Page 115 of Darcy
“I’d kiss it better,” he promises, hooking his finger under the waistband and dragging my final piece of clothing off.
I don’t need to look to know he’s tossed my favourite panties straight into the bin. I make a silent promise to rescue them later.
He climbs onto the bed, straddling my upper thighs without putting any of his weight on me. I can still feel the heat of his cock branding me as his hands find my shoulders and begin to knead.
“Ohh,” I moan, sinking into the mattress as his wonderful fingers somehow find every single knot of tension and disperse it. “You’re really good at this.”
A grunt. It appears Prophet used up his ability to talk by threatening my underwear, but I can’t bring myself to care as he slides those capable, calloused hands over my neck and down my right arm.
When he moves to my left, he pauses at the tiny grain of rice beneath my skin. His thumb strokes over the implant thoughtfully, and his head dips to kiss my nape.
“When he’s dead, this comes out,” he whispers against my ear. “And I’m going to fuck so much of my cum into you…”
He trails off, but my cheeks heat because I know what he means.
Once Miguel is dead, he’s going to make sure we get the family we both want. I nod into the pillow, and he rewards me with a second kiss to my spine before he withdraws.
His hands finish caressing my arms and move down my back, fingertips grazing the sides of my breasts but never going further. He spends longer than he needs to on my ass, caressing until I’m actually trembling and moaning into the pillow. His thumbs spread my cheeks, rubbing against my back entrance with careful strokes that make my pussy gush against the sheets.
I’m beginning to think this massage was just a way for him to torture me. I need something. Penetration. Friction. Anything.
“Prophet,” I moan.
“Not yet, angel. I still have to do your front.”
He’s going to kill me.
“I want you to—” I cut off with a groan of frustration as his hands move down to my thighs.
No amount of begging will speed him up as he carefully rubs my feet then rolls me over and starts again from the bottom of my calves. My heart is pounding, and my skin flushed by the time he reaches my belly, but my hands come down on autopilot as he shifts his caresses to my abdomen.
“Can we just skip that part?” I ask, trying to shimmy his hands up to my breasts.
“Nope.” He lowers his head, pressing a kiss to my navel. “I’m in love with every single fucking inch of you. Let me show you how much.”
His thumbs rub up either side of the slight pooch, and he presses another kiss to my navel as I fall back, eyes burning.
“I love you too.” My breath whispers out as he finally stops and trails his lips up my sternum to claim my lips.
His hands cup both of my breasts, testing the weight of them in his palms before lightly strumming the rapidly hardening buds of my nipples. He alternates between softly rubbing and kneading my breast with his whole hand until I gasp and buck against him.
He shifts until his hips come to rest between my thighs, and he uses our position to keep me pinned as his mouth explores every inch of mine. I nip at his full lower lip, impatient, but he draws back.
“Patience,” he chides, sliding down until his stubble grazes my throat.
“No,” I retort, digging my heels into his ass and grinding my lower body up. The rough denim of his jeansfinallygrants my clit a fraction of sensation I crave. “No patience. Fuck now.”
He chuckles against me. “No.”
I have a moment to pout about how unfair it is that he can make a single word sound so final, before his hands shift, abandoning my breasts. One arm braces himself over me while the other grabs his own waistband and shoves his pants down.
That’s when I see it.
A single word tattooed along the left side of his Adonis belt, just below where the waistband of his pants would sit.
Please.
The cursive is flowing and gorgeous, and the artist has added tiny black wings on either side. It’s the only ink he has other than the band tattoo over his heart.
