Ch. 1: The Meeting
Other women often ask what he was like. They want to know whether he was the bloodthirsty monster portrayed in the storybooks. I tell them that he wouldn't harm a fly – unless, of course, it was a Philistine fly. The man I knew was gentle: he never cursed or lied, never stole or cheated. Nor did he ever hurt me – except when I wanted him to. I suppose that's what those women really want to know, isn't it? Was he a passionate lover? Well, I'll come to that in my own good time.
When I met him, Samson was already a legend amongst the Israelites. He had been married to that Philistine bitch from Timnah who had bedded and betrayed him with his best friend. Not that it did her any good. After Sam had burned down the Philistine cornfields and the olive orchards, they turned on her and her good-for-nothing father and burned them both alive. Afterwards Sam had to flee the valley and lived the life of an outlaw, swooping to defeat his enemies and visiting upon them such violence that they thought he was a demon. But he wasn't – he was a quiet man who loved his people.
He found me in a bar in Sorek. I had been working there for my uncle, Ezra, since fleeing my husband. Sam used to come in almost every day. He rarely drank – he'd just listen to the others, and watch me. He was an impressive figure: as tall as a door and big muscled. Handsome too, with a smooth, clean-shaven face. But what I noticed first were his eyes, and his hair, of course. He had the kindest, softest eyes I have ever seen. I could feel them on me as I walked from table to table serving drinks. He was undressing me with them as I hoped he would one day do with his hands. I would glance over at him as I set down a glass of wine or beer and catch his long, curious gaze, appraising me – and stripping me too. I would smile back at him but he would simply hold me in his stare until I walked away.
When, at last, he spoke to me his voice was surprisingly quiet. I had to lean forwards to catch his words. Perhaps he wanted me to. I could smell the blood and sweat on him. I looked into his eyes, close up, and saw only death and sex.
'When do you finish?' he asked.
'About eleven,' I answered. 'Why?'
'You shouldn't walk the streets alone. There are thieves and vagabonds about. It's not safe for a lady.'
I laughed. It had been a long time since I'd been called a lady.
'Will you protect me, my lord?'
'Do you want me to, Delilah?' I liked the sound of my name on his full, red lips.
'Let me think about it,' I said. I set down his drink and walked back to the bar, wiggling my bottom for his pleasure. I wasn't playing hard to get. In fact, I wasn't playing at all. I wanted him more than any man who had ever shared my bed. But his wildness, barely suppressed beneath the surface of civility, scared me. There seemed to be no limit to him. It was as if, once unleashed, his passions would be beyond any control, his or mine. More worryingly, I harboured the same fears about my own emotions. It had been many months since I had felt a man inside me and I wanted him with a fervour that brought a sweat to my lips.
The minutes ticked by and, with each, my uncertainty grew. Just after eleven, Ezra told me that I could go.
'Are you coming, Delilah?' Samson asked, holding out his hand.
'Yes,' I said, 'I'm coming.' I guess that I had always known I would.
We walked, unspeaking, down the main street. I could feel the heat from his body as we brushed against each other, weaving past the drunken revellers returning to their nagging wives. Each touch – no more than the graze of his shirt sleeve against my cloak – burned through my clothes into my heart. Desire was coursing through me like a fever, and I sensed it in him too.
Without warning, he grabbed my wrist and dragged me down a narrow alleyway. In the shadowed darkness, we stumbled against an abandoned handcart and almost fell. He took my arms and pinned me against the wall of an old house. His strength was immense: it was as if I was a skiff being buffeted by a hurricane. I let out a little moan as my back and legs banged against the rockwork. His hands swept my hair from my face. He took my pony tail in his fist and pulled it back so that my face turned up to his. His mouth covered mine in a violent kiss. I bit his lip and tasted his blood on my teeth. Now his hands were on my neck, pulling my cloak from my shoulders. Any resistance I had intended melted like snow. I drew his tongue into my mouth. Our tongues met, parted and met again. He broke off our kiss and unbuttoned my cloak, dragging it off my shoulders. It fell, abandoned, to the ground. His hands found the edges of my shift and ripped it apart. Buttons flew as the fabric yielded to his grip. Now my breasts were in his hands; the nipples hardened against his grasping palms. I arched against him and felt the length of his cock press against my stomach. With nimble fingers I released it from his pants. He felt hard and hot in my hand. And as big as a bull.
