Series: Webs We Weave Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126927 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 635(@200wpm)___ 508(@250wpm)___ 423(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126927 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 635(@200wpm)___ 508(@250wpm)___ 423(@300wpm)
I say nothing.
Her breath hitches and eyes widen. “I’m right? That’s why you’ve never made even a single move on me when we’re not working. What are they going to do?”
I look into her like she’s trying to repaint a dark history in pastel colors. I just remember that night two years ago. The night we rarely talk about. The one that changed everything. “We’re not even together, and they wanted us to fuck on a job.”
“Maybe we should’ve!” she almost shouts, her frustrations boiling over. She releases the sink to push out against my chest.
My muscles flex as she bumps up against me, but I don’t move. I stare down and meet Phoebe’s challenge.
“Maybe I should’ve crawled on top of you,” she continues hotly. “Maybe I should’ve sunk down on you. Buried you inside me. Rode you until you couldn’t see straight. Given you the night of your fucking life.”
I grit down on my teeth, reading her quickened breath. “Maybe you should’ve.” My voice is sandpaper. “Maybe you should’ve done all the things you’ve never wanted to do, you natural-born liar.” I watch her neck flush. “You’ve never wanted to make the first move. You’re waiting for me—”
“No,” she protests, but the truth is all over her face.
“—to take you in my arms. To hold you.”
She shakes her head, pain deepening her gaze.
“To kiss you. To fuck you.” I dip my head down, consuming her in a never-ending glare that tears at my insides. Her arousal parts her lips as we both imagine me overtaking her, and my whisper hits her ear. “I will make you come and come. Again and again and again. Until you’re quivering underneath me, long before I fucking come inside you.”
A tiny, wanting moan escapes from Phoebe. “Rocky.”
It’s a fuck you, Rocky, for turning her on. But I might as well have fisted my cock the way my body reacted to her saying my name. She shoves my chest, and I’m already taking many steps back. Spinning away from Phoebe, I pace the short length of the bathroom, pushing angered hands through my hair.
“And still,” she says tightly. “You don’t want to risk sleeping with me.”
Jesus Christ.
I hate even being on a different line that’s on the same page as Phoebe, let alone a completely different chapter, and I’d like to think we’ve been reading the same book.
“You know why,” I shoot back, and as fun in theory as it might be to do a whole friends-with-benefits thing with Phoebe, it won’t work.
We have too much baggage and history and feelings to fuck with no strings attached. And I can’t promise that if I start sleeping with her, I’ll be able to easily stop.
“Rocky, they’re not that evil. If anything, we’re the ones making our lives a living hell.”
I let out a strained laugh. She’s not wholly wrong—we have made a home in hell for ourselves, and sometimes I believe that’s where we like to reside.
“Not that evil,” I repeat, staring at the gathering steam on the mirror behind her. “Your mother is manipulative.”
“We’re all manipulative,” she contends.
“She’s manipulative toward you,” I rephrase. “Our parents have been manipulating you and me and all of us.”
She shakes her head. An apology nearly softens her brown eyes because she can’t see what I see, and it’s uncomfortable being so far removed from the perspective of the person you care about.
An acidic taste slips down my throat.
I should’ve protected her from them. I should’ve protected everyone from them. The single most important task my father ever gave me—to always protect my brother, my sister, and the Graves—I failed the instant I was given it.
“HEY!” a guy shouts outside the bathroom. “I need to piss!” The doorknob jiggles.
“Who the fuck is in there?! Are you taking a shower?”
“Oh my God, is this really the only bathroom?” someone whines. “The line is so long.”
Phoebe glances warily to the door.
“We’re not done,” I tell her as I go to the door. Carefully, I crack it wide enough that they can see Phoebe inside with me. A staggered line weaves from the bathroom down the short hallway, and the complaining nails my eardrums. “Hey, hey, hey!” I shout over them.
They shut up to listen.
To which I say, “Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck off. I’m fighting with my ex-wife. If you have a fucking problem with that, go piss in the ocean.” I slam the door on them and lock it.
“Come on, bro!”
Phoebe scrolls on her phone and plays a heavy metal song on high volume. She tosses her cell on a fuzzy mat near the door.
To hear her in privacy, I move closer again, and I grip the edge of the sink on either side of her hips.
“They’re not evil,” she repeats in a murmur.
“They’ve made all of you believe we’re their sweet little spiders.” I breathe. “But we’re not spiders to them. We’re the moths they’ve cocooned in their webs, and they’ve kept us trapped for years.”