her out of my system, but it obviously won’t happen all in one night.

So instead of doing what I want to do, I just nod and go to my dresser to fish out a pair of pajama pants.

We dress in silence. While I usually don’t have a problem with the part of the night which involves sending a woman home, something about this feels off, and not knowing what it is or why I’m feeling it is irritating.

“Okay,” Delilah says, breaking me from my reverie. “Is it still all right to get a ride home, or would it be better to call for an Uber? It’s pretty late. I’d hate to wake Jonathan.”

“Don’t worry about Jonathan. I pay him a hefty salary to be available whenever I need him. And besides,” I add, “I wouldn’t trust a rideshare with you. Particularly at this time of night.”

A soft smile curves her lips. She walks over to me, goes up on her toes, and brushes her lips over my jaw. “Thank you.”

Something hot and potent rushes through my veins, and I band my arm around her waist and haul her into me, molding her body to mine. I want to kiss her, but I don’t. The emotions Delilah brings out in me are unfamiliar. They make me feel out of control, and I don’t like feeling out of control. So I drop my head and breathe in her scent—the faint aroma of the wildflower perfume that still lingers on her skin. Then I let her go. “I’ll call Jonathan and tell him to meet you outside.”

“All right. I’ll wait down there for him.”

I reach for a shirt, but Delilah stops me. “You don’t have to come down with me. I’m okay waiting on my own.” She turns away and walks out of the bedroom.

After a moment’s hesitation, I toss my shirt back in the drawer and follow her out. We walk through my huge apartment until we get to the foyer and my private elevator.

I press the button for her, and the doors sweep soundlessly apart. She faces me and gives me a slightly wonky smile. “Thank you. For tonight. I had . . . um . . . fun.”

An honest to god laugh slips past my lips. “I think you need more practice at this part.”

She groans and covers her face with her hands, then laughs too. “You might be right.”

I cave to the urge that’s clawing at my chest and grab her by the waist, pressing her backward until she’s against the wall next to the elevator. Then I curve my hand around her slender neck and use my thumb on the angle of her jaw to tilt her face to mine. I take her mouth the way I wanted to before. The doors of the elevator whoosh shut beside us, but I ignore it.

Her taste is intoxicating. Like the finest vintage in my wine cellar, and if I could, I’d spend the rest of the night getting drunk on her. But before I can do something I’m bound to regret in the morning, I tear my mouth from hers and smack the button next to us, causing the doors to open again.

I step back, eyeing her as she stands with her back pressed against the wall, chest rising and falling, mouth swollen from the intensity of my kiss. Then she blinks, licks those swollen lips, and lets out a shuddery breath before peeling herself off the wall and stepping into the elevator.

Her gaze holds mine. “Good night, Cole.”

“Good night, Delilah.” My voice comes out gruff.

And then she’s gone, and my apartment is suddenly empty.