Page 66 of Darcy
“Prophet’s wrong, anyway,” Slate continues. “The stubbornpendejowon’t be happier if he leaves. He’ll go back to some dead-end job that takes advantage of him until he dies. He’s only doing it to punish himself for getting his family involved. He loves the music more than any of us.”
“Perhaps he needs the freedom to realise that for himself,” I whisper into his chest. “Most of the time, clinging to people only drives them further away.”
He sighs against me. “Does it look like I’m clinging,cariño?”
It looks like he’s battling a bad deal with the cartel while dangling a Darcy-sized steak in front of his bandmates to try to convince them not to split up, but I don’t say that out loud.
His hands come to rest on my head, fingers threading through my hair. “I just need to figure out how to remind him that this, right here, is everything he’s ever wanted.”
I have a feeling that might be harder than he thinks, but I say nothing, offering silent comfort through touch. His hands switch from stroking to tugging before I can say much more. His grip in my hair tightens, and he tilts my head back until I’m staring directly into those rich nearly black eyes.
“I believe I kept my part of the bargain,” he murmurs, tracing the line of my lips with his gaze. “So… clothes off.”
Then, before I have a chance to comply or ask more questions, he claims my mouth in a fierce kiss.
Trapped between his hands and his lips, I soften, then slowly melt. Slate may be a relentless bastard when it comes to getting what he wants, but there’s a whole load of softer, unspoken emotions running between us. His kiss is an apology, a promise, and a declaration of intent all rolled into one seductive mesh of mouths.
It’s the kiss of a man who craves me, yet openly plans to use me for his own purposes, and will never apologise out loud for either.
But here, now, in the quiet intimacy of his kiss, he pours his guilt, his need, and his resolve until I moan softly. When he pulls away, I blink for a second, lost in the onslaught of emotion, until he flops onto his back on the bed and grabs my thighs.
“I’m still dressed!” I protest.
He shrugs. “Tough. I gave you the chance to get naked.”
I shake out of his grip, hooking my thumbs around the elastic waistband and flinging my shorts away. Slate grabs me again before they have a chance to hit the floor, and this time, he doesn’t let me go until I’m hovering directly over his face.
My cheeks heat at the vulnerability of the position. Sure, I’ve been eaten out before, and sixty-nine is my favourite number, but I’m facing the wrong way to reciprocate, and even if I wasn’t, he’s fully clothed.
“Sit.” Slate growls.
“Like this?” I lower myself slightly, until my pussy is centimetres from his face.
His sharp inhale makes my breath catch, and his answering growl vibrates against my core.
“Sit,” he repeats.
I lower slightly more, only to squeak and jerk back when his palm smacks against my ass.
“Sit.”
“If you die of suffocation…” I begin, dryly.
Slate loses his patience before I can finish. His arms wrap around my thighs, yanking my body down until my pussy is pressed against his face. His nose nudges my poor clit, and he growls as he fucking devours me. The vibration travels through him, directly to my core, and I can’t help when my hips grind down, seeking more of their own accord.
My hands hang awkwardly in the air, fluttering towards his head as if to hold him to me, before I realise the futility of that action and change direction. My top lands in a heap somewhere and my palms caress the aching heaviness of my breasts. Slate groans against me, and my hands clench in answer, massaging my breasts until my mouth falls open on a gasp.
His tongue lashes my pussy, delving past my entrance in the search for more. He eats me out like I’m his favourite desert and he has to savour every last drop.
And when the inevitable happens, and he drives me over that invisible edge to an explosive orgasm, he. Just. Keeps. Going.
“Slate!” I shriek, trembling on top of him.
His hands clench on my ass as he says something, but I can’t make it out. The words are too muffled. Still, the hum of them travels straight to my clit, sending me over a second time.
“Slate. I can’t,” I pant, when it looks like he means to keep going.
I’m too sensitive. Too overwrought.
