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)
Sex.
It shouldn’t feel this powerful, this electrifying. I can’t ever remember enjoying sex this much. Like I could keep going. I could never stop. My nerve endings sing after hours of fooling around in Rocky’s bedroom last night and then again early this morning.
I want to give a middle finger to his digital clock and pretend it’s yesterday. It’s been three months since the Berkshires, where we collected our parents’ DNA, and little things about being with Rocky still send butterflies flapping. Simple things. Like waking up in his bedroom.
Rocky’s room.
Besides the TV, which he hung for me, his room is more library-from-Beauty-and-the-Beast than actual bedroom. The irony is that nothing in here really belongs to Rocky. Not the Murano Glass birds or vases, the gold Venetian masks, or the dozens of 1700s encyclopedias on the many built-in shelves. The Reynoldses left their various trinkets and books when Rocky rented the boathouse, at Rocky’s request and with his money.
Even if he wanted to decorate, I don’t think he has enough personal belongings to do much. Unlike me, he never collected things from job to job.
Rocky walks toward the door and disposes of a condom in a trash bin. He makes a scarily attractive, naked trek back to his king-sized bed.
Scream plays at a loud decibel on a mounted TV in the background, and I try to focus more on the Ghostface killer than the murderously handsome devil that just fucked my brains out—but I am only human.
“That was…” I think out loud, and off Rocky’s satisfied expression, I board up all compliments. “Pretty average.”
His gaze sweeps my face. “Wow.”
“Wow, like you’re so right, Phoebe?”
“Wow, like this town is making you a really bad liar.” He’s a breath from the bed, and I throw a feather pillow at him.
He annoyingly catches it.
“I’m a great liar.” I sit up more, the sheet dropping to my lap. His hot gaze lowers to my tits, and I ignore that to make my argument. “Case in point, this whole town believes I’m happily with Jake when I’m actually unhappily with you.”
“Unhappily?”
“Uh-huh, yeah. I’m very, very unhappy with you.”
“Yeah?” He crawls back on the bed. “You die a little inside every night?”
“More than a little.” My breath snags, especially as his large palm slides up the side of my face, our exchanged desire throttling my senses. “I’m fully, completely…comatose.”
His lips ghost over mine. “You feel pretty fucking alive to me.” Just as he drags me into a body-pulling kiss and lays me against the mattress, a shrill beeeeep beeeep beeeeeep tears our lips apart and causes Rocky to roll his eyes into the Atlantic. “Dammit,” he curses, climbing off me and the bed.
He collects his phone from a built-in bookshelf and angrily shuts off the seven a.m. alarm, then journeys around the room for his wallet, keys. Still naked. He wears rage like the warmest fur coat. His intense stride leaves flaming footprints everywhere he steps.
The fire is intrinsic to who Rocky is. But it rarely burns this many holes in the floor.
“Can’t be late for your very important date?” I twist my hair into a messy high pony and ignore the clench of my stomach.
He throws dirty clothes from last night into a wicker basket. “Breakfast at Symphonies on the Pier.”
“Fancy.”
“Eight a.m. sharp.”
“With Mr. Firstborn Fuckbag?” I ask, even if the answer is crystal clear in his hostile stance. “Your new bestie can rot in hell.”
“Hell isn’t painful enough,” he says bitterly. “Trent would likely thrive there.” The mere mention of Trent Waterford is a smoke bomb of wrath.
I inhale the fumes. “No, he wouldn’t, because I’d be there, and I would kick his ass to some nasty flesh-eating circle.”
Rocky almost, almost smiles. “Yeah? How exactly would you kick his ass?”
“I’m strong,” I argue.
Three months into sowing seeds to gain influence over the Waterford family, and I’ve felt increasingly protective of Rocky. Like I could throw steak knives and a chain saw at Trent. But I know better.
Wedging myself between Rocky and Trent isn’t a good option. It’d make the situation infinitely worse, even if it’s so very tempting.
I just wish I could do something more to help my real (but secret) boyfriend.
“I can carry a tire,” I say, noting my strength.
“You can pick up a tire two inches off the ground for two seconds.”
I glare. Okay, he’s not wrong. I’m not out here pumping iron and working on my upper-body strength.
Still, I cross my arms. “I’ve thrown a punch before.” At a bar many years ago. To protect Hailey after she rubbed some drunk dude wrong by merely existing. He said she wouldn’t stop glaring at him. He was so offended that he got in her face, and so I got in his face with my fist, and then Nova intervened because Drunk Dude grabbed me by the hair.