Page 29 of Edging Sanity

When they arrived at her office, she unlocked the door and let Delilah enter first, allowing her assessing gaze to rove over the bare room. Rowan didn’t decorate her office like Bronwin had. She had no personal photos like Adele. It was simply a room to exist in for a few short hours a day. Everything was organized into filing cabinets, her desk was precisely arranged for what she had planned, and Delilah was going to learn absolutely nothing new about her from this arrangement.

Delilah hadn’t moved more than a step inside, her eyes sharp with intensity as Rowan watched her take everything in, trying to find anything she could use to lure Rowan in further. The door closed with a snick behind them, and Rowan clicked the lock into place. It wasn’t soundproof, but with the guards away and the wing vacant, noise didn’t matter.

“Satisfied?” Rowan asked, stepping up behind Delilah and running her hands up Delilah’s sides.

Delilah whipped around, eyes narrowed. “There’s nothing in here.” She was glaring at Rowan, showing her discontent with the blandness of the room in a way that gave Rowan a surge of victory.

“I wouldn’t say nothing,” Rowan murmured, pushing Delilah back until she was against Rowan’s desk. “There’s a reason you wanted to come here. Tell me,” she demanded, holding Delilah’s hips firmly, careful to keep their bodies apart.

“You’re hiding things from me,” Delilah snapped, her tone abrasive, her hackles raised. Rowan frowned. Delilah’s defenses were up. They were sharp, her tone stabbing into Rowan, pricking at her skin and stinging with rejection.

“What is there to hide when you already seem to know everything about me?” Rowan growled, nettled, her gaze flicked down to Delilah’s lips.

She wanted to taste her, to run her tongue along that puffy bottom lip until Delilah allowed her entry. But she needed more. She needed Delilah to admit that she wanted it, to confess that her desire was growing all-consuming too. That she matched Rowan’s craving—that she was addicted.

Delilah’s ire lessened in the face of Rowan’s frustration, a smirk replacing her sneer as she looked Rowan up and down. “Not everything. Not yet.”

The way she’d said it sounded like a threat and promise all wrapped into one. Delilah reached out, her cuffed hands grabbing Rowan’s belt, tugging her closer. “You’ll tell me all of it,” she whispered, leaning in and biting Rowan’s neck.

And fuck if Rowan wasn’t tempted to spill every little morbid secret at the feel of Delilah’s teeth scraping against her sensitive skin. To confess all the things she kept hidden away from prying eyes and wandering ears—secrets that Delilah couldn’t find in a file.

“And what is it that you think I’ll tell you,” Rowan asked, her breath hitching, voice catching in her throat as the sweet vanilla from Delilah’s conditioner filled the air around her.

Delilah pulled back, her smirk broadening. “How it felt when you made your first kill.”

Rowan relented, her thoughts dangerously transported back to the part of her mind that she shoved into a dark box, hoping it would never surface, would never see the light of day. She knew what Delilah meant. Of course she knew. Delilah thought her first kill was during deployment, for the good of the country, self-defense in a war zone. In reality, Rowan’s first kill had been years before that.

No one, not a single living soul, knew what happened. No one knew that she’d found her sister—the one who hadn’t made it past eleven—bloodied and dying while their uncle…

Rowan cut the memory off with a harsh jolt, forcing it back down into the deep crevices where it would never resurface. That wasn’t what she wanted to remember. It wasn’t what Delilah asked.

Watching the light leave her uncle's eyes as she strangled him with her bare hands was something she’d never been able to regret. It was something she’d enjoyed.

“You’re reliving it, aren’t you?” Delilah’s whispered voice brought her back. Rowan’s eyes must have gone distant because Delilah’s attention was locked on her face. “How’d you do it?”

Rowan didn’t move, her gaze searching Delilah’s. She wanted to see the desperation for her. Piercing green eyes bore into her instead, stealing her breath and compelling her answer. They didn’t need words. Not now. Not as Rowan slowly trailed her hands up Delilah’s sides, letting the rough fabric of her shirt bunch and catch under her bra. She didn’t stop until her hands were wrapped around Delilah’s soft, delicate neck.

Rowan remembered the last time she’d been like this. The scratchy, stubbled skin and squishy, fat neck caving under her grip. The hot beer breath spitting into her face, the glaze in his hazy eyes. This time was different. Everything about this was different, from the heady desire vibrating through her, to the way her hands fit perfectly around Delilah’s neck, her fingers touching at her nape.

Wide eyes stared up at Rowan with blown pupils. There was no fear on her face. They were pressed against each other as Delilah looked up at her, watching, and Rowan knew with complete certainty that Delilah wanted her as much as she wanted Delilah.

Rowan tightened her grip around Delilah’s neck, pressing into the sides of her throat, restricting her airway until she alone controlled Delilah’s breathing.

“Rowan,” Delilah rasped, her voice weak but still as commanding as ever. She held no fear as Rowan’s grip tightened further. “Fuck me.”

CHAPTER

TWENTY-TWO

Rowan didn’t waste another second. The air around them was heavy with lust as she released her grip on Delilah, quickly moving under Delilah’s shirt. A groan of desire slipped out when she felt that Delilah wasn’t wearing a bra, her fingers quickly finding hardened nipples waiting for her. As if Rowan recounting the kill had turned her on even more.

She pinched Delilah’s nipples and shamelessly ground her crotch against Delilah’s thigh, letting her eyes fall closed at the sensations.

“You prepared,” Delilah’s breathy murmur did nothing to quell the building heat.

Rowan responded by rolling her hips again, letting Delilah feel her strap straining against her pants. Lithe fingers undid the utility belt holding up her pants while Rowan continued massaging and pinching at Delilah’s breasts. Tormenting hands slipped into her boxers and Rowan’s head fell forward, her lips making contact with smooth skin, kissing her neck.

Delilah pushed the base of Rowan’s strap against her clit, drawing out a moan—louder and needier than Delilah’s quiet teasing ones. The pressure felt good. It felt so good and she wanted, she needed, Delilah’s fingers. She needed to know how soft they’d be against her swollen clit, how much they’d fill her, how she’d move and curl them inside.