Page 87 of Like a Power Play
My fingers trace down her cheek to her mouth. My thumb brushes over her bottom lip, and I lift my gaze toward the place where I can almost make out the shape of her eyes.
“Darcy, I think you’re the prettiest demon I have ever laid eyes on.”
She shakes her head against my hand. “If you saw what my hands and ankles look like, you wouldn’t say that.”
My stomach twists at the thought of Darcy being insecure about herself. About her disease. “I’m not well educated on what Rhinoceros Articulitislookslike—”
“Rheumatoid Arthritis.”
“—but unless you’ve grown like, an alligator tail or—”
She laughs, playfully smacking me. “Shut up.”
I don’t, of course.
“Actually, I take that back. Godzilla was my queer awakening.”
“… Isn’t Godzilla a boy?”
I shake my head against the pillow. “Actually, in the original films, Godzilla’s nonbinary. It wasn’t until they did the English dub that they began to use he/him pronou—”
Her lips cut me off, warm, soft. When she pulls back, a sharp breath blows across my lips as she laughs. “Anyone ever tell you your pillow talk is panty-melting?”
I grin. “Only all the time.”
Darcy smiles against my neck, then pulls back, leveling herself. “I still don’t want you to look at me,” she says.
I pause. This is an out. The part of the horror movie where you’re screaming at the blonde girl to run upstairs while she has the chance. Where the ship is going down, and there’s one lifeboat left.
But instead of blowing the whistle, instead of stumbling up the stairs, that hot pulse sparks in my clit again. It pools between my thighs, warm and wet, and I tighten at the ache.
“Where’s your eye mask thing?” I ask.
Darcy hesitates before answering. “On the nightstand.”
“Put it on me.”
I hear her breath hitch. “I don’t want to make you—”
“Darcy,” I say, firmer this time.“Put it on me.”
Darcy obeys, lifting my head to tug the mask around my face. Her silhouette disappears.Everythingdisappears. But the sound of her breath in the pitch black? My pussy tenses. Slick. Hot.Reallyhot.
“Damn,” I say, fidgeting with the silk fabric as it slips down my face. I lift my head up to tuck the slack of the strap underneath me, so that Darcy can’t claim I’m peeking, no matter how badly I want to. “What’s your head size? Wrecking ball?”
The moment it leaves my mouth, I regret it. What if big heads are a symptom of RA?
But Darcy just laughs. “Fuck you,” she says, but I can hear the smile in her voice.
“Seriously, Darcy. What are you doing coaching a hockey team when you’ve got buildings t—”
Her lips press to mine firmly. She doesn’t pull back to let me finish my sentence, or to stutter as I’d try. She just keeps kissing me, her tongue slipping between my teeth, chest pressing against mine in a rhythmic wave. And it isn’t until her hand slips back under my shirt that I realize:
She finally took her gloves off.
It’s just a hand. Skin and bones. But the feeling of her bare fingertips against my body sends goosebumps down my arms. Sends a needy moan tumbling from my lips. The pads of her fingers dip under the band of my bra again, tracing slowly from left to right, and her thigh presses, relieving the wet ache of myclit. A breath hitches in my chest, and shit, how am I already soaked?
“Fuck,” I mutter. Darcy does it again.
