Page 56 of Like a Power Play (Greenrock University: Icebound #1)

Twenty Eight

Peyton

N ote to self: misconduct=kissing a pretty girl.

I’m unclear if that’s a universal rule or just a me-and-Darcy-specific clause. Either way, I’m not complaining. Because her lips are still attached to mine, and my hand is still feathered through her soft, shiny hair, and we are walking—no, stumbling —backwards, staggered breaths and roaming hands.

Her fingers grip the front of my hoodie, pulling me impossibly closer. I think I bump into the wall. Or the door. Or the desk, I don’t know. Because when her mouth breaks away, and those freckled lips attach to my neck, everything around me glows.

Still, I manage a breath. “Should we—” Her teeth sink into my neck. “Mmm—should we talk about this?”

Goosebumps flood my skin as she speaks against me. “Do you want this?” she murmurs. Something clenches deep inside me. I press my thighs together, tilting my head back as her lips return to that sweet spot beneath my jaw, her nose tracing the curve of my chin.

“Y—Yes,” I answer, weaker than I care to admit. “Yes. I just—you said never again so I just want to make sure.”

A soft hot breeze blows across my neck as Darcy chuckles. “Peyton,” she says, and the moment it leaves her mouth, I’m suddenly reminded I have a name. I had forgotten that I exist outside of this. “Why do you have to make things so difficult?” Kiss. “It doesn’t have to mean anything.” Kiss.

My stomach sinks, but the pulse thrumming between my thighs amplifies.

“Right,” I breathe out. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

So I kiss her like an agreement.

Even if my heart is already traitoring its way toward more.

A soft sound escapes her lips, vibrating against mine. But she pulls back once more, her palms pressing softly against my chest.

“Unless you don’t want to—”

“I want to,” I say, cupping her cheek. I lean in and kiss her softer this time. Slower, tracing my thumb against her cheek as my lips memorize every inch of hers. “I want to.”

And suddenly, we’re on the bed. Darcy’s straddling me, lights on, thigh grinding against my hot center as her tongue traces circles around mine. When she shifts her weight onto her knees, she sucks a sharp breath through her teeth. Immediately, I pull back.

“Are you okay?” I ask, a concerned crease popping between my brows. Darcy, of course, rolls her eyes.

“I’m fine. You don’t have to baby me, Peyton,” she says, leaning back in to suck on my neck. An unbridled moan escapes me, a slick heat emanating between my thighs, but when a tense jolt runs through her muscles, I pull back again.

“You’re in pain,” I say, searching her eyes. She just rolls them again.

“I’m always in pain,” she breathes. She leans back in, but I don’t let her kiss me this time. I pull myself up slightly, leaning my back against the headboard. She huffs, collapsing back against my shins, and even that makes her wince.

I look at her earnestly. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Her brows furrow. “I knew this would happen,” she exasperates, running a disappointed hand through her hair. “It’s okay. I understand.” She starts to slide off me, but my hands grip her waist keeping her in place.

“I said I don’t want to hurt you,” I vow. “I didn’t say I don’t want to fuck you.”

Red spills across Darcy’s cheeks as she looks at me, her hair all tangled and messy from my hands, her lips swollen. She looks at me confused.

I slip out from under her, and those wild eyes look up at me. I lean forward, just slightly, to once in my life, tower over her.

“Lay down,” I order gently.

A puzzled expression conquers her face. She starts to turn her body, tilting her head against the headboard, but I shake my head, gesturing to the mattress.

I know Darcy well enough by now to know that she’s going to want to keep this on the down low again.

And if the headboard is banging against the wall, we’ll be caught. “Lay down right here.”

She complies. When her head presses to the mattress, slowly, tentatively, I begin to crawl on top of her. My leg slips in between hers, her breath hitches, and I kiss her. As our mouths move together, I reach out and grab a pillow from her headboard.

“Lift your head up,” I whisper, and when she does, I slip the pillow beneath her.

“You don’t have to treat me like I’m fragile,” she murmurs, letting out a moan as my tongue glides from behind her ear, down her neck, leaving a hot slick trail on her skin. Goosebumps rise one by one, and my core tightens. I suck her earlobe between my teeth, biting softly before whispering,

“I don’t plan to.”

“Fuck.”

The word slips out so quietly, I hardly hear it at all. But even that, a single, breathy word, is enough to make me desperate.

My mouth slides against hers, fingers threading needily through her hair.

“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about this since the retreat,” I murmur, pressing my thigh harder between her legs.

She lets out a soft moan, her hips involuntarily bucking against me.

I lean in closer, my breath tracing her jaw as my thumb grazes over her swollen bottom lip.

“And I don’t think you have either. Tell me you’ve thought about this.

About me fucking you the way you fucked me. ”

Darcy shudders beneath my touch, one of her hands slipping beneath my shirt, tracing up my spine, as the other grips the back of my neck, anchoring it in place.

“I have,” she moans. “I’ve thought about it.”

The admission is more than it seems. Because Darcy Cole would never admit that I’m right, unless she had no other choice.

And that, the fact that she too hasn’t been able to get this off her mind, to stop thinking about that night in the cabin, with our slick skin pressed together, our sounds, our desperation, tangling in a wet hot mess of need, makes every nerve in my body spark.

I pull back, just enough to pry her hand from the back of my neck and cup it in mine. My eyes lock with hers as my fingers trace the seam of her glove.

“Can I take these off?” I make sure to ask it gently. No pushing. No pleading. Giving her every second of time she needs to decide. Her gaze falls to her hands, then flicks back up to mine.

She nods. “Yes,” she says. There’s a soft waver in her voice, something I’m sure she tried her hardest to push away. But as much as I want to see every inch of her, Rhinoceros Arthritis and all, even more, I want her to be comfortable.

“You don’t have to,” I say, a little firmer this time. But her eyes don’t tear away from mine. Instead, they narrow. Her other hand moves from my back, and as she stares at me, almost like I’ve pissed her off, she rips off her gloves, one at a time.

My eyes fall to her hands.

They’re beautiful.

Porcelain skin, soft in some places, calloused in others. Her knuckles are swollen just slightly, her pinky on one hand bent out at an angle.

They’re not perfect. That’s why I love them. Because they’re hers. Because they hold on tight, even when they hurt. Because when they touch me, I feel like maybe I’m worth holding on to.

“Take it all off,” she says.

And I do.

I want to be archaic about it. To move quickly.

To rip buttons, and shred seams, and tear through every inch of space between us, punishing it for existing.

But I also want to be careful. To make love to her softly, like candlelight and silk sheets.

I want to slip my hand between her thighs and ride each sound wave that falls from her lips.

Up and down.

Slipping off her clothes is a compromise, not fast, not slow. Not overly gentle, but there’s no torn threads either. She takes mine off just the same, pushing through the ache because for some incomprehensible reason, to her I am worth it. This is worth it.

I don’t try to stop her. I don’t tell her she’s too fragile or too hurt for this. I know she doesn’t want that. So instead, as her hands slide across my body, slipping underneath my clothes and tugging them off, I simply kiss each of her wrists.

Then her fingers.

Then her.

“God, you’re beautiful,” I murmur, tracing my fingers across her skin.

She’s stretched out across the bed, pale skin, long limbs lit up in a soft gold glow from the dimmed overhead lights.

Her freckles are everywhere, scattered across her shoulders, her chest, her thighs.

Her hair’s a mess, red strands tangled against the pillow, and her breath hitches when I say it.

She looks away, like she doesn’t believe me.

Like there is a single part of her that I wouldn’t spend my whole life staring at.

“Yeah, swollen ankles and unshaved legs are super sexy,” she retorts. I shake my head, pulling back and standing up. I scoop her ankle into my hand gently, placing my lips against it.

“Yours are,” I say. She rolls her eyes, but I ignore her, letting my mouth travel up her leg. I kiss her knee next. “And your knees,” I say, then I keep going, placing my lips against every part of her. “Your hips.” Kiss. “Stomach.” Kiss.

When I reach her chest, I catch her eye.

“These,” I say, then I drag my tongue underneath the fold of her left breast, letting it travel up and circle around her nipple.

Darcy lets out a moan, so I cure her ache by pressing my thigh against her bare heat.

It’s slick and warm against my skin, and she doesn’t hesitate before slowly rocking against it.

“That’s it,” I coo, moving to her other breast. I suck on it, gently at first, then grow more desperate as her hands slip into my hair. “You like that?”

She nods, her teeth sinking into her lower lip as her head rolls back.

“Yes,” she breathes out. A smirk tugs at my lips, but before I can say anything back, a loud moan tumbles out of me.

My hands grip the sheets, and for a second, my eyes flutter shut.

When they open, Darcy’s the one smirking, her head cocked to the side, brow raised.