Page 133 of Like a Power Play
Red spills across Darcy’s cheeks as she looks at me, her hair all tangled and messy from my hands, her lips swollen. She looks at me confused.
I slip out from under her, and those wild eyes look up at me. I lean forward, just slightly, to once in my life, tower over her.
“Lay down,” I order gently.
A puzzled expression conquers her face. She starts to turn her body, tilting her head against the headboard, but I shake my head, gesturing to the mattress. I know Darcy well enough by now to know that she’s going to want to keep this on the down low again. And if the headboard is banging against the wall, we’ll be caught. “Lay down right here.”
She complies. When her head presses to the mattress, slowly, tentatively, I begin to crawl on top of her. My leg slips in between hers, her breath hitches, and I kiss her. As our mouths move together, I reach out and grab a pillow from her headboard.
“Lift your head up,” I whisper, and when she does, I slip the pillow beneath her.
“You don’t have to treat me like I’m fragile,” she murmurs, letting out a moan as my tongue glides from behind her ear,down her neck, leaving a hot slick trail on her skin. Goosebumps rise one by one, and my core tightens. I suck her earlobe between my teeth, biting softly before whispering,
“I don’t plan to.”
“Fuck.”
The word slips out so quietly, I hardly hear it at all. But even that, a single, breathy word, is enough to make me desperate.
My mouth slides against hers, fingers threading needily through her hair. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about this since the retreat,” I murmur, pressing my thigh harder between her legs. She lets out a soft moan, her hips involuntarily bucking against me. I lean in closer, my breath tracing her jaw as my thumb grazes over her swollen bottom lip. “And I don’t think you have either. Tell me you’ve thought about this. About me fucking you the way you fucked me.”
Darcy shudders beneath my touch, one of her hands slipping beneath my shirt, tracing up my spine, as the other grips the back of my neck, anchoring it in place.
“I have,” she moans. “I’ve thought about it.”
The admission is more than it seems. Because Darcy Cole would never admit that I’m right, unless she had no other choice. And that, the fact that she too hasn’t been able to get this off her mind, to stop thinking about that night in the cabin, with our slick skin pressed together, our sounds, our desperation, tangling in a wet hot mess of need, makes every nerve in my body spark.
I pull back, just enough to pry her hand from the back of my neck and cup it in mine. My eyes lock with hers as my fingers trace the seam of her glove.
“Can I take these off?” I make sure to ask it gently. No pushing. No pleading. Giving her every second of time she needs to decide. Her gaze falls to her hands, then flicks back up to mine.
She nods. “Yes,” she says. There’s a soft waver in her voice, something I’m sure she tried her hardest to push away. But as much as I want to see every inch of her, Rhinoceros Arthritis and all, even more, I want her to be comfortable.
“You don’t have to,” I say, a little firmer this time. But her eyes don’t tear away from mine. Instead, they narrow. Her other hand moves from my back, and as she stares at me, almost like I’ve pissed her off, she rips off her gloves, one at a time.
My eyes fall to her hands.
They’re beautiful.
Porcelain skin, soft in some places, calloused in others. Her knuckles are swollen just slightly, her pinky on one hand bent out at an angle.
They’re not perfect. That’s why I love them. Because they’re hers. Because they hold on tight, even when they hurt. Because when they touch me, I feel like maybe I’m worth holding on to.
“Take it all off,” she says.
And I do.
I want to be archaic about it. To move quickly. To rip buttons, and shred seams, and tear through every inch of space between us, punishing it for existing. But I also want to be careful. To make love to her softly, like candlelight and silk sheets. I want to slip my hand between her thighs and ride each sound wave that falls from her lips.
Up and down.
Slipping off her clothes is a compromise, not fast, not slow. Not overly gentle, but there’s no torn threads either. She takes mine off just the same, pushing through the ache because for some incomprehensible reason, to her I am worth it.Thisis worth it.
I don’t try to stop her. I don’t tell her she’s too fragile or too hurt for this. I know she doesn’t want that. So instead, as herhands slide across my body, slipping underneath my clothes and tugging them off, I simply kiss each of her wrists.
Then her fingers.
Then her.
