Page 129 of Darcy
“If it’s not what you like, we can buy a different one,” Arlo rushes. “We chose this one because there’s a ground floor suite that we can turn into a home gym when your legs are healed enough for stairs, but there were others…”
I scoff as my door opens. “I highly doubt there’s an abundance of mansions with five door garages just waiting for us to pick one out.”
“If there aren’t, we’ll build one.” Slate’s easy confidence oozes out of him as he lifts me out of my seat and carries me through the front doors.
The way he looks at me, even with my rolled up sweats and bulky brace-covered legs, makes me grin.
“I’m not cleared for any kind of strenuous activity for at least the next few weeks,” I remind him, as he tries and fails to keep his eyes from wandering along the v neck of my tee as he carries me into the kitchen.
“Counting down the days,mi amor,” he murmurs, kissing the top of my head. “See that island there? I have daydreams about bending you over it.”
“Pizza first,” I insist. “Prophet promised you had some.”
“You heard her,” Emma says. “Pizza first, gross lovey dovey shit later.”
Forty-Three
Darcy
My arm throbs like a bitch, but I keep that information to myself as I watch our home come into view. January this year has been colder than ever, and an icy layer of sleet obscures the windshield as Prophet pulls up outside.
For the first time in six months, I can open the car door and step out by myself, without a cane or crutches. Walking unaided is the biggest gift, and while my legs will still twinge from time to time, today was my last follow up appointment with the torture-therapists.
“So…” I begin, rushing up to the porch. “I vote that we start in the kitchen.”
“Start?” Prophet asks, unlocking the door.
“Then we’ll move on to the den.” I shoot a grin over my shoulder as I waltz in. “But I’m partial to doggy on the stairs, so we’ll have to stop on the way.”
Prophet’s eyes twinkle as he finally catches on. His hands encircle my waist, and he pulls me back against his chest, leaning down to press his lips to the spot just below my ear.
“You sure you’re ready for this, angel?”
The careful concern in his tone has me melting.
The one and only time we tried anything sexual since my injury, my orgasm caused my still-healing calf muscles to cramp. Hard. It was an incident that none of us will forget in a hurry, even if it didn’t have any long-lasting consequences. After I screamed the house down, all four of my guys decided to pull the plug on sex until I got the all clear.
It’s been alongsix months. Made longer by the fact that I joined them for workouts in the gym every morning.
In short, I’m hornier than I ever remember being, and I am beyond ready to have the gang bang they keep taunting me with.
Plus, I have a surprise for them.
“I’m beyond ready.” I pry his hands free and dance out of his hold. “Let’s go find the others.”
I don’t have to go far. The others are gathered in the den, poring over… sheet music? It’s my favourite room in our home, purely because it’s essentially a cinema room with giant bean bags in place of chairs. Right now, the three of them are lounging around as Arlo strums on his guitar, and Slate adds a bass line into the mix.
“Prophet, get over here,” Dodger commands, tucking his pen behind his ear as soon as he spots us. “We’ve got a good melody going, but what do you think we should do with—Darcy?”
I grin as my top falls to the floor, leaving me in just my bra. As much as I love the way they’ve gradually fallen back into writing music together again, I have something more important to talk to them about.
Grabbing my left arm, I twist to proudly display my tiny, throbbing wound.
It’s nothing compared to the bullet scar on my shoulder—which has since been covered with my own tiny Hazardous band tattoo—but it still hurts like a bitch. I guess being shot and crushed did nothing to improve my pain tolerance.
“Is that…?” Arlo trails off.
I grin at the startled look in his eyes that’s quickly turning to a stormy heat. The moment the tour was cancelled, his trademark glasses came off, and he hasn’t worn them since. He has no need to pretend to hide a coke addiction now that Miguel is gone, and with the cartel out of the picture, he’s been able to talk to a professional, who’s helping him deal with any hiccups along the way. He’s still not at the stage where he’s comfortable wearing short sleeves, but nothing makes me happier than being able to read every single emotion as they play across his face.
