Page 39 of Like a Power Play (Greenrock University: Icebound #1)

Darcy doesn’t respond immediately, which makes me all the more convinced that she’s about to snap my neck. My heart pounds, breath hitching as she leans back.

Fuck.

Is she getting a weapon?

“Darcy, I—”

“I want to take my gloves off,” she says softly.

I can’t see her, just the silhouette of her body straddling mine.

The familiar details I’m so used to staring at—her freckles, that golden ring on her nose, those emerald eyes, all fade in the dark.

But it doesn’t matter. I could spend years studying the fundamental shape of her.

“Then take them off,” I murmur, raising my hand to trace the dip in her cheek, hoping to imprint it on my mind.

I’m not a total idiot. I know this is the first and last time I will ever touch Darcy.

Whether that be due to the realities of her disdain for me, my lack of time for anything beyond this, or the fact that I’m still not entirely convinced she isn’t trying to kill me.

And if I never get to touch her again, I need to remember exactly what she felt like.

Darcy leans forward, her chest brushing against mine as she kisses me.

“I don’t want you to see me.”

I frown. “It’s dark.”

I can’t see her, but I can physically feel her rolling her eyes. “Figure that out on your own, did ya?”

A slight chuckle slips out of me. Darcy continues.

“Look, it’s dark, but it’s not dark enough. And I don’t want you to see…” she trails off.

My fingers trace down her cheek to her mouth. My thumb brushes over her bottom lip, and I lift my gaze toward the place where I can almost make out the shape of her eyes.

"Darcy, I think you’re the prettiest demon I have ever laid eyes on."

She shakes her head against my hand. "If you saw what my hands and ankles look like, you wouldn’t say that."

My stomach twists at the thought of Darcy being insecure about herself. About her disease. “I’m not well educated on what Rhinoceros Articulitis looks like—”

“Rheumatoid Arthritis.”

“—but unless you’ve grown like, an alligator tail or—”

She laughs, playfully smacking me. “Shut up.”

I don’t, of course.

“Actually, I take that back. Godzilla was my queer awakening.”

“...Isn’t Godzilla a boy?”

I shake my head against the pillow. “Actually, in the original films, Godzilla’s nonbinary. It wasn’t until they did the English dub that they began to use he/him pronou—”

Her lips cut me off, warm, soft. When she pulls back, a sharp breath blows across my lips as she laughs. “Anyone ever tell you your pillow talk is panty-melting?”

I grin. “Only all the time.”

Darcy smiles against my neck, then pulls back, leveling herself. “I still don’t want you to look at me,” she says.

I pause. This is an out. The part of the horror movie where you’re screaming at the blonde girl to run upstairs while she has the chance. Where the ship is going down, and there’s one lifeboat left.

But instead of blowing the whistle, instead of stumbling up the stairs, that hot pulse sparks in my clit again. It pools between my thighs, warm and wet, and I tighten at the ache.

“Where’s your eye mask thing?” I ask.

Darcy hesitates before answering. “On the nightstand.”

“Put it on me.”

I hear her breath hitch. “I don’t want to make you—”

“Darcy,” I say, firmer this time. “Put it on me.”

Darcy obeys, lifting my head to tug the mask around my face. Her silhouette disappears. Everything disappears. But the sound of her breath in the pitch black? My pussy tenses. Slick. Hot. Really hot.

“Damn,” I say, fidgeting with the silk fabric as it slips down my face. I lift my head up to tuck the slack of the strap underneath me, so that Darcy can’t claim I’m peeking, no matter how badly I want to. “What’s your head size? Wrecking ball?”

The moment it leaves my mouth, I regret it. What if big heads are a symptom of RA?

But Darcy just laughs. “Fuck you,” she says, but I can hear the smile in her voice.

“Seriously, Darcy. What are you doing coaching a hockey team when you’ve got buildings t—”

Her lips press to mine firmly. She doesn’t pull back to let me finish my sentence, or to stutter as I’d try. She just keeps kissing me, her tongue slipping between my teeth, chest pressing against mine in a rhythmic wave. And it isn’t until her hand slips back under my shirt that I realize:

She finally took her gloves off.

It’s just a hand. Skin and bones. But the feeling of her bare fingertips against my body sends goosebumps down my arms. Sends a needy moan tumbling from my lips.

The pads of her fingers dip under the band of my bra again, tracing slowly from left to right, and her thigh presses, relieving the wet ache of my clit.

A breath hitches in my chest, and shit, how am I already soaked?

“Fuck,” I mutter. Darcy does it again.

“Can I take it off?” she asks, tugging at it.

I used to have dignity, right? Like, I cared what people thought, about me, about my career. But now, with Darcy pressed against me, her thigh grinding, her hands on my skin, her breath asking if she can take my bra off? Dignity's dead.

All I want is her.

“You can do whatever you want.”

And that’s all Darcy needs to hear. Quickly, breathily, she pulls my shirt over my head.

The mask begins to slip, but I’m not about to fuck this up by letting it, by betraying her trust. So I press it tight, maneuvering around the gaps as the clothes begin to fly off.

Cold air rushes to my skin as she undresses me, but the heat of her against me is enough to wash it away.

“This is never happening again,” she says directly, as her fingers tug at the waistband of my pants. I lift my hips just enough for her to wriggle them down my body, taking my underwear along with them. The insides of my thighs streak with my arousal, and she tosses them both aside.

“Figure that one out on your own, did ya?” I parrot.

Darcy’s hands cup either side of my thighs as she slips her face between them. “I can’t wait to shut you up, Peyton,” she murmurs against my skin, scrubbing goosebumps down my legs. My hips buck involuntarily, which makes the next words to leave my mouth pointless.

“You’ll have to do a lot more than that,” I say, but it’s pretty much a moan. Darcy doesn’t respond. She simply smiles against me, causing my already quickened pulse to spike even faster.

Her breath brushes my swollen clit, and as my legs dangle over her shoulders, I realize, at some point, Darcy has stripped.

Completely. Her breasts graze my thighs, her lips hover over my throbbing heat.

The knowledge that I’m blindfolded, that she’s naked for herself , ignites a desperate heat within me.

A gasp escapes me as her tongue flicks out, a hot, wet stroke that sends a jolt through my pussy. My fingers dig into the sheets, as the slick heat of her mouth traces circles around my clit. I moan.

“Fuck, Darcy.”

“I’m working on it,” she murmurs against my slick folds, amusement clear in her tone. I try to respond, to give her some witty remark like usual, but all that comes out is a strained whimper.

“Cat got your tongue?” she teases.

Before I can respond, her tongue plunges deeper, a hot, insistent probe that makes my hips buck.

I feel the cut of her teeth, a delicious sharpness against my swollen clit, and my grip on the dusty, one-hundred-and-fifty thread count sheets tightens.

The sound of her soft, wet lapping fills the room, and god, I wish I could watch her pretty face as she drags her tongue from my dripping entrance to the throbbing tip of my clit.

“God,” I breathe. Her head keeps moving in a methodical rhythm, side to side, and with every brush against that spot, my body tenses.

“So fucking wet,” she whispers, her voice a low growl against my cunt. I whimper as she takes one finger and swipes it up my slick center. That pressure, the feeling of her hand between my thighs, vanishes for a moment. I inhale sharply, heart pounding in my ears.

And then I hear it.

The quiet, deliberate suck of her mouth, the soft moan that rumbles in her throat. Not on me. On her finger. I listen, hips bucking helplessly, as Darcy savors every drop of my arousal.

Holy fuck.

I’ve had sex. A lot of sex. A lot of good, casual sex. But never in my life has someone licked me off their fingers. And never in my life did I think I’d enjoy listening to Darcy do that very thing.

“Mmm…” she moans.

Fuuuuuuuuuck.

My chest heaves, coldness settling where her warmth used to be. “Please,” I groan desperately, releasing the sheets to find her body. “I need you.”

My palms land on her shoulders, then travel down until I reach her chest. The calloused pads of my fingers graze over her taut nipples, and I wonder what color they are.

Pink, or peachy? Pale, or bright? I want to take off this blindfold.

I want to devour every curve of her body with my eyes, memorize every freckle, fall in love with every color.

“Darcy,” I moan impatiently, body jolting desperately. Finally, her fingers dip back into me, slow, tentative, at first. Two fingertips tease my entrance, and an unbridled moan slips out, louder than before.

“Be quiet,” Darcy shoots. “Someone is going to hear you.”

My teeth sink into my lower lip as I try to bite back the next one, but when those fingers dive deeper into me, when they curl against the walls inside my body, the next one slips out before I knew it was coming.

I feel Darcy’s body move against mine, her bare tits dragging up my skin.

Her hand stays firmly in place, but now, even in the darkness of the blindfold, I know her face is only inches from mine.

“Are you going to be quiet, or do I need to make you?”

I shake my head, letting out a weak and breathy, “I’m going to be quiet.”