Page 44 of Darcy
“Scared, baby girl?” I ask.
She should be.
“Only of the choking hazard,” she retorts.
My grin pulls at my nose, but I refuse to wince. It’s not broken, and it sure as hell isn’t getting in the way of my first night with her.
Might ruin my plan for her to sit on my face, but we’ve got time, right?
My mind flashes back to what she said about a trial period, and I grimace. No. We might not have time.
If there’s one thing Hazardous is good at, it’s fucking up every good thing that happens in our lives. How long before Darcy realises what a mess we are and dumps our asses for some well-paid white-collar snob to raise her two-point-five kids and spend her days organising charity bake sales?
That’s what she wants.
Not a bunch of metalheads caught in a deal with a cartel. Sure, we can offer her money and whatever scraps of our souls are worth giving, but it’s not enough.
Hell, the life expectancy of a rock star is twenty-five years less than the average person.
She’d have to be mad to fall for Slate’s plan and pick us.
All the more reason to make the most of it while it lasts, I convince myself, as Darcy finally reaches out and places her hand in mine.
Electricity arcs from the touch, and I clench my fist without meaning to. I ease up a second later, but she must have noticed.
She doesn’t mention it, and I breathe out a sigh of relief, hauling her up and pulling her into my room. For once, I’m grateful I’m not a slob—I know girls hate that shit—as I push her towards the bed.
“Get comfy,” I order, shutting the door behind me. “I’m going to shower, then I’ll join you.”
I’m not stupid enough to think the blood all over my face is a turn on, and I’m still sweaty and sticky from the stage earlier. I want her to remember this. The need to live up to every fantasy she ever had is a nervous pulse beneath my skin.
Normally, sex is just something I do. An itch to be satisfied, no different from eating or breathing or any other bodily function. If anything, fulfilling all the expectations was becoming a bit of a chore.
Not with her.
Being on the phone with Darcy as she moans her orgasm is a thousand times hotter than any other encounter in my life. Even though she wasn’t physically there, I felt more than I did when I was a horny teen getting paid to fuck his way through an entire bachelorette party. I’m willing to bet reality is even better.
Rushing through the shower, I return, practically bouncing on my feet and—
Her snore fills the room before I can reach her.
I can’t even be disappointed, because she’s in my bed, hugging my duvet with one long leg twisted in the fabric. Her glasses are on my nightstand, and she’s wearing the most adorable Pac Man pyjamas. Like this, she could be a true angel. Those blonde locks are curling over my pillow, and her lashes cast sweeping shadows over her cheekbones.
Another deafening snore fills the room, and I grin.
Darcy snores like a train, and it’s too fucking cute.
Batting down the erection that’s plainly no longer needed, I grab my own pair of shorts and tug them over my hips before climbing in beside her. I’m spared the decision about whether or not to snuggle her when she practically claws her way across my torso.
Jesus. Is this girl made of literal ice? How is she so cold? I wince as her cold feet find my calves and start to leech the warmth from my bones, then grin. All she needs to do now is steal the covers, and Darcy will be the literal definition of a hostile sleeper.
I fall asleep with her breath huffing over my shoulder and a smile on my face, and I wake the exact same way. A glance at my phone reveals I haven’t slept long—four hours at most—but that’s not unusual for me. Her sleeping face is so unguarded, so trusting, and the intimate weight of her head on my arm is perfection. I physically can’t bring myself to unwrap myself from her and leave the bed.
If I could wake like this every single morning for the rest of my life, I’d be a happy man.
The realisation stuns me for a moment.
Why can’t I? Because of the contract? Because of her ridiculous notion that she’ll be happier with John Doe, the accountant from the ‘burbs?
