Page 114 of Darcy
“Night, guys,” I call, craning my neck to look at them.
“Sweet dreams,cariño,” Slate calls back.
“Night, Dark.” Arlo chuckles at Prophet’s antics.
“Hey, remember she’s mine tomorrow night,” Dodger calls. “And you’ve had two nights in a row. Don’t think we aren’t counting.”
Prophet reaches back with his free hand and flips them all the bird. “We agreed.”
They… did? What precisely did they agree to? Before I can ask, he’s shouldering his way through his door and closing it behind us.
“You have two choices,” he begins, tossing me onto the bed where I bounce on the mattress. “Option one, I massage the tension out of you, and you go to sleep relaxed and ready for me to fuck you in the morning.”
I hum, pushing my way up onto my elbows. “And option two?”
“You still get the massage,” he concedes. “But at some point, I’m going to bury myself in your dripping cunt and fuck you until we both can’t walk tomorrow.”
My grin creeps slowly across my face as I struggle to put on an unaffected air. “Decisions, decisions.”
He quirks a single brow at me, eyes gleaming. “Do you want me to choose for you?”
No way. If I’ve learned anything about him, he has the self-control needed to go for option one.
“Option two,” I squeak.
If his expression was heated before, it turns molten. “Clothes off.”
“You first,” I challenge, grinning as I cross one leg over the other in what I hope is a sexy move.
Far from being intimidated, Prophet puts his hands over his head, grips the neck of his shirt and tugs it over his head in one smooth move.
My lips part without my conscious permission, and my tongue darts out to moisten them.
“That’s all you get for now,” he rasps, leaning forward to pluck at the hem of my shirt. “Off. All of it.”
My hands start following his orders without thinking. My hoodie comes off first, taking my shirt with it until all that separates his hungry gaze from my breasts is the patterned fabric of my bright green bra.
“Are those…?” he rasps.
“You don’t like?” A bolt of self consciousness rocks through me.
He stares at the pattern of green helmets with yellow visors, and when he speaks, his voice has dropped an octave. “Angel, I’m doing my best to share with the others, but having another man’s helmet plastered all over your pretty tits…”
“Master Chief is fictional!”
“I. Don’t. Care.” He reaches forward, and with one finger, deftly unhooks the front fastening. “Burn it.”
Grinning, because his jealousy is kinda hot, I do the most inflammatory thing possible.
Shrugging off the bra, I shove down my leggings and turn over, exposing the back of my cheeky panties. The navy fabric is printed with the wordsProperty of Garrus Vakarian.
Prophet’s dark chuckle reassures me that I just went from “fucked” to “super fucked.”
Mission accomplished, I grin into the pillow. The fabric swallows my gasp as he hooks one finger under the hem and traces it inward from my hip to the junction of my thighs.
“We’re going to expand our merch line,” he grumbles. “It’s our band’s name on your ass, or nothing. In fact, maybe you could get our symbol tattooed right here.” His finger twirls against the sensitive area of my inner thigh.
“No needles,” I hiss. “No way.”
