Series: Webs We Weave Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 147
Estimated words: 145038 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 725(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 483(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145038 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 725(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 483(@300wpm)
“Of all the things to be afraid of?” He arches his brows. “That’s not on my fucking list.”
“Your fear of geese ranks higher?”
“I don’t like geese. I’m not afraid of them.”
I point a finger. “If you see one on a sidewalk, you will go out of your way to cross the street to avoid it. That is fear, not aversion.”
He’s struggling not to look at my boobs now, and a guttural, sexy noise rumbles in his throat.
I smile, more satisfied.
“Pull your shirt down.”
“Take your shirt off,” I counter.
Rocky grips the back collar of his tee, then pulls it over his head. Bare chested. Ridges of his abs and sculpted muscles capture my attention for a sweltering second, and the V line leading toward his cock almost seduces me forward.
Forcing my gaze to his, I remain cool, composed, not at all suffocating inside the toxins of arousal. Nope.
My lungs are on fire. “Nice abs.”
“Nice tits.” He’s removing his belt.
My pulse pitches. Where is this going? The thrill is pure headiness, and I cling to the exhilaration for dear life.
Still, I bristle at the idea of being too easy. I want to be what I feel I truly am—rough around the edges, antagonistic, a sword to his sword. Fire to his fire.
Lounging back on my hands, I touch my foot to his chest. Keeping him at a distance. My heartbeat pounds so loud I’m surprised he can’t hear it. “Maybe I don’t want you,” I say with slight rasp.
He devours me with one all-consuming look. “Maybe you know this won’t stop me.” He pushes my foot off like I’m putty and not steel.
As a counterstrike, I hop off the butcher-board counter. “Maybe this was all just for show.” I tug my shirt down, hiding my tits.
He blocks me from passing, and the air strains when we go head-to-head. We’re the apex predators, the ones in a molten standoff, the ones who clearly want to copulate.
He’s fisting his belt.
I hear my shallow breath as he bows his head closer to my cheek, and in a deep, husky whisper, he says, “Maybe you’re doing what you were born to do.”
I stare him down. “Be a tease?”
“Lie through your fucking teeth.” He stalks forward.
I step back.
Holy shit.
Our chests bump, and my knees threaten to buckle with unconscionable longings and more brutal desires. I crave for him to chase me. I crave for him to manhandle every vibrating inch of me. Until I don’t know what’s up or down. Until I black out.
He corners me against the cupboards. His left hand clutches my face. Possessive, forceful aggression. It’s detonating. I almost slacken against his muscled build and succumb right here. I swallow a moan. “Rocky,” I warn, glaring.
He eats it up. “Shall we count the fucking lies?” He threads his leg between mine, and I feel his weight against my body. Bearing on me so I can’t move away. His lips touch my ear as his hot whisper ignites me. “One: you don’t want me.”
“Two,” I say with heat. “You can’t have me.” I wrestle against him.
“Three.” He pins me harder with his body. “You. Hate. This,” he growls from his core, and I pulsate because I. Love. This. “Four: you hate how I’m never letting you go, no matter how much you protest.”
My lips part to object, but an aching sound threatens to escape instead.
His fingers slide into my hair. Gripping the blue, wet strands. “Five: you hate how I’m going to destroy your little cunt tonight.” Oh fuck. “Six: you hate how I won’t stop. I’ll never fucking stop. Railing you. In and out. Loving you. In…and out.”
I’m trembling against him, and a noise squeaks out of me I’ve never heard before. I’m dizzy and miss the opportunity to shove him when he hoists me up on the counter.
“Rocky.” It’s more wanting than combative this time. His lips graze my lips, and the almost-there glimpse of a kiss is obliterating me in…and out.
“Phoebe.” Veins protrude in his neck as he keeps from exploding forward. He’s edging us, and I have a very good feeling this is as big of a turn-on for him as it is for me.
Then suddenly, he captures my wrists.
Using the belt, he starts fastening them to the rattan handles of the seafoam-green cabinets above my head. “Safe word. Remember it?” he asks in a whisper.
I nod, trying to capture my runaway breath.
“Say it,” he demands.
Then what? It’s over before it starts. “You know, actually…” I cock my head, feigning confusion while I tug at the restraint. “It’s not ringing a bell.”
He narrows his eyes. “You really want me to leave you tied up all night, don’t you?”
I glare. “You wouldn’t.”
“Safe word.”
“Asshole.” I scowl.
He flashes a dry smile. “Wrong one.” He presses forward and grips the wooden counter beside my thighs, forcing my legs to spread open around him. He’s assessing me, how I’m barely fighting against the leather belt, how I’m stalling—but not because I dislike being restrained by him. Then he asks, “You’re afraid this is going to end soon? Is that it?”