Chapter 36 Darla #2
We doze for a while, tangled in the sheets.
When I stir again, the sun is higher, streaming through the blinds.
East presses a kiss to my shoulder, then murmurs with a sleepy voice.
“I should probably make us some real food.” He rolls off me, the loss of his heat an immediate ache, and pulls on his boxers.
He grabs a clean T-shirt from a drawer and tosses it to me.
“I’ll start breakfast,” he says, giving me one last, lingering look before disappearing down the hall.
I sit there for a minute, my body a map of delicious aches, my mind blissfully quiet.
The T-shirt he tossed me smells like him, clean and intoxicating, when I pull it over my head and slip off the bed.
In the en-suite bathroom, I turn on the shower, cranking the handle until the water runs hot, the sound a steady rush that helps quiet my mind.
Steam fogs the mirror, clouding my reflection, and when I step under the hot spray, the events of the last week crash over me.
The bombing. The cleanup. Constant thrumming anxiety.
Days spent at the clubhouse, running on adrenaline and grief.
It feels like a lifetime ago. I lean my forehead against the cool tile, letting the water wash away the grime of the last week, and the lingering, musky scent of our lovemaking.
My father and Trent... they’re still out there.
The war isn’t over. But as I stand here, in his shower, in his house, in what he called our bed, I realize I’m not that same terrified, cornered girl anymore.
I’m not alone. I have an army. And I have him.
A slow smile spreads across my face. I wash, and when I step out of the shower, I feel.
.. lighter. Renewed. I wrap one of his ridiculously large, fluffy towels around my body and head into the bedroom, the smell of sizzling bacon and coffee now filling the house.
My clothes, the few I’ve accumulated, are supposed to be in his closet.
I open the door, a small, happy hum in my throat.
And stop dead.
All of my clothes are gone. In their place, laid out on the bed with a theatrical precision that is pure East, is a costume.
A riot of crimson sequins and feathers, a ridiculously tiny corset, a feathery sequined skirt, a matching thong, a feather boa, fishnet stockings, and a pair of sky-high, glittering heels.
His revenge.
I stare at it. After a week of trauma and hard work, this ridiculous, over-the-top gesture is a hilarious and welcome shock. A slow, wicked grin spreads across my face. If he thinks this is a punishment, he clearly has no idea who he’s dealing with.
When I walk into the kitchen a half-hour later, he’s at the stove, his back to me. I’ve gone all in. Full hair, full makeup, and I’ve even managed to wrangle myself into the corset. The feathers tickle my nose.
“Smells good,” I purr.
He turns from the stove, a spatula in one hand, a smile already on his face.
“Yeah, I just…” He stops. The smile vanishes, his jaw going slack.
He just freezes, spatula hovering in mid-air.
His eyes, wide with pure, unadulterated shock, do a slow, appreciative crawl from my ridiculous, glittering heels, up the seam of my fishnets, over the bare skin of my thighs, to the tightly cinched, sequined corset.
His gaze lingers on the feather boa draped over my shoulders before finally, slowly, rising to meet my eyes.
He’s completely speechless. I just take a dainty bite of my bacon and wait.
“Holy… shit,” he finally breathes, his voice a wrecked, reverent whisper.
“What?” I ask, batting my eyelashes, my voice the picture of pure innocence. “You said to get dressed. Is this not appropriate for breakfast? I couldn’t find my pearls.”
He lets out a choked sound that’s halfway between a laugh and a groan. He sets the spatula down, his movements jerky, like he’s forgotten how his limbs work. “Princess, you’re going to give me a goddamn heart attack.”
I shrug, leaning back against the counter, enjoying this far too much. “So this was your big revenge? A little weak, don’t you think? I’m not even slightly inconvenienced. In fact, I kind of like the sequins.”
After another long second, he laughs—a deep, booming laugh that makes me feel odd. He shakes his head as he closes the distance between us. He doesn’t stop until he’s standing right in front of me, his hands finding my waist, his thumbs stroking the bare skin just above the corset.
“You’re a menace,” he growls into my ear, his voice thick with awe and a desire that makes my entire body hum.
“I had nothing else to wear.” My voice is a purr as I loop my arms around his neck, the feather boa tickling his chin. “You brought this on yourself. You really should have thought your plan through.”
He turns me in his arms, pressing me back against the counter, his body caging me in.
His eyes are burning with a new, dangerous fire.
“Oh, I did,” he murmurs, his gaze dropping to my mouth.
“This was exactly the plan.” He leans in, his lips brushing mine.
“You have no idea what you’ve just started. ”
Then his mouth is on mine, a hot, hungry kiss that tastes of victory, coffee, and promises of a very different, much better kind of revenge.
After breakfast, as he’s about to get ready to take me to Frankie’s, I stop him.
“Wait,” I murmur. I walk over to his record player, my heels clicking on the hardwood, and put on a low, bluesy track.
A heavy bass line and a smoky female voice fill the room.
I turn to face him. It’s not just a sexy act; it’s a performance.
It’s my theatrical, joyful way of saying, “We survived. We’re still here.
And I can still be this person.” I take my time, letting the boa slide from my shoulders, my hips swaying to the music.
The look on his face—pure, savage ownership and utter devotion—is my real prize.
His eyes are black with a possessive heat, his jaw slack.
He’s not just watching; he’s devouring me.
As I do a slow turn, letting the sequins catch the light, he lets out a low, wrecked laugh. “You’re unbelievable,” he growls, his voice thick. “You know, the original plan was that I’d hide your clothes until you agreed to dance for me. And here you are, doing it anyway. Just... for me.”
His words send a jolt of pure power through me. I stalk toward him, my hips rolling to the rhythm of the music. “You wanted a show, East?” I whisper, stopping just inches from him. “You should have just asked.”
“I’m not asking now,” he rasps. He pulls me onto his lap on the couch, his hands immediately going to the laces of the corset. His mouth is on mine, a hot, messy kiss that tastes of coffee and him. His fingers are fumbling with the laces, his frustration a low groan against my lips.
“This... fucking... thing,” he growls.
I laugh against his mouth, a breathless, giddy sound. “You’re the one who picked it.”
“I’m starting to regret it,” he mutters, finally ripping the laces loose. The corset falls open. His hands are on my breasts instantly, his palms hot, his thumbs raking over my already-pebbled nipples. I cry out, a sharp, needy sound, and he swallows it with his kiss.
He slides us both off the couch onto the living room rug.
The carpet is soft against my back, a stark contrast to the hard, desperate energy coming from him.
He rips the sequined thong aside, his eyes feasting on my pussy.
“So fucking wet for me already, princess,” he breathes, his voice full of awe.
East doesn’t wait. He lowers his head, his mouth claiming me.
It’s not the slow worship from this morning; it’s a greedy, demanding feast. His tongue is a hot, relentless brand, lapping at my pussy, dipping inside to taste my slickness, then flicking, hard and fast, against my clit.
My world dissolves. My fingers fist in his hair as I shatter, my first orgasm ripping through me, a violent, bucking wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure.
I’m still trembling, still gasping his name, when he moves up, his body covering mine. He’s already kicked off his boxers, his cock a thick, hard, impressive length.
“Mine,” I whisper, my hands finding him, wrapping around his shaft. He’s so hot, so hard.
He pushes my hand away, his eyes blazing. “I’m not done with you.” He positions himself at my entrance, the head of his cock rubbing against my still-sensitive clit. “Lift your hips, baby.”
I obey, a desperate, broken sound tearing from my throat. He slams into me, a single, deep, perfect thrust that fills me completely. I scream, my back arching, my pussy clenching around him.
He finds a rhythm immediately—fast, punishing, perfect. This is the “desperate tangle” I’ve craved. He’s all mine, his muscles bunched, his face a mask of pained pleasure as he moves inside me. I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.
“Fuck, Darla,” he groans, his forehead pressed to mine. “You feel so good. Tell me. Tell me you’re mine.”
“I’m yours,” I sob, the words a surrender, a prayer. “East, fuck.” I devour his moans with my mouth, kissing him with a savage hunger that matches his.
I feel my second orgasm building, a hot, coiling spring. “East, I’m close, I’m so close—” I gasp.
“Good, princess,” he growls, his thrusts becoming frantic.
“Come for me.” He reaches between us, his thumb finding my clit, and he presses down, a relentless, grinding pressure.
It’s too much. I shatter again, a wave of pure, white-hot pleasure.
My pussy pulses and milks his cock, and the sight of me, completely undone and screaming his name, sends him over the edge.
He roars, a primal, guttural sound, and comes, his hips slamming into me in a final, violent surrender.
He doesn’t pull out. He just collapses on top of me, his weight a heavy, sated blanket, his face buried in my hair.
I’m boneless, trembling, my arms shaking so hard I can barely hold myself up.
We’re both panting, our bodies slick with sweat.
The silence in the room has transformed, now filled with the heavy scent of sex and the erratic sound of our hearts beating in sync, a shared rhythm that binds us together in this moment.