Delilah’s Guilty Pleasure

JAX ROMANO

The first time I fucked Delilah, it wasn’t meant to happen.

She had always been like a daughter to me, and I—God help me—like a father to her. But all of that collapsed with a late-night glass of whiskey and one kiss that never should have happened.

We’d been talking about my wild college days, about the stupid things I used to do—like giving girls diet ginger ale mixed with whiskey to get them tipsy fast. I said it casually. But Delilah went instantly quiet, watching me with that glint in her eyes that I didn’t recognize yet, but should have.

The office went still around us. The record finished playing, leaving only the soft hiss of the needle circling uselessly in the groove. She kept staring.

“You’re so amazing, Mr. Romano,” she murmured. “I wish I’d been one of those girls you gave whiskey to in college.”

I laughed. “I do too, Delilah.”

That was when she stood, crossed the room, set her drink down, and took my face in her hands. I barely had time to breathe before she lifted her mouth to mine.

The kiss was soft, lingering, impossibly tender. It went on forever, our lips clinging together as if they didn’t want to part. When she drew back, her eyes were on my mouth as though she expected a mark to be there.

“That’s how I would’ve kissed you,” she whispered. “Would that have been all right?”

I looked into her eyes and knew exactly what she wanted. And I was terrified.

Emilia—my wife—flashed through my mind like a warning bell. I took Delilah’s wrist and lowered her hand.

“Delilah, don’t.”

“Why not?” she whispered. “Everyone else does it. Everyone.”

I shook my head, trying to convince myself—and maybe her—that it was wrong. Wrong because of her father, Eli, my oldest best friend. Wrong because she used to feel like a child to me. Wrong because she was young and beautiful and I was too old to want her like this.

“If you were younger? Is that it?” she whispered. “Because that doesn’t matter at all. I’m grown up, Mr. Romano. I know what I’m doing.”

“No. Of course not. That’s not it,” I lied.

“Then what? You certainly don’t owe my father loyalty. I’m the one who wants to f*ck you.”

She was close enough that her thighs brushed the table between my knees. I could smell her perfume. Feel her warmth. And still I thought of Eli—how he left her mother Salsa when Delilah was still a child and built a new family elsewhere. No wonder she had her… daddy issues.

She slipped her hands free of mine and lowered them onto my thighs, warm and soft, squeezing as though she already owned me. I was half-hard from the kiss alone; her touch made it worse.

“You’re so much better than he’ll ever be,” she whispered. “The way you feel things… the way you talk… it’s not fair that men like him get everything. We deserve something too.”

For once, I had no answer. Her hands slid slowly up and down my thighs, her thumbs drifting toward the inside. Her breasts strained behind her dress, full and ripe. Her whole body leaned toward me, aching for another kiss.

And like night swallowing day, I gave in.

My lips crashed onto hers, and the brief electric spark of contact shot straight through me. She melted instantly—soft, open, pleading. The moment she surrendered like that, something in me snapped. We kissed hungrily, desperately, as if we’d been starving for each other for years.

“The light,” I gasped, breaking away. “Someone might see.”

Even though the windows were blocked by boxes and burglar bars, fear gripped me. Delilah simply turned and switched off the lamp, leaving the room in near-darkness, illuminated only by the faint glow from the storefront and the shining face of the record player.

Then she took my hand and placed it directly on her breast.

The softness. The weight. The heat. The realization that she wasn’t wearing a bra.

Rational thought evaporated.

She raised her arms and slid them around my neck, offering herself fully, as if her breasts belonged in my hands. Her lips found mine again, eager and certain.

I broke away suddenly, desperate for a moment to breathe. “Get the record,” I said. It was a stupid request, nothing but a pathetic attempt to stall for sanity while the needle hissed the same empty circle.

She lifted it off. Then she came back to me—slow, sure, almost bridal—and I lost it entirely.

I grabbed her arms, hauled her against me, shoved my tongue into her mouth, tasting the intoxicating trace of whiskey on her breath. Her nails scraped my thighs. She bit my lip and pressed her hand against my c*ck.

“Oh Christ, Delilah! We shouldn’t—! We can’t—!”

“You’re so hard,” she gasped, shuddering. “You poor man. So hard.”

My head spun. I was twice her age. Now all of it blurred—morality, sense, restraint—drowned beneath a wave of heat and hunger.

It felt wrong. Incestuous. Forbidden.

And perversely, that only made me harder.

“Delilah, no—”

“Shhh.” She rested her forehead against mine, her fingers hunting for the zipper of my jeans. The feel of her hands on me—God, it was maddening.

“Open my dress, Mr. Romano,” she whispered. “The top buttons. I want your hands on me.”

I groaned helplessly, fumbling with the buttons like an amateur until she had to help me. Decorative buttons, real buttons—none of it made sense to me anymore.

She guided me until her dress loosened, exposing more and more of her chest. And while she worked my zipper down, freeing my aching c*ck from my shorts, I dragged her dress apart and saw her breasts—full, perfect, her n*ppl*s already tightening for my mouth.

All hope of stopping vanished.

I pushed the dress down over her shoulders and dove at her breasts, kissing, sucking, devouring. Delilah let her head fall back and moaned, pressing my head harder against her.

“Oh God, yes,” she gasped. “It’s been a long time for you, hasn’t it, baby? You’re on fire. You shouldn’t have to suffer like this, Mr. Romano. You deserve better. You deserve me.”

I couldn’t speak. I dropped lower off the table, needing to drag her nipple deeper into my mouth. The shift eased the tension in my pants, and Delilah finally freed my c*ck completely—my naked shaft throbbing in the cool air.

Then her hand wrapped around me and stroked.

“Oh Christ—Delilah—!”

I couldn’t stop. I buried my face in her t*ts while she pumped me with both hands, her breath hot and wild as she whispered filth against my ear.

“Do you always get this hard? It’s for me, isn’t it? Tell me I make you this way, Mr Romano.”

“Yes,” I groaned into her skin. “God, yes—”

I kissed her feverishly as she stroked me harder. Pre-c*m slicked her palms; she moaned like it excited her.

“Let me get my clothes off,” she gasped. “Let me feel you inside me. F*ck me, baby. I want your c*ck.”

Eli. Emilia. Reality. Consequences.

They all slammed into me at once.

“No.” My voice cracked. “No, Delilah. We can’t. That’s too far.”

She froze, sensing the fear in my voice. For once, she didn’t push.

“All right, baby,” she whispered, kissing my cheek. “Then let me make you come with my hand. Just that. Is that okay?”

“Yes,” I gasped. “Just… just like that.”

She moaned with delight, biting my lip lightly. “S*ck my t*ts again, Mr. Romano. Please. My n*ppl*s drive me insane.”

I lowered my head, and we stood tangled in the shadows—my mouth on her breasts, her hands working my c*ck relentlessly. Her n*ppl*s were unbelievably sensitive; every s*ck made her gasp and pump faster. We were like animals—mindless, raw, obscene.

It should’ve been degrading. I was older, bigger, supposedly wiser. But I felt helpless in her hands, reduced to a trembling man reduced by the softness of her skin and the insistence of her touch. And I loved it.

“Careful!” she gasped. “No marks!”

I forced myself to ease off, trembling with restraint. But her hands never slowed, stroking me faster and faster. My balls slipped free of my fly, heavy and aching as she pumped me.

“Give it to me,” she whispered fiercely. “Come for me, Mr Romano . Please. I want it.”

I couldn’t stand on my own. I leaned against the table, clutching her shoulders. She stroked the back of my neck gently with one hand, comforting me, while the other mercilessly milked my c*ck.

The orgasm rose like a tidal wave.

“Oh f*ck—Delilah—I’m going to come!”

“Yes!” she cried. “Do it for me, baby. Come for me!”

Her hand tightened. My body seized.

“Aghhh—!”

I roared, hips jerking, exploding violently in her hand. Great arcs of c*m shot across the room, each spasm wrenching a groan from deep inside me. Delilah stepped aside to watch every spurt, humming with pleasure as she stroked me through the aftershocks.

Finally, I had to grab her wrist to make her stop. She let go, breasts heaving, and quietly went for tissues. She cleaned me with surprising tenderness—even wiping the floor.

Then she stepped into my arms, and I held her. Neither of us spoke.

At last, I whispered:

“I’m glad I found you on the streets of Paris that rainy afternoon… with your n*ppl*s poking at my chest.”