Page 59 of Like a Power Play (Greenrock University: Icebound #1)
I don’t realize I’m smiling until I press send, and even though nobody is around—or awake—to see it, I force it away. A short, descending sound slips from my phone as Peyton replies.
ICARUS
Merry Christmas!
ME
It's not Christmas yet.
ICARUS
Check again.
ME
Okay, fine. Merry Christmas.
ICARUS
I got you a present.
ME
Is it the same as Yersie's?
A few hours ago, Harlowe blessed us all with a photo of herself in a sexy Santa costume (beard included) flipping double middle fingers with the caption: “Ho Ho Ho, Hoes.” She followed it up by declaring it was our Christmas present.
ICARUS
Firstly, she totally stole that caption from me. So unoriginal.
Secondly, look on your bookshelf.
I read the message. Then I read it again. And then again. What?
ME
Why?
ICARUS
My lord you're stubborn.
Just do it, Darcy.
I don’t know why, but my stomach flips when I see my name. When I imagine her fingers typing it out.
Cleo’s still asleep, her head heavy in my lap, breath warm against my knee. Gently, I shift out from under her, catching her head and easing it onto the dragon-shaped throw pillow she got me. Socks stirs on her legs but doesn’t follow me as I head to my room.
I'm a firm believer in systems. Specifically, organizational systems, and my bookshelf is no different. God bless Dewey and his Decimals. Every book has its home, and every home is sacred. Which is why I notice it immediately.
There, wedged beside my Lord of the Rings omnibus, is a book I don’t recognize. A valley forms between my brows as I reach for it, fingertips brushing the spine. I pull it down and immediately notice the plastic edges. The light weight.
It’s not a book at all.
It’s one of those hollowed-out book boxes.
I shake my head, flipping it open. Inside is a Ziploc bag stuffed to the seal with green M&Ms. I laugh under my breath, setting them aside and looking back into the capsule.
There’s something else in there, and the moment my fingers graze the soft paper, I realize it’s a book.
A real book this time. I pull it out, studying the lime green cover, tracing the illustrated design with my finger.
A book inside of a book.
Such a Peyton idea.
I flip open the cover, eyes catching onto the message scrawled on the inside.
Kimmy,
A quiet chuckle slips out of me.
Merry Christmas. I hope you know the sacrifices I made to sort through all those M&Ms. I now have a stomachache.
Anyway, I was walking Mr. Bubbles downtown by the bookstore the other day and decided to grab you something.
Y’know, just in case cold-hearted bitches don’t get happily ever afters. This should hold you over.
Love Affectionately,
Icarus
P.S. If you ever change your mind about dating, that store is crawling with cute sapphic women. None as cute as me, though.
An amused huff escapes me. I set the book on my bed, still smiling, then reach for my phone and send her a message.
ME
You have a way with words.
ICARUS
You're actually not the first to say that x
ME
**eye roll emoji **
How did you get into my room?
ICARUS
Studied with Cleo while you were at family dinner on Sunday
ME
I have got to start locking my door.
I got you something too, actually.
ICARUS
Oh? A love letter, perhaps?
Kidding!
ME
Funny.
It's in the pocket of your duffel. I snuck it in while you were warming up on Thursday.
For the first couple minutes Peyton disappears, I’m excited.
But after four minutes pass, then five, then six, I start getting anxious.
It was a bad idea. A dumb gift. I had snuck it into the inner pocket of her bag before she left for break, thinking it was a good idea. Now, it just feels like too much.
I’m halfway through typing a humiliated “ignore that” text when the bubbles pop up.
ICARUS
Sorry. Harlowe and Bails are hammered and I'm trying to coax them out of the bar with a churro.
So far, unsuccessful.
Sounds about right.
ME
The bars are open on Christmas?
ICARUS
Monsey's is like a hospital. 24/7, 365 days a year.
Holy shit.
ME
What?
ICARUS
Apparently Harlowe and Clay fucked???
What dimension are we in???
ME
WHAT??
How?
When?
Why?
ICARUS
I have no earthly idea.
Look, I've got to get them home, but I'll text you when I get back to my parents', okay?
I don’t know why my stomach sinks a little. Or why a hot flicker in my chest I wasn’t even aware of feels like it’s extinguishing itself. I brush it off, shoot back a thumbs up, and toss my phone on the nightstand.
Then I grab a handful of green M&Ms, my brand new book, and curl up in bed, diving into it.
Nearly an hour later, I couldn’t tell you a single thing about this book. I’ve read the first chapter three times now, maybe four. My eyes keep moving across the page, but all I can think about is Peyton, and that first morning at the rink.
The way Peyton smiled at me. How fast that smile dropped. The way her shoulder brushed mine when we hid, both of us sweating, breathing hard. The way those honeycomb eyes looked at me like I was something worth looking at. That morning turned my world upside down.
She turned my world upside down, and I’m starting to like how it makes my hair stick up.
I flip the page, confident that I didn’t absorb a single sentence from the last one, when my phone lights up on the nightstand. I’m not going to talk about how fast I grab it. Or the stupid way my heart skips when I see her name.
ICARUS
Oh my god.
This is the BEST GIFT EVER!
ME
Really?
Sitting in front of a fireplace—six stockings hung across the mantle, expensive-looking garland and glass ornaments strung along the brick like something out of Pottery Barn—are Peyton and Mr. Bubbles. Both of them outlined in a soft orange glow from the fire crackling behind them.
Mr. Bubbles is proudly wearing his custom green Grizzlies jersey, reindeer antlers perched crookedly on his head. Beside him, Peyton is holding up her present.
The broken, jagged puck.
The smile on her face is cosmic. And she’s wearing a red and white sweater-patterned onesie that clings to her body like saran wrap, the zipper stopped halfway up her chest.
Peyton always wears baggy clothes. The tightest thing I’ve seen her in is her jersey when the wind tugs it against her chest. And don’t get me wrong, even in her dark baggy clothes, she’s beautiful.
But seeing the way this outfit hugs her body, the dip in her waist visible, the broad outline of her shoulders, the cleavage on her chest?
It strikes a match between my thighs.
“Fuck,” I mutter to nobody but myself. My phone chimes.
ICARUS
I love it. Thank you.
My stomach flutters as I respond.
ME
Thank you.
The dancing dots pop back up on the screen, followed by another whooshing sound. I never thought I’d be the type of person to be smiling at my phone for hours, but with Peyton, I am.
ICARUS
Did you open any other presents?
ME
A throw pillow from Cleo, some pajamas and money from my parents.
Oh, and that photo of Yersie. Definitely a top contender.
ICARUS
That was a good gift.
ME
What about you?
ICARUS
Nothing from my parents yet, I'll keep you posted in the morning.
But Harlowe and Bails pitched in and got me a giftcard.
ME
Oh cool. To where?
Peyton sends a link attachment, and like the idiot I am, I click on it without thinking. Immediately, I’m greeted with a moving, uncensored video of a hyper-realistic dildo. Flustered, I quickly exit out of the tab and tap on our thread.
ME
You just sent me a sex shop.
ICARUS
Indeed I did. Any recs?
I’m beginning to think that the photo she sent was no innocent act. A heavy pulse emanates between my thighs, my clit throbbing at the thought of it. Of Peyton touching herself. Pleasuring herself.
Of me helping her.
I do the mental equivalent of spraying myself with a water bottle, repeating in my head “Bad Darcy.” Because the way Peyton makes me feel isn’t something I could chalk up to just sex. And, as we established, rather bluntly, I can’t let anyone be more, and Peyton simply doesn’t have time to.
But it’s useless. Because somehow, when I snap back into reality, my hand is moving between my thighs.
ICARUS
NM
I found just the one.
I want to ask which one it is. I want to know exactly what it looks like, the shape, the color, the vibration settings so I can picture it pumping in and out of her.
So I can imagine it rubbing against her pretty pink clit in a rhythmic motion until she weeps.
But while my hand seems to be following no instruction from my brain, I at least have enough self-control to not ask.
Anyway, I've got to go. Thank you again for the present. Sleep tight x
I blink, reading the message a couple more times.
I'm unsure of her intentions, not that they matter. Because one way or another, I scroll up into the thread, click on that photo, and fuck my hand until I fall apart, moaning her name into my pillow.