Page 47 of Darcy
“Say yes,” I beg, shamelessly.
I think I’d willingly die just to get a taste of her.
My lips trace the line of her jaw, and I press another kiss to the soft skin of her throat, inhaling her naturally sweet scent. My tongue flicks out, and I breathe lightly over the wet patch until she shivers.
“Yes.” The single word hisses out on a gasp.
“Good girl. You gonna behave for our first time?”
The grin she flashes me is all fake innocence. “I always behave.”
That’s a no, then. Good thing I love her sassiness.
Sixteen
Darcy
I’m breathless, and I don’t even care. There’s something drugging about the way Dodger kisses me. I can’t think. I don’t want to.
He cradles my face like I’m precious as his tongue strokes out to meet mine. His thumb strokes my jaw, tilting my face at just the right angle to thrust deeper. He’s just as controlling in real life as he is normally, dominating every inch of the kiss until I have no choice but to relax and let him lead.
I grip his forearms, fingers brushing against the even ridges hidden beneath his tattoos a second time. In response, Dodger releases my face and grabs both of my hands, tugging them up until they’re above my head.
“Keep them there,” he growls, releasing me.
“But I want to play with you.”
“Later.” He grabs the hem of my top and pulls that up next, leaving it tangled around my upper body and exposing my breast. “Fuck. These tits are gorgeous.”
He pauses, grinning as he cups them both in his hands. They overflow his palms. “Next time, I want to watch you suck on them, but this time, I’m not sharing.”
Then, without waiting for a response, he dips his head and sucks one pink nipple into his mouth.
“Dodger!”
He groans against my breast, tongue flicking and swirling. Each movement teases the tiny bud tighter, and I mourn the sudden loss of his warmth until he sets his sights on my other breast, giving it the same treatment. My hands fist in his hair, determined to hold him in place this time.
Nipping my delicate skin as punishment, he draws back.
“Hands,” he growls across my skin.
“Make me,” I retort, then as an afterthought, I add, “Sir.”
His grin cuts through my protest, and I can’t help but feel I’ve been lured into a trap. “Gladly.”
That quickly, his weight is gone, and he’s on the other side of the room, searching through the pile of abandoned clothes on the floor.
When he returns with his belt, I swallow nervously.
“Worried, baby girl?” he asks, kneeling over me, his thighs wrapped around my abdomen. “You should be.”
He makes a loop in the belt and quickly binds both my wrists together. It’s a pathetic binding, really—Man taught me how to break out of much stronger bonds when I was seven—but that doesn’t stop the shiver that runs across my skin as he attaches my wrists to the headboard.
“Not too tight?” he checks, testing the belt with a finger.
I shake my head. “No.”
“Good. Now, where was I?”
