Page 107 of Darcy
Darcy
We tumble into the band’s hotel suite a little after midnight. Arlo and Dodger have to almost hold me upright, thanks to the strength of Mama P’s homemade cocktails. I’m a giggling mess, but the best part is, I don’t even care.
My guys are here, I just survived an entire barbecue with a plug in my ass without anyone—aside from Prophet—noticing a thing, and I even got to thrash them all at family trivia night.
I am a trivia goddess, after all.
“Come on, you lightweight,” Dodger murmurs. “Let’s get you to bed.”
He’s got a gleam in his eyes, the same one that he wore when he carefully worked this silly plug into my butt, and a sharp stab of arousal punctures the happy fuzz.
“I’m not drunk,” I promise, doing my best not to smile. “Just a little tipsy.”
“I think she’d prefer my bed,” Slate says, trying to weave between me and Dodger to steal me away.
Arlo elbows him in the gut. “What about me? I want to snuggle Drunk Darcy.”
“You had her last night,” Dodger retorts. “If we’re taking turns—”
“If we’re taking turns, it’s my night.”
Prophet’s voice freezes the four of us in place, and a devious grin paints Slate’s face.
The bassist turns slowly, schooling his expression as he extends a hand towards me in invitation. “As you wish.”
I look up at the drummer in confusion.
Deep in the back of my mind, I remember that we just had this conversation. He wasn’t willing to try a few hours ago. So why is he pushing for this?
My pussy, remembering how it felt to be under his scrutiny earlier, clenches in hope.
Prophet’s face gives away nothing as he holds out a hand to me. “Come, angel.”
My brain helpfully supplies another scenario when he might say those words in a far huskier tone.
Oh yeah, here comes Drunk Darcy’s most elusive mode—horny as fuck. I slip my hand into his grip easily, sighing as he effortlessly arranges me so I’m pressed against his side.
Then he has to go and ruin everything. “Don’t worry. I’m not taking advantage of you while you’re drunk. But I think someone ought to take that plug out of you before you fall asleep.” He pauses, looking over my head at the rest of the band. “In the morning, we have some things to talk about.”
The four of them exchange nods, and Prophet dismisses them all by turning us and heading for his room.
The second the door closes, he releases me.
“First, I need you to tell me how to get rid of the cameras,” he mutters.
I grin and fish out my phone. This means I’m getting laid, right? He just doesn’t want anyone watching.
A few taps and the app I designed to detect radio frequencies pops up. I walk around the room, frowning as I trip on the uneven floor. Luckily, Prophet is there to catch me each time.
“In the alarm clock,” I say, when I’m sure that I’ve checked everywhere. “That’s it.”
Prophet nods and rips his shirt over his head in one smooth move, chucking the fabric in the direction of the bedside table. It lands perfectly, obscuring any view of us, and leaving me free to explore his abs.
“You’re so yummy,” I say, then blink as I realise I said that out loud. “Oops.”
His eyes smoulder as he looks at me, and his nostrils flare.
“Angel, I need you to bend over the bed for me. You’re not sleeping with that plug in.”
