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)
“Visiting,” Rocky says curtly. “At the moment.” He appraises the ceiling and walls with a short glance. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll make this place my home like Phoebe has.”
“Well, advice from someone who has been here for four generations,” Mr. Burke says, lifting his glass toward his lips. “You don’t fuck with another man’s Cognac.”
Is he seriously trying to correlate me with his stupid liquor? I’m biting my tongue so hard to keep from speaking. I feel myself instinctively tucking closer to Rocky.
“Wise words,” Rocky slingshots back.
Instead of waiting out the cockfight, I spin around Rocky. “Excuse me,” I say to them. Katherine could be hawk-eyeing me from across the dining room for all I know. And getting canned on day one is not the goal here.
I veer toward the bar to continue my actual job, but Rocky is hot on my heels. I’m about to tell him off until I detect the raw urgency in his eyes.
Fine.
Setting the tray on the bar, I follow him out of the dining room, through the rotunda. Down another hall, and we bypass the state-of-the-art gym with more Fiji water at guests’ disposal, I’m sure, and suddenly, Rocky has found a nice, totally cute storage closet.
Tennis balls, baskets of rackets, croquet sets, and a volleyball net are surprisingly crammed in disorder on shelves and the floor.
He shuts the door behind us, and as soon as he faces me, he whisper-sneers, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I sneer back. “This is my job. Mr. Burke could get me fired for what you pulled back there.”
“He won’t.”
“You don’t know that for sure, Rocky,” I nearly shout, but I try my best to keep whispering.
“Firing you does nothing to hurt me, and that rich prick would rather use you to fuck me over. I made the enemy.”
I flame. “And I’m just the pawn between you two? Just the thing you can tug back and forth with no say?”
“You think I wanted to piss all over you like you’re a fucking fire hydrant?”
I breathe hotly, a strange hurt crossing over me. I shouldn’t be upset that Rocky is saying he hates possessing me. I should want to maintain my own agency. I’m not a thing. But still, I wish he would answer with, I’m yours as much as you’re mine.
Rocky reads me quickly.
I stiffen and thread my arms defiantly.
“You liked it?” he questions.
My cheeks burn, and I don’t deny it. “There was no reason for you to mark your territory. I was fine.”
He steps forward. “There was no reason for you to piss all over me in front of Valentina,” he retorts, like it’s the same.
Is it?
Were we both just claiming each other?
Tension stretches taut the closer Rocky stands. He grips the shelf beside my head, and the musky scent of his cologne is familiar and dizzying.
I refuse to step back. Our gazes bolt together with smoldering heat, and very quietly, I say, “I didn’t enjoy pissing on you either.”
He doesn’t ask why I did.
It’s obvious enough that jealousy played a factor.
Rocky slips a scathing glare over his shoulder. At the door. And I have to assume that was reserved for Mr. Burke. Especially as he says, “Those men aren’t changing, Phoebe. You could start your new life anywhere, but you chose the upper echelons of society with misogyny ingrained in its ether. How Mr. Burke spoke to you is what these bastards do.”
“And what’d you do?” I shove back, wounded. “I loved the part where you told him to fuck off and go eat shit for treating me like a naked mannequin.”
Hurt flashes through his eyes. “I’m playing with the deck of cards on their table.”
True meaning: He has to be a rich prick, too. “That’s bullshit,” I say. “You’re not here to con anyone, Rocky. You don’t need to be one of them!” I step closer at the same time that his hand encases my mouth to catch my near shout.
My body is welded up against Rocky’s muscled chest, and my pulse is pounding in my veins, his heat swathing me in familiarity and comfort.
His chest rises and falls with heavy breaths against me. Like I’m chasing him around the tiny storage closet.
He pushes forward until I have no option but to shuffle back. My spine crashes into the shelves. Our latched eyes scream untouched notes of padlocked desire, and the tempo accelerates between us—his hand sheathing my cheekbone, my nails clawing at his back.
Rocky grips my hair, his forehead bowing toward mine. Heat surges, and a whimper scratches my throat. Holy shit.
The noise in his throat is husky, deeper with coarser frustrations and cravings. “Phoebe.”
My name is a warning. A we can’t.
Neither of us moves away. He’s pressed to me, his thick hardness bearing against me. My pussy throbs like a tortured drumbeat, aching for the feeling of him inside me. Desire swirls like the hottest perfume, and yet, there’s the greatest pull back to this push forward. An invisible barrier prevents Rocky from completely reaching me.