Unraveling Delilah 3

Alpha Zedd’s POV

Karyk Moonbane never failed to prove that he was a foolish man.

I sat at the head of the long obsidian table, my fingers playing idly with a pen.

Karyk Moonbane droned on, gesturing at slides that meant nothing to me. His voice carried that rehearsed cadence, with pauses timed for emphasis and inflections he probably believed would make him look smart. I knew exactly whose fingerprints were all over this pitch. Delilah’s. It was all hers.

How tedious.

I leaned back in the leather chair, letting my gaze drift across the room of suits who were pretending they mattered. 

They didn’t. 

None of them did. 

I had built empires while men like Karyk were still learning how to tie their own shoes. He had assembled pieces, her pieces, like a child playing with someone else’s puzzle. Cold contempt settled in my chest.

I had watched Delilah Moonbane for years with a special kind of attention that I had never given anyone else. She built things that lasted. She turned chaos into systems that generated power. 

And this fool had worn her work like a tailored suit while treating her like an accessory.

I checked my watch and decided to let him finish one more slide. His voice rose with false confidence as he reviewed the final numbers.

Enough.

I rose slowly. The room stilled instantly, and Karyk’s words faltered mid-sentence.

“Mr. Vale—” he started.

“Bored,” I said, my voice clipped. “This meeting is over.”

No one argued. They never did. I walked out without another glance, my assistant falling into step beside me like a shadow.

“Clear my afternoon,” I told him at the elevator. “I want to be alone.”

He nodded and disappeared. Good. I rarely craved solitude, but today the air felt different, charged even. The memory of soft, desperate moans still lingered in the back of my mind, little storm breaking apart in my hands. 

Delilah was free now and dangerous in the way only intelligent, wounded women could be. I had always been curious about her, and last night had done nothing to dull that edge. If anything, it sharpened it.

The elevator chimed. The doors slid open.

And there she was.

Delilah stood in the center of the elevator, emerald blouse slightly rumpled, black pencil skirt hugging curves I had mapped with my mouth only hours ago. Her green eyes widened, shock flashing across her face before she tried to school it. Then heat followed. A dark, unwilling, and delicious heat. Her cheeks flushed, and her pulse jumped at the base of her throat. I drank it in, letting the silence stretch between us. Neither of us moved.

I stepped inside. The doors closed with a whisper, sealing us in.

We were alone.

The air thickened instantly, heavy with the scent of her—jasmine, lingering whiskey from the night before, and beneath it all, the unmistakable scent of her arousal, already betraying her. 

My little storm.

“Morning,” I said casually, as if we had bumped into each other at brunch. I moved closer, towering over her in the confined space. “Sleep well, little storm?”

Her breath hitched. She pressed her back against the wall, chin lifting in defiance even as her nipples visibly hardened against the silk of her blouse. “This is inappropriate.”

“Is it?” I murmured, stepping into her space until only inches separated us. I braced one hand beside her head, leaning in until my lips brushed the shell of her ear. “You didn’t seem to mind the inappropriateness last night. Not when you were falling apart on my fingers in the back of my car, sobbing my name like I owned you.”

A visible shiver ran through her. Her thighs pressed together. I smiled against her ear.

“Married woman,” I continued, voice dropping lower, “waking up naked in an Alpha’s bed with another man’s ring still on her finger. Bold choice. I like it.”

“I’m not—” she started, voice breathy, but I cut her off by trailing my fingers down her side, settling possessively on her waist. She fit perfectly there, as if she had been made for my hands.

“You’re not what?” I asked, pulling back just enough to watch her face. Her green eyes were furious, hungry. “Not wet right now? Not remembering how hard you came when I fucked you through that second orgasm? Tell me, Delilah. Lie to me. I enjoy watching you try.”

Her hand came up, pressing against my chest. She was not pushing me away, but not pulling me closer either. My little storm was testing me. “You’re arrogant.”

“Confident,” I corrected, sliding my hand higher, cupping the underside of her breast through the silk. My thumb brushed over her nipple, the movement slow. It pebbled instantly. A soft sound escaped her throat. “And you like it. Your body doesn’t lie, little storm. It never did.”

I rolled her nipple between my fingers, watching her lashes flutter. She bit her lip hard, trying to hold back, but her hips twitched forward despite herself. I took my time, kneading her breast, learning the weight of it again in the sober light of day. Her breathing had changed. It was shorter and shallower, and she had stopped pretending she wanted me to stop.

“Zedd—” she whispered, half protest, half plea.

“Shh.” I dragged my thumb over her nipple one last time before letting my hand travel slowly down the curve of her waist, over the flare of her hip, fingers trailing the hem of her skirt. I felt her stomach tighten under my touch. Felt her hold her breath.

“Still want me to stop?” I murmured against her ear.

She said nothing, which was its own answer.

My hand slipped beneath the hem, fingers walking up the inside of her thigh with a psychotic level of patience. Her skin was impossibly soft.  She trembled slightly as I climbed higher, taking my time, making her feel every inch of the journey before I arrived.

When I finally reached the lace of her underwear, it was already ruined.

Last night had been alcohol and desperation. Today, we were both in complete control.

I pushed the lace aside and slid two fingers through her folds slowly, watching her face as I did. Her mouth fell open. Her walls clenched around nothing, already desperate. Then I pushed inside

I pumped my fingers deeper, thumb pressing firmly on her clit, watching her face the entire time. Flushed cheeks. Parted lips. Eyes glassy with pleasure and humiliation.

“You’re going to come for me again, Delilah. Right here. In this elevator. Knowing anyone could be waiting on the other side of those doors.”

“Arrogant bastard,” she hissed, but her voice cracked as I added a third finger, stretching her.

I chuckled darkly, nipping at her earlobe. “Yes. But I’m the bastard who made you come harder than he ever could. Tell me I’m wrong.”

She didn’t. Couldn’t. Her breathing turned ragged, hips grinding shamelessly now. I worked her with relentless precision. My fingers curled, stroked, and pressed until her thighs began to tremble.

“Look at me,” I commanded softly.

Her eyes met mine, wild and desperate. In that moment, with her falling apart on my fingers, I saw her fully. She was the woman who had built empires while the man who claimed her slept through her brilliance.

“You’re magnificent,” I murmured against her lips, not quite kissing her. “The things you could do with real power… I see you, little storm. All of you.”

Her orgasm hit like a breaking wave. She cried out, body arching hard against me, walls pulsing violently around my fingers. I kept stroking her through it, drawing it out, watching every flicker of pleasure and shame cross her face. She was beautiful when she shattered. Truly beautiful.

The elevator chimed. 

I withdrew my hand slowly, licking my fingers clean while holding her gaze. She stared at me, flushed, wrecked, chest heaving, fury and raw want warring in her eyes. I straightened my jacket, calm as ever.

I pulled a black card from my pocket and held it out to her.

“Come have a conversation with me, little storm. A friendly one.”

The doors slid open. I stepped out without looking back, the taste of her still on my tongue.

Behind me, Delilah stood alone in the elevator, card clutched in her trembling fingers, body still shaking with aftershocks.

She would come.

I had no doubt.