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)
“Let go of the door,” I tell him.
He still doesn’t. “She was going to sleep with someone eventually, Rocky. We’ve all had sex. We all lost our virginities years ago. One-night stands are our norm. This isn’t any different, but if you wanted it to be, maybe you should’ve done something.”
I glare. “You wanted me to fuck your sister?”
He’s rattled by nothing, so I don’t know why I even tried to throw him. Oliver volleys back, “You want me to fuck yours?”
I grind my teeth. “Don’t fuck with Hailey.”
His eyes sweep my face. “You don’t think Hailey would fuck with me first?” Honestly, I try not to dive too deep into their psyches, so this is making my head throb. He’s quick to continue, “Whatever Phoebe wants, that’s what I support.”
“And you think Phoebe wanted to sleep with me?”
He shrugs. “You said it.”
Want is a desire. One I share with her.
Can’t is where I’ve been. I can’t have sex with Phoebe. I can’t be with Phoebe like that, and possibly Oliver believes she’s been saving it for me. That I could’ve been her first. That I could’ve satiated all her dying needs—that she didn’t need to go run after a gangly, sunscreen-splotched park ranger to fulfill anything.
Like everything in our lives, it’s not that simple. She wasn’t waiting to have sex just so she could have sex with me. I’m almost positive about that.
I comb a hot hand through my hair. She’s alone, vulnerable, with a guy I barely even said two words to.
And Hailey is miles away. Phoebe’s best friend, who she relies on and confesses secrets to, isn’t even around. Just Oliver, who’s so laissez-faire about this that it’s driving me insane.
“Just move,” I say.
Finally, he releases the knob, giving me enough room to whip the door open and push through. I don’t expect him to follow me. He doesn’t. Because if someone is going to wear the badge of a certified asshole, it’s going to be me.
I have no change of heart when I cross the graveled road to her yurt. None when I put a fist to the wooden door. “It’s me!” I call out, not saying her name. Not knowing what alias she slipped the park ranger.
In the thirty seconds that I don’t hear a reply, I fight within myself not to break the door down. She’s fine. I repeat Oliver’s words in my head.
But countless times, I’ve seen men gawk at her, salivate over her. I’ve borne witness to marks putting their hands on her.
He’s not a mark, I remind myself.
A park ranger. A guy. She chose. She chose him. Those are the last three words in my head before the door swings open.
Phoebe doesn’t allow me room to peer into the yurt. She slips through the crack of the door and shuts it behind her. An oversized pink Strawberry Shortcake T-shirt stops at her thighs. I bought that shirt for her two years ago. It’d been her seventeenth birthday. She acted like it was just okay, then proceeded to wear it every night between jobs.
Did she have sex in it?
“Nice shirt,” I say.
She keeps her eyes on mine. “Nice abs.” I’m not wearing a shirt. The hot morning air feels thick and sticky against my bare chest. “Or lack thereof.”
I have defined muscles. A fucking six-pack.
She’s not wearing a bra. I can only tell when she crosses her arms and the fabric tightens over her tits. Her nipples are pebbled mounds like it’s below thirty outside, and for some agonizing reason, I can smell her. Not him on her. Just Phoebe—a pungent, intoxicating, sweet odor that I want to bury my face in.
I’d say she’s on her period if it weren’t for the fact that she just had sex. I doubt she’d want to lose it while she’s bleeding. She must be ovulating, and my senses are going fucking feral for her.
I flex to force down this primal urge. My body needs to get a grip. We’re not the last two people on earth. We don’t need to procreate to sustain the human race.
I don’t cast a quip back in her direction.
We’re both standing in a crater of tension and a vat of pheromones. Our eyes never shifting off each other.
Her lips pull in a deep frown. “Oliver told you?”
“To his credit, he tried hard not to.” I stare past her, at the door. There are too many things I want to ask her. Are you okay? Why him? Why now? Oliver was right—all of us, except Phoebe, lost our virginities ages ago, a fact we all learned through truth or dare one bored night at a Four Seasons.
Which was recent. Maybe recent enough that it’d been on her mind. Maybe she was irritated that Trevor had sex already. He lost it at thirteen. He said to a lifeguard at the hotel pool. Thankfully she was around his age.