Page 94 of Darcy
Arlo rushes to defend himself. “It was a study of the human form. Shit, I forgot they had this.”
“It was a study of my gorgeous ass,” Dodger quips back. “Don’t get shy now. You were the one snooping on my rehearsals, and it’s not like I’m ashamed of it. My ass kept us fed for years.” He leans in close to me, putting his mouth to my ear. “I still have that thong. Want a private show?”
Thong? How small is that thing? I can barely make out the line around his hips. Suddenly, all I can see in my mind is Dodger’s muscled body, moving around a pole, arms flexing while I watch.
My arousal flushes across my skin, and I don’t have to check to know I just soaked my panties.
“You like that idea,” he whispers, moving in front of me.
His hands move from a respectable—if intimate—position at my waist and trace down my hips to cup the curves of my ass possessively. Against my stomach, the hardness of his erection is straining against his pants as if it’s trying to break free and fuck me right here.
I glance up with wide eyes as his fingers play with the hem of my dress. Across the room, there are two elderly gallery patrons deep in discussion with each other about one of Arlo’s other works. At any moment, they could turn around and see him nearly fondling me in public.
As if reading my thoughts, Slate shifts, putting his body between us and the rest of the room.
“I think Lo deserves a little something inspirational,” Dodger murmurs. “There’s a shortage of perfect asses in this world, and we wouldn’t want him to lack for source material.”
Slowly, giving me all the time in the world to object, he gathers the dress and lifts it. His fingers stroke against my skin, giving me goosebumps as he exposes my panty-clad ass to his friends.
Slate hisses out a breath, but Arlo is eerily silent. When I glance back, he’s taken off his glasses and is staring transfixed at the way Dodger is holding me.
When my skirt lowers, I’m almost… disappointed.
That can’t be right. We’re in a public place, for goodness’ sake! I do not want to take things any further. There could be cameras, and—
Except there aren’t. The gallery is small, and I would’ve noticed a security system in the room when we entered. Even now, as I double check the corners of the room for them, I know I won’t find any.
The couple from across the room is moving slowly closer, though.
So, taking a deep breath, I release Dodger and step into Arlo’s arms.
Winding my fingers into his long, gold-kissed hair, I pull his ear down to my mouth and whisper.
“I love your art, but right now, I really need you to take me somewhere private and make love to me.”
I thought my invitation was bold, but when Arlo turns his head and whispers in my ear. “What if I don’t want to go somewhere private? What if I have something else in mind?”
My breath hitches, and I glance behind me to see Slate and Dodger share a knowing look.
“Depends,” I mumble. “Do I still get fucked at the end of it?”
The slow, sexy grin Arlo offers me says yes.
Thirty-Two
Darcy
The three of them guide me around the gallery slowly, letting the anticipation build with every step we take. It starts off innocently enough, but teasing brushes of their hands across my ass quickly escalate to backing me into corners and kissing the living daylights out of me. By the time evening falls and we have to leave, my lips are kiss-swollen and my panties are soaked through. Arlo has his arm wrapped around my shoulders. His hand drops down to stroke the upper slopes of my breasts every so often.
If Dodger’s thing is being in control, and Slate’s is eating me out until I’m nothing more than a shaking wreck, I can’t help but wonder if Arlo’s is prolonged torture.
Given how quiet he is, I thought perhaps he would be into sweet, soft sex. The kind that winds you up and pushes you into orgasm gently, leaving you glowing for hours later. But after the plane, and now this, I’m beginning to wonder if it isn’t something a little different.
A sharp pinch of my nipple through the fabric of my clothes draws a sharp gasp from me, and I blink, realising we’ve travelled farther than I thought while I was in my head. I have no idea where we are, but the three of them seem perfectly comfortable as they lead us along a street of rapidly filling bars and clubs and down a dirty alley.
They stop at a door which is painted with tribal designs and framed by bright red lanterns on either side. My brows furrow in confusion, and without pausing to explain, Slate hits the button on an unmarked intercom.
“Yes?” the mechanical speaker asks.
