Novels by Delight__x

RenzoThe penthouse is unsettlingly quiet when I walk in, the kind of quiet that makes me briefly wonder if I’ve stepped into the wrong place. All the lights are off, not even the soft glow of the hallway sconces greeting me. New York hums beneath us, horns, a siren in the distance, the muted chaos of the city that never goes to bed, but up here, on the top floor, it feels like I’ve entered another world.I loosen the noose around my neck—otherwise known as my tie, and sling it over the arm of a chair by the foyer. It's been one hell of a day at work, finalizing details for the Manhattan project before we head back to Chicago tomorrow. The kind of day where numbers blur into each other and my phone never stops buzzing. And truth? I barely registered any of it. Because all I could think about, obsess over, really was getting back here, to her. Back to Violette.If I hadn’t forced myself to go handle this last bit of business, I already know what I’d be doing: booking a return flight he

VioletteThe night smelled like saltwater and champagne before we were even close to the docks. New York had that way of pressing itself against your senses all at once: the hum of the West Side Highway, the glittering skyline carved against obsidian, and the restless tug of the Hudson, black but alive with reflections of light.Renzo’s hand rested at the small of my back, steady and warm. People’s eyes followed him as we walked—of course they did. Tall, sharp in his all-white suit, he looked like he’d been conjured straight out of some legend about beautiful men who owned entire cities.But this time, for once, I didn’t feel like the interloper.I wasn’t shrinking in his shadow. Not anymore.Yes, the dress I wore was simple, a white satin slip that grazed just above my ankles, matched with strappy heels I had to consciously survive with every step, but tonight, as the city’s glow washed over us, I wasn’t comparing myself to him. I was thinking about last night. About the way he’d loo

RenzoThe sound of the FaceTime ringtone sliced through the lazy, honey-colored quiet of the afternoon.That obnoxious iPhone trill didn’t belong here, didn’t belong to us, not when I had Violette exactly where I wanted her.She tastes like chocolate and stubbornness, both my favorite addictions. She tries to pull her lips free, probably to answer the phone, but come on—like I’m going to let that happen. I capture her laughter with another kiss, diving deeper, slipping my tongue past her lips just to hear that muffled little squeal she gives when she pretends to resist.She bites my tongue with absolutely zero force. I grin into her mouth; she’s laughing, I’m definitely winning.The damn ringtone keeps chiming like an unwelcome referee. My hand anchors against the small of her back, dragging her closer even as she wriggles, half-annoyed, half-amused. I have no shame; sue me for being obsessed.We’d been in bed all day. Literally. Bed. Day. Done. Kissing, laughing, half-heartedly watch

VioletteThe water slid against my skin in silken ripples as I leaned back, arms sprawled along the edges of the floating wicker tray. Slices of pineapple, berries, and glistening grapes lay scattered around a bowl of chilled strawberries layered with whipped cream. The scent of fresh mango lingered in the air as though even the fruit knew it belonged in a penthouse this extravagant.I chuckled to myself, biting into a strawberry, the taste exploding sweet and tart on my tongue. Not because of the fruit—though I couldn’t deny it was divine—but because of the thought of Renzo. He hadn’t yet seen me in this bikini. A tiny red thing I’d slipped into deliberately, knowing full well the reaction it would catch on his face the moment he walks in here.I could practically picture him, dark brows arching, those dangerous eyes widening for a split second before that slow, devastating smirk of his unfurled. And then the groan. That low, rich groan that rattled straight through me. The anticipat

Violette I slide into the cool leather of the back seat, the faint scent of polished interiors and Renzo’s cologne lingering in the air as if he had been in the car the whole time. The door clicks shut softly behind me, and before I can exhale, Renzo slips in on the other side—two seconds, maybe less. He’s always like that: precise, intentional, as though even something as small as getting into a car has meaning when it comes to me.We’re on our way to the airport. He told me this morning—no, he announced—that I was coming with him to New York. Just like that, no space for protest, no space for hesitation. His certainty should be comforting, and it is, but it also claws at that fragile part of me that’s still terrified of being left behind.New York. I haven’t been. It sounds like neon lights and restless energy, like a place I could lose myself in if I needed to. The thought should thrill me. Instead, it unsettles me in the way new things sometimes do.I woke up this morning to fin

Violette By the time my shift ended and I changed back into my clothes, the initial shock had begun to wear off, replaced by a dull ache. I decided to see this as a good thing, anyway. I needed the time to cool my head and actually rest, or at least, I tried to convince myself. But all the sadness, the humiliation, was lifted the second I stepped outside and saw Renzo leaning against his car.He hadn’t bothered to park in the actual parking lot and was just parked on the visitors' side of the hospital, a bold statement that made a tiny smile tug at my lips. He was wearing a fitted black shirt and black pants, the shirt tucked in, and it made him look utterly delicious, edible. I made my way to him with a little bounce in my step. Yes, I was excited. I got to spend the whole week with Renzo and actually watch Summer I Turned Pretty.When I reached him, his eyes took over me like he couldn’t get enough. He always looks at me with such intensity, like I’m the only thing that matters