Delilah stood so fast her chair toppled backward with a sharp crack against the marble, the sound slicing through the lingering tension like a gunshot.

The entire dining room froze—silverware suspended, breaths held—as every pair of eyes fixed on her, the air thick with unspoken questions.

Every head at the table snapped toward her. Harold paused mid-sip of his whiskey, eyes narrowing. Melissa's fork hovered. Sienna lowered her phone. Danton—poor, wrecked Danton—looked like he might be sick.

But Delilah didn't care. Her gaze was locked on Phei, burning with something raw and frantic and utterly shameless.

In that moment, the facade cracked wide open—years of restraint shattering under the weight of one desperate, forbidden need.

"I need to speak with you," she said again, voice edged with that sharp, imperious tone she used when she wanted the world to believe this was about something trivial. Something boring. Something family-appropriate.

But her hand was already moving—reaching across the table, fingers finding his, wrapping around his wrist with surprising strength. She tugged. Once. Hard.

Phei let her. He had that devastating smile still playing at his lips and allowed her to pull him with her—hand in hand, like teenagers sneaking out, except this was Delilah Maxton dragging the family's former charity case through their own dining room while the entire household watched in stunned silence.

No one moved. No one spoke.

Harold's brow furrowed. Melissa's lips parted as if to speak. Danton made a strangled sound that died in his throat. But no one stopped them.

Delilah didn't look back. She led him out of the dining room, through the grand foyer, up the sweeping staircase—her grip on his hand tight, almost painful, like she was afraid he'd vanish if she let go.

Phei followed without resistance, letting her pull him along, his thumb brushing slow circles against her knuckles—a silent promise, a tether.

Each step echoed with urgency, the grand house suddenly feeling too small to contain the storm building between them.

They reached the landing. Turned down the private corridor toward her wing.

The moment they rounded the corner—out of sight of the dining room, out of sight of prying eyes—Delilah whirled on him. Wild. Completely feral.

Her back slammed against the wall beside her bedroom door as she yanked him forward, hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him into her space with desperate, shaking need.

The dam broke. All pretense vanished in the shadowed hallway, replaced by raw, clawing hunger.

Phei didn't hesitate. Not for a second. His hands seized her waist—powerful, possessive—and he lifted her like she weighed nothing, slamming her back deeper against the wall with his body as her legs wrapped around his hips in a vise, ankles locking at the small of his back like she was trying to fuse them together.

The impact tore a sharp, filthy gasp from her lips—half shock, half raw relief—as her skirt bunched up around her waist, bare thighs clamping tight around him, her soaked panties pressing directly against the rigid bulge in his pants.

Pinned there, elevated, exposed—she became his entirely, the wall the only witness to her surrender.

And then they crashed together. Mouths colliding in a kiss that was pure sin—teeth clashing, tongues fucking desperately, wet and sloppy and starving.

No pretense of gentleness. Just weeks of twisted, taboo hunger finally unleashed—her moaning into his mouth like a depraved little animal, sucking on his tongue, biting his lower lip hard enough to draw blood while her nails raked down his neck.

Phei kissed her back with equal ferocity, one hand gripping her thigh hard enough to bruise, fingers digging into soft flesh as he spread her wider, the other fisting her hair to yank her head back exactly how he wanted, devouring her mouth like he owned it.

The kiss was violence and worship—claiming, punishing, forgiving all at once.

She rolled her hips. Hard. Grinding her wet cunt against the thick, throbbing ridge of his cock through their clothes, the friction immediate and obscene.

She was soaked—utterly, her thin panties clinging to her virgin swollen lips, arousal seeping through the fabric to slick his pants as she humped him shamelessly, chasing that pressure, that delicious hardness she'd been fantasizing about since the fire-pit lounge.

He could smell it together with her virgin hunger while she kissed him like she hasn't learnt that today.

"Fuck—" she gasped into his mouth, hips snapping forward in another desperate, filthy grind, her clit dragging against his shaft through the soaked cotton. "Phei—oh god—"

He growled low and guttural, thrusting up to meet her, pinning her harder against the wall so she could feel every veined inch of what she was doing to him—how massively hard he was, how his cock twitched and pulsed against her needy little virgin cunt, pre-cum already leaking through his pants to mix with her juices in a messy, taboo slick.

Their bodies moved in savage rhythm, grinding, claiming, the hallway air thick with the wet sounds of desperate friction.

But he didn't stop there. His hand on her thigh slid higher—fingers slipping under the hem of her ruined panties, brushing the bare, dripping lips of her pussy, teasing her entrance without pushing in, just gathering her wetness and smearing it up to circle her swollen clit once, twice—making her cry out into his mouth.

"Ahh~"

They were messy. Sinful. Completely lost in each other. Just outside her childhood bedroom door.

Where anyone could walk by—her father, her mother, her twin brother—and catch the Maxton princess dry-fucking the family's former charity case like a desperate whore, skirt rucked up, legs spread wide, grinding her soaked cunt against his cock while he finger-teased her toward oblivion.

The danger only fueled the fire—the thrill of exposure making every touch sharper, every moan louder.

The taboo of it only made her wetter. Made her grind harder. Made her moan louder into his mouth—filthy, broken sounds that echoed down the corridor, announcing exactly what they were doing to anyone who might hear.

Her hands clawed under his shirt, nails raking down his back hard enough to leave marks, drawing blood as she pulled him closer, deeper into the madness.

His fingers dipped lower again—two thick digits pressing at her entrance, not entering, just stretching the soaked fabric of her panties against her hole, letting her feel how easily he could rip them aside and finger-fuck her right here, right now, against the wall of her family home.

With a savage rip, he did exactly that—tearing her delicate lace panties clean off with one brutal yank, the fabric shredding like tissue as cool air hit her exposed, glistening pussy.

Her slick folds were fully bared now, dripping shamelessly down her thighs, her swollen clit throbbing in the open air of the hallway where her own blood relatives might stumble upon them at any second.

Now completely exposed, vulnerable, dripping in the forbidden space—she was utterly his, and the risk made her burn hotter.

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