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Darcy had always assumed she was a lesbian. It wasn't like any if the male alphas or betas she'd played with had ever done anything for her, no matter how hard they tried to get her on her knees, and she hadn't played with many women, so she hadn't had a chance to find out.
That theory got a knock when she landed on the Islanders with Mike Brouwer, who was a woman, and an alpha, and as uninteresting as Benson or Samuels. It got blown out of the water completely by Jake Lourdes.
Jake Lourdes was an alpha, and ever since she'd heard his name, he'd been beating her. Gold at worlds, first pick-- Darcy wasn't the first female omega in the League, but she was the best. The best of all, not the best of the omegas, or of the women.
And Lourdes kept winning. Easily, uncaringly. He barely knew her name, and, sometimes, lying in bed and fingering her bruises, he was all she could think about. Lourdes, with his good hands, and that dumb scent she could smell a rink away, warm pie and fresh cut grass. Sometimes, she thought that was why people liked him. If he stood still, and shut up, she could have breathed his scent forever.
She hated him. She hated him, and she couldn't hide it, all that careful practice dissolving in the face of him.
Of course, that was what the bastard noticed.
“Why don’t you like me?” he asked, all wounded, like he had the right to it, because no one had ever disliked perfect alpha Jake Lourdes in his life.
“You smell good,” she said, instead of all the things she meant to say, and he blinked at her.
“I what?”
“You smell good,” she said, and she kissed him, hard and sloppy, until he pulled away, of course he did, because she was filling all the worst stereotypes of an omega, weak and easy and slutty.
“No,” he said, “God, not here."
She followed him back to his place. She couldn't explain why, but she did, and he ate her out on his bed, not even blinking when she shoved his hand away, and she blew him, clumsy and unpracticed.
The second time, they went to her place, and she got off in her front hall, shoes still on and hose ripped.
Both times, she told herself it was the last. Lourdes was nothing but a risk. It was nothing but stupid, messing around with an alpha like that, when she was the one who could lose.
And then came Vegas.
She didn’t mean to go back to Lourdes’ room. She meant to go back to her own, so that she’d be spared the humiliation of crying blotchily in public, but Lourdes came after her, and she could feel her heat rising, even under the suppressants.
When he touched her, it was like fire in her veins.
“Coming?” he asked, and she did.
There was a hook and eye, and a zip, at the back of her dress. The zip had stuck while she was dressing, but under Lourdes’s hands, it came easily.Lourdes leaned in to kiss the back of her neck, then the space between her shoulder blades, above her bra fastening.
“Pretty,” he said, and Darcy tensed as she felt his hand on her back, then relaxed as all he did was unhook the bra as well.
“Can I?” he asked, and she shrugged the top of the dress, and her bra, off and down her arms together.
If he was going to throw her out, it would be now. He’d never seen her tits before, or even touched them. He’d gone straight from kissing her to eating her out.
Her skin prickled from the air conditioning, and Darcy heard herself making a small noise in the back of her throat, because god damn it, she wanted to be touched. And then Lourdes did, pressed himself warm against her back and lipped at her neck, He was hard, through his suit pants, and her dress, and she needed to get the rest of the dress off right now, if she didn’t want to stain it.
She pushed it down, past her knees, until it puddled on the floor, and there she was, in underwear and hose and shoes in Lourdes’ hotel room, and he was still fully dressed, crisp cotton against her back.
There was a mirror, at an angle from them, and she could see them both, Lourdes’ hands on her waist, all of her smaller than him, lesser than him.
“Turn ‘round?” he asked, and she needed to get her dress, to put it on the back of a chair so that it wasn’t a crumpled mess when she had to put it on again, but he was still touching her, and she could smell him, warm in the back of her throat, so she turned, and kicked the dress away.
Lourdes stared. Darcy straightened her back, and pressed her thighs together-- wet already, her stupid fucking heat-- and prepared to grab for her clothes. At least it wouldn’t be too obvious she didn’t have a bra on, if she scrambled and ran.
Lourdes dropped to his knees.
“Please,” he said. “God, Darcy, please.”
“Please what?”
“Please let me touch you.”
Darcy looked at him, down on his knees in front of her, hair flopping over his face.
“Touch me where?”
“Everywhere, anywhere, please.”
His dick was tenting his pants, and he was licking his lips as he looked at her, like she was something good. Darcy’s stomach felt like she was in freefall.
She swallowed.
“Get on the bed. Clothes off”
Lourdes was on his feet as soon as the words were out of her mouth, hands shaking as he pulled his belt off, shoved down his pants before he remembered to get his shoes off. Darcy’s gave her an extra few inches that she needed, and she waited until he was on the bed before she bent over to undo the straps, and get her hose off.
When she straightened again, there he was, spread out on the bed like a feast she hadn’t known she wanted, fire in her veins and in her cunt, like she’d die if he didn’t touch her, and she hated it, hated feeling like that, but she wanted Lourdes more.
The mattress was firm under her knees as she climbed onto the bed, legs spread for balance, Lourdes biting his lip.
“What,” she said, “am I going to do with you, hmm?”
“Anything you want,” said Lourdes, like he was her reward, like he hadn’t just swiped the fucking Calder out from under her.
Darcy was perfectly aware that she was talking like the alphas in those novels her road roommate in the Q had read, but she didn’t care. It was something to say.
She knee walked closer, and Lourdes made a soft noise in his throat, like it was sexy, instead of dumb. She was so wet, wetter than she’d been in her life, wetter than her first heat, wetter than the heat after the first time Lourdes had eaten her out, when she’d had to miss optional skate.
She eased to straddle his thighs, careful , gaze lingering on the cut of his hip, the muscles that flexed in his arms as he grabbed the covers, and she wanted. Wanted his hands and his mouth, and even his fucking knot, something more than her own fingers to fill the emptiness.
"Fuck me," she said, and his face lit up. "You want that?"
"Yes."
There was a condom on the bedside table already. She rolled it on with hands that she didn’t let shake, and Lourdes groaned like it was a gift, louder when she eased up to get her underwear over her ass, and thighs, and off.
"Are you sure?" he asked, like she wasn't the one making the choices here, and she rolled her eyes at him, and rose up to straddle him again, lowering herself carefully, inch by inch, onto his cock.
It hurt. She'd expected that, but not how much. The angle was bad, and her thighs were shaking, and she bit her lip, hard, to hide her squeak of pain when he shifted.
"You okay?"
"Fine," she retorted, and leaned forward, bracing on his chest, and when she rolled her hips, it suddenly hurt so much less.
Lourdes smiled up at her, half-shy and crooked, and Darcy pushed a bit of hair out of his face.
"Hey, beautiful," he said, and raised his hands to brace her hips. "Hey there, gorgeous girl."
There was really no point in him lying to her then, but Darcy didn't say so, just clenched, a very little.
"Can I--"
"Sure," she said, and he raised his hips, arching up into her, and, suddenly, it worked, going from not-pain to sparks in her veins, freefall to flight, Lourdes's hands moving, as he tried to kiss her mouth, and Darcy dodged until he moved, tugging her close and turning so that they were both on the bed, him mouthing at her collarbones, and the upper slopes of her breasts, and that angle was even better.
"Come for me," he said against her skin, and skated his fingertips over her clit. "Go on, darling."
"What's my name?" she demanded, tugging at his hair for emphasis, because he was with her, not some beta puck-bunny, or omega stupid enough to buy what he was selling.
"Darcy. Darling Darcy." He raised his head to hers, and she bit at his lower lip.
And that was when it happened.
He groaned, and his hand tightened, and he came, and---he knotted her. She could feel it, all at once the weirdest and best thing that had ever happened, except it hadn't been supposed to.
Lourdes smiled again, and if Darcy could have, she would have left then.
"You okay?" he asked softly, like he hadn't just knotted her, like this was something either of them could walk away from.
She could feel something in the back of her head, sheer joy, and it wasn't her joy. It was Lourdes'.
Lourdes leaned in to kiss her, and she opened her mouth and let him, trying to project-- she didn't know. She felt sick.
"Hey," he said again, and stroked her clit. Darcy shuddered, all her arousal gone.
They could be like this for almost an hour.
Lourdes was moving again, tiny movements that a distant part of her acknowledged felt good.
"Beautiful," he said against her mouth, and she tipped her head back to give him access to her throat. "Beautiful girl."
He could make her stop playing. He could get her contract dissolved, if he was loud enough, and no one else would take a bonded omega, however good.
He could take her to Florida, and knot her again and again, keep her with babies at her feet, and in her arms and in her body, grasping hands and mouths, and no way out, not ever.
Mary Ann had warned her.
He felt so fucking pleased with himself, like he had everything he'd ever wanted, and panic was clawing at her throat.
"Darcy?" he asked, like he was miles away. "Darcy, are you--"
She didn't have any fucking leverage.
"You're not okay," he said.
On the nightstand, his phone chirruped.
"This," Darcy got out, "This is the last thing you win from me."
"Darcy, that's not--"
"I don't like you. I can't stand you. I 'm not ever going to be your pretty omega fuck toy."
She was crying, stupid fucking reactions, her mascara was coming off.
"I would die before I followed you anywhere," she said, and projected that truth with everything she had.
Lourdes finally shut his mouth.
They were knotted for another thirty minutes, before she could crawl out of the bed on weak and wobbly legs, pull her dress and dignity on together.
She left her underwear. No one would believe it was hers, at least, no one who'd played with her.
Lourdes stayed in the bed, watching her with huge, betrayed eyes.
"I wouldn't make you do anything," he said, as she scrubbed at her face with a damp flannel. "Not ever."
"That's nice," she said, and left.