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)
He lifts the skimpy bottoms with one finger, almost suggestively. That’s my job, I want to say. I’m the one who’s supposed to be alluring and sexy, but the role reversal piques my interest enough that I stay quiet.
He glances at the bikinis on the bed, then back to me. “Yeah, I stand uncorrected. This is the trashiest.” His voice is coarse.
“Thanks for the assessment.” I plop down on the bed beside the pink and neon-green bikinis. “You know, some guys like it.” I’m trying to mask how attracted I am, but he’s so good at reading people, the best I can do is fuss over the clasp on the pink halter top. “Kellan might.”
Rocky tosses the black G-string to me. “He might be the kind of guy who’d be angry or mortified if his girl went half-naked to a party among his peers.”
“I’m not really his girl,” I shoot back.
“No shit.” The words are biting, but not at me. His jaw muscle tics. He cuts his gunmetal eyes to the wall. I’d like to think the idea that I could be anyone else’s girl grates on him. Disgusts him. That really, I am his. But this feels like the bigger make-believe.
It’s my stupid fantasy.
Because when has Rocky ever made a real move on me?
My face burns with more frustrations, and I exhale them out to say, “Kellan could see me like a prize. He might want to show me off.”
The award for farthest eye roll distance goes to Brayden Tinrock. He lets out a low groan that sounds sensual yet animalistic. His entire being balances between fuck and fight. Like he’s a second from doing both to me.
It’s extremely hot, but I avoid blatantly checking him out. He knows he’s attractive. He does not need my stamp of approval. I ball up the bikini and say, “I take it you’re the angry or mortified kind of guy.”
“No, I’m the kind of guy who doesn’t bring the girl I like around insufferable pricks like Kellan and whoever the fuck his dumbass friend is.” Rocky never forgets a name.
“Jackson.”
“Right.”
I smile at his dry tone.
He sees, and his lips just barely twitch upward, then he peers over at the glass double doors. The sky is a stormy gray. Aggressive sounds of gathering waves fill the quiet.
While Rocky stands only a couple feet from me, I envy his demeanor. How his navy-blue suit never wears him. How his broody disposition can’t cloud his real confidence. He presents himself like he’s powerful enough to be elected Roman consul at seventeen. It’s not manufactured. It’s not fake.
It’s a part of him.
He never really acts like being rich is a façade. He is rich, and why should I feel any different? I have the same safety net of wealth as him. I’ve grown up in the same affluent social circles. Fabrications of our own making, yes. But is it an illusion if it’s our reality?
Then why do I feel like a fake rich girl? Is it because I’m in more positions that feel…degrading?
No, no.
My mom says there is power in screwing over egotistical, vain men. The ones who act like we’re accessories to their expensive cars and overpriced toys. I don’t feel humiliated at the end of a con. There’ve been several times where I’ve felt triumphant.
In this second, with Rocky taking a seat on my bed, I feel…confused.
“Why’d you come in here?” I ask him.
“To see if you needed help.”
“Seriously?”
He gives me a hard look. “No, I wanted to take a bubble bath and braid your hair.”
I scrunch my face. “Like I’d let you touch my hair.”
Rocky leans his hands back on the mattress. Getting comfortable. He’s zeroed in on me, but I’m not his prey. I don’t care if he thinks I’m full of shit either. He can believe I have the hots for him—he wouldn’t be wrong. But I’m not going to melt all over him like ice cream on a sweltering summer day.
“Where’s your martini glass?” he asks. “The strawberry one?”
“Why? You plan to drink out of that while you’re in my bathtub and doing a piss-poor job at braiding my hair?”
“The hair you won’t let me braid,” he points out.
“Exactly.” I go to stand, but Rocky catches my wrist. He’s sitting up now, and he keeps me seated next to him on the bed.
My heart rate pitches up at the warmth of his palm on me. He lets go, and my skin goes cold. I don’t let him speak. Instead, I say fast, “You’re not allowed to touch my martini glass. I went to great lengths to secure that one.”
“You steal it from a little old ‘quirky’ lady in her brownstone?”
“I didn’t steal it.”
“I don’t really care if you did.”
I feel another smile pull at my lips. “You wouldn’t,” I mutter.
We are lawless, caustic things. Our ethics are twisted, and I like Rocky because he’s someone who will choose immoral paths when needed. Dark shadows aren’t something to avoid but something he’ll walk into.