Page 32 of Brat Baby (Sugar Life #1, #3)

Emery

A faint shushing pulls me from the quiet space my mind has been floating in, not quite asleep, but definitely walking the boundaries of dreamland. The noise goes quiet, but I’m unable to drift off again.

Without moving any other body parts, I slowly open my eyes. A warm overhead light shines down at me from an angle, and the rest of the room is dark. It takes several blinks for my vision to adjust before I can make out the backs of several empty easels.

An art studio.

Darcy’s art class.

Oh shit, did I sleep through the entire thing? That wasn’t the plan. Fuck, did he leave me here alone as some sort of punishment?

My shoulders twinge the tiniest amount as I rotate them down so that I can use my elbows to push myself up and get a better look at the room. The erratic beating of my heart settles as I spot a heavily shadowed figure sitting just outside the ring of light, closer to my feet.

They’ve dragged their easel and canvas several feet closer than the rest of the half circle, and all I can see of them is paint-splattered shoes, crossed at the ankle beneath their chair.

The shushing noise is coming from the other side of the canvas, and I need zero clues as to who it is or what they are doing.

I scan the room to confirm we are definitely alone, and from the lack of light coming through the windows, I’m going to assume it’s been a while since there was someone else here with Darcy and me.

Not sure if I am actually allowed to move at this point, I stay as I am, slightly propped up, really hoping I haven’t messed up his work. But, at the same time, I was only supposed to be here for a couple of hours, and clearly that time limit blew by without him setting me free.

Just in case, I wait to see if he checks on me, but after several minutes, there are no sightings of his face. As quietly as possible, I sit up straight and gather all the fabric to me, only now noticing that I am slightly too cool.

Pushing to standing, I wrap the fabric around me like a shawl, clutching it with one hand between my breasts. It doesn’t do much to warm me, and I end up with a fair portion of it trailing along the floor like a train on a bride’s dress.

I take a wide arc, so I end up behind him, not exactly sure what I’m going to see. But the moment the charcoal sketch of me is in view, my mouth gapes open.

It looks like a black-and-white photo of me. An actual photo.

There is texture and depth, contrast and flow, form and shape.

Nothing I have ever drawn has looked like this. This is…

He has only drawn from my knees to the back of the couch near my fingers and the top corner of the cushion beneath me, like a photographer zooming in. The fabric has individual threads, and where it was bunched or doubled over shows in the drawing as darker shadows and lines.

I follow the fabric as it winds up my body, noting that he has captured the few random freckles I have on my ribs.

The shadow of my nipple is alluring, yet demure, while my other breast is completely exposed, every bump and ridge exposed for all to see. My necklace is on full display, the heart having sunk into the hollow of my throat. The key dangles free, away from the rest of the pooled metal.

My face is… Is that how he sees me?

I look so peaceful. Like I know that, even in sleep, I’m in a safe place, that I’m protected.

That I’m happy. Every single eyelash, eyebrow hair, lip line, all my freckles, and even the tiny wrinkles I have beneath the inner corners of my eyes is an individual detail that blends together to frame my features.

But what really gets me are my hands.

The way the fingers are slightly curled in, the arch of each nail bed, the ragged edge of one nail—I raise my hand, and yep, definitely broke that at some point today.

My bracelet shows the engraved letters, DHDX, in their cross formation, resting against the inside of my wrist, and I wonder if he positioned it while I was floating.

I have always thought that you can tell by a person’s hands whether they will be cruel or kind to you. Scarred and cracked knuckles, thick, worn-looking fingers have never given me a fond memory. But the hands Darcy has drawn—they are delicate, unblemished. Fragile. Easily broken.

The whole thing is filling up a well inside of me that I’m not even aware is empty.

My throat swells with the ache of tears, the feeling traveling down into my chest, the weight of the emotion so heavy that I’m sure my chest has caved in. Even now, Darcy’s hand is still working the pencil across image Emery, adding more detail and shade to the back of the couch.

The urge to be wrapped up in his arms is so strong, I don’t even pause to consider not taking what I want. Still wrapped up in my fabric dress, I step forward, pausing right next to his drawing arm, and turn to face him.

Darcy doesn’t pause.

I don’t think he has even noticed me.

His pupils are blown wide, like he has entered some sort of trance state, completely lost to his art.

Staring at him only makes my chest ache even more.

Those dark, thick, straight eyebrows are pulled together in concentration, and the lack of direct light casts shadows all over his angular face.

For the first time, I notice that his beard is longer, a little unkempt, and there are deeper hollows beneath his cheekbones that weren’t there the last time I saw him.

My fallen Angel.

Is he hurting as badly as I am?

I shift again, until the forearm that is raised up to the canvas brushes against my stomach.

His movement stills, and like a marionette, his head turns toward me.

Darcy looks right at me, but I’m not sure if he sees me.

His gaze is still lost from the present, seeing things that I can only ever hope to see in my own art.

With intention, I raise my hand to cup his cheek, keeping the motion smooth and even, so as not to startle him. His eyes slide shut, and he tips his head into my palm before turning and pressing a lingering kiss there.

I smooth my hand along his jaw, his beard tickling over the warmth of his kiss, until my fingers thread through his hair. He turns to stare back up at me, mouth parted the smallest amount.

“Princess…”

Hearing his nickname for me snaps the last of any restraint I have, and I throw the plan away altogether.

I let go of the fabric, the chill of the air rolling down my body with the flutter of the fabric, and step closer to him.

Diving my hands into his hair, I drag the elastic out as I lower my head to press our lips together.

Darcy doesn’t hesitate to join me. There is a clatter of graphite hitting the floor, and then the arm that is pinned between us slips free and wraps around me.

His forearm presses into my lower back, fingers digging into my waist as his other hand slides up my ribs and cups the underside of my breast.

I moan into the kiss, opening my mouth and allowing his tongue to own mine. Heat streaks from my nipple to my clit as his thumb swipes back and forth over my nipple, the intensity building until I can’t fight the need to grind against something.

As I whimper into his mouth, Darcy seems to understand my problem. Without breaking our kiss, he trails his hands across my skin until he is able to grab both hips, tightening his grip until it hurts, then he lifts me up and over his lap.

Instinctively, I clutch at his shoulders and raise my legs to help. As I settle into place, straddling his denim-covered lap, I immediately start to grind against him, needing to soothe the heat that is consuming my every thought.

My toes only barely reach the floor, and frustration causes my eyes to burn behind my closed lids. But, again, I don’t have to worry. Darcy uses the hold he has on my hips to help me grind up and down his hard length, the material-covered ridge of his zipper adding to both our pleasure.

Fuck, I wish his dick was out. Just the thought of sinking down onto it makes my pussy tighten, and I moan, losing the rhythm of our rocking bodies.

He withdraws from my mouth to press kisses along my cheekbone and jaw, then continues down my neck until he pauses right over my pulse. I draw in a sharp breath as the kiss turns to a suck, then teeth biting down hard enough to leave a mark.

Darcy moves his hands so that one is pressing into my lower back, encouraging the thrusting of my hips, his own hips coming up to meet our tempo.

My blood heats and my core feels heavy with need.

His other hand grips the back of my neck, holding me in place as he spreads out the mark, moving farther down toward my collarbone.

Fuck. Yes.

Mark me.

Make me yours.

The room echoes with my pants and groans, my whispered pleas for more, for Darcy to make me feel good, begging to come.

Suddenly the fingers at my neck shove up into my hair and clutch it so tightly my scalp lights up with pain, and fuck, that does it for me.

The heat that has been building, sitting right at the precipice, explodes over the edge.

My insides shatter like a blue and purple firework, high in the night sky.

Teeth clamp down on a nipple and my eyes slam open, unseeing as another wave of pleasure sweeps through me.

My throat feels like I’m screaming, but I can’t hear the sound.

The thrusting of our hips together becomes too sensitive, and my clit twitches. Darcy lowers my head to his chest, and I flop into him, my face, lips, fingers, and toes all tingling like they’ve had reduced blood flow. I’m too sated to give a fuck, though.

Beneath me, Darcy bends to the side and moves several times before his hands go to my ass, something scratchy held in one palm. “Wrap your legs around me.”

That’s the only warning I get before he stands and I have to find a way to make my legs work. The threat of being dropped goes a long way, and I wrap both my legs and arms around him while leaving him to take most of my weight.

He carries me around his easel, and then I am being lowered back onto the couch. Everything is still a little foggy, so it takes a minute to realize that he is using the fabric to tie a knot around my knee.

With a gentleness that barely disturbs me, he raises my head and feeds the fabric behind my neck, his tattooed forearm tensing and shifting, pulling until my knee draws up to my hip.

The fabric then goes around the column of my neck a single time before the rest of it is secured to my opposite wrist. He sits back to admire his handiwork, and I automatically reach for him.

As I do, the fabric constricts around my throat, making it hard to breathe.

I automatically raise my knee closer to my chest to reduce the pressure, but that only spreads my legs wide for him.

The satisfaction that fills him at watching understanding dawn on me oozes from him.

The tense lines that had been holding his shoulders so stiffly settle, and a cruel smile forms on his lips.

Without breaking his gaze on my stretched-open pussy, he reaches for his pants, working them open until his dick is out, hard and ready.

“Darcy,” I whisper, reaching out to him and not caring that my ability to breathe is being cut off. I’d suffocate for this man. He could steal every last bit of air from my lungs, and I would be happy about it.

His gaze snaps up from my pussy to my face, expression thunderous. “Don’t call me that. I am not Darcy to you.”

My eyes widening, I swallow and stutter out an apology. “S-sorry, Daddy.”

His eyes remain dark, but then he leans down over me, cupping the back of my knee and helping to support it for me. His dick rubs against my entrance, not quite entering as he presses his cheek into mine.

“It’s okay, princess. It’s okay. I’ve missed you so fucking much. I’ve missed having you cuddled up to me,” he whispers into my ear before adjusting his hips and then sinking his dick into me until it hurts.

I gasp at the fullness, but he doesn’t stop muttering.

“I’ve missed this fucking pussy, the way it flutters around my cock. I’ve missed the way you squeeze tight around me, almost milking me dry.”

He pulls out, then thrusts back in hard enough that I shift in his arms. “I’ve missed your pretty lips wrapped around my cock.

I’ve been waking up so hard for you every morning.

Dreams of you on your knees, throat bulging as I fuck into your mouth, eyes streaming with tears as you take all of me.

Will you let me do that, princess? Stuff your throat so full that you can’t swallow for days? ”

“Yes,” I moan, wrapping both arms around his neck. He pushes up, using one hand by my head to support him while the other raises my knee even higher.

His shirt billows between the two of us, the fact that I’m completely naked, and he only has his dick out enough to be inside me, somehow making this whole thing even hotter.

Darcy’s hips snap in and out, the rhythm brutal, but with a little extra grind that rubs against my clit. I am hot and cold everywhere. A halo from the studio light has formed around Darcy’s head, his hair falling down either side of his face, making him look even more like my Angel.

That cruel smile returns.

The hold he has on my knee changes from a push to a pull, and he slowly starts to drag my leg back down, tightening the fabric around my neck. At first, it’s okay, but then I feel a spike of fear as my next inhale is a struggle.

I go to let go of him, but he adjusts, sitting up on his knees, and grabs my wrist, now applying pressure to both limbs. My other arm is free, and I grip his wrist, all while his punishing thrusts continue.

My pulse pounds in my head and I can hear the wheeze of my inhale. He doesn’t stop smiling as my face goes red and the edges of my vision start to darken.

“Daddy, please,” I gasp out, not sure what I’m begging for. My pussy is so wet, the sounds from between us obscene.

“Are you going to come on my cock, princess? Going to milk me dry as you pass out? Going to let that pussy flutter and get all sloppy, ready for my cum to fill you? I’m going to slip your panties back on while you are passed out so that you can take it back to your dorm with you.

Feel them get wetter and wetter with every step you take away from me.

Because you know what, princess? I’m done fighting for this.

You are fucking mine. Mine. I’m not letting you go. ”

His words are punctuated with thrusts, both the heat and my heart rising with every single one.

He gives a final tug on my wrist and knee, and for just a second, I truly cannot breathe at all. But then I am released and my clit is pinched, sparking lightning from my core and out through the rest of my body. My orgasm crashes over me, leaving me boneless and untethered.

“Good girl, princess. Good girl, fuck. Mine. You are fucking mine.”

Those are the last words I hear as the darkness takes me over the edge.