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.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Delilah.” She shifted from one foot onto the other, feeling self-conscious about the fact that the men could see her bra. Her eyes looked for a safe place to pin her stare.
“Delilah? As in Samson and Delilah?” Ricky asked with a smirk on his face.
The guys chuckled. She caught how Amaury jabbed Ricky in the ribs with his elbow, apparently trying to shut him up.
“Yes, it’s Delilah.” What had one of the guys called her rescuer after she’d slapped him? Had she caught the name correctly? Could his name really be Samson?
“That’s a nice name.” Amaury’s compliment sounded as if he wanted to fill the uncomfortable silence with something, anything.
“Samson, there you are,” Thomas suddenly said, looking toward the stairs.
Delilah lifted her gaze and saw Samson walking down the steps. She couldn’t take her eyes off him.
She shouldn’t be gawking, but she couldn’t stop herself even if her life depended on it. He was tall, well over six feet, and made a very impressive figure in his black pants and figure-hugging gray turtleneck sweater. His hips were slender, his shoulders wide, and he looked like he was no stranger to a gym. His dark hair was longer than was the fashion; it gave him timeless beauty. His hazel eyes demanded her full attention.
He glided down the stairs as if he owned the world, exuding a sense of confidence more strongly than anyone she’d ever encountered. With his every step, she felt drawn in by him even more, as if the closer he came, the less able she was to throw off the lines he was tossing out to reel her in. Yet, he was silent, not saying a single word as he approached.
Samson. The name suited him. This deadly sexy man had kissed her? What had she been thinking, pushing him away? Was she losing her mind? Obviously. There was no other explanation for it now. She knew what those lips could do to her, what those hands had awakened.
Just remembering those strong thighs pressed against her made her body temperature spike a few degrees. A few more seconds and she’d have a fever that was going to require medical attention. Or his attention. Preferably his attention, since a doctor could probably not help her with what she had: a severe attack of lust.
He stopped right in front of her, his gaze meeting hers. Delilah suddenly realized that she had been staring at him the entire time he’d made his way down the stairs. She was sure he had watched her examine him. Unable to tear herself away from him, she inhaled his purely masculine scent.
He handed her a stack of clothes, his hand accidentally touching hers as he did so, creating a spark of electricity in her.
“There is a guest bathroom at the end of the hall. Fresh towels are in the linen closet,” he said, his voice soft and gentle.
“Thank you.” Delilah felt her voice tremble, probably making her sound like a star-struck teenager.
As she walked down the hall to find the bathroom, she heard the men whisper, but couldn’t make out what they were saying. She glanced back before she entered the bathroom and found Samson looking at her. Those hazel-colored eyes had followed her every move.
Samson turned back to his friends when he saw her close the door behind her.