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)
“Ready to pop my cherry?” I quip with less flirt and more bite. It’s the realest me, and the realest him stalks closer with a dark look in his eye.
I watch him pursue me with zero hesitance. Whatever disturbed him at the brownstone has been silenced, and he drinks in more than the softness of my thigh, which peeks from the sultry slit of my glittery silver dress. He consumes more than the diamond necklace dripping down my plunging neckline, more than my teasing breasts.
I intake shorter, quicker breaths. My heart accelerates at an adrenaline-charged rate.
I’m not bait to Rocky. I’m not a lifeless mannequin. I’m not cattle needing to be appraised and bartered. I’m not the hundreds of different faces I’ve worn.
I’m just Phoebe.
His black bow tie is already unraveled around the collar of his white button-down. Dark hair devilishly disheveled and his gaze fixed unwaveringly on me, he looks ready to devour the entire world with me inside it.
“Forget your cherry was popped years ago?” he retorts in a deep, husky breath. Nearing me with quiet footfalls. Closer, closer. “And not by me.”
Oxygen thins, and my collarbone juts out as I chase after breath. “Disappointed?” I sling back.
He’s only inches away, his cologne an intoxicating sandalwood and pine scent, and his gaze drops to my lips. “Devastated,” he says dryly, but despite his tone, the truth of that single word bleeds through his pinpointed eyes, driving a dagger straight through me.
I twist the blade. “You cry yourself to sleep every night?”
“Every. Single. Night.” His voice is a serrated breath in the quiet. He towers over me, staring down, our gazes practically nail-gunned to one another. “I wept over you. Over what I’d never do to you.” His fingers skate along the curve of my hip with a tortured slowness. No zipper to my dress; he reaches around to my lower back, where a few knotted strings cinch fabric and accentuate my shape. “How I’d never bend you over.”
My pulse quickens. I never break his molten gaze that verges on a glare. How a glare can be laced with sensual, desirous things is beyond my comprehension right now, but I feel myself searing an identical one into him.
“How I’d never slide my hard”—he loosens one string, his fingers brushing the bare flesh of my lower back—“long cock between your legs and fuck you senseless. How I’d never make you writhe and cry and moan.” His other hand nestles against my flushed neck. “And you. You would’ve loved every. Single. Second. Of me.”
Arousal gathers like an active volcano inside my body, and I sway against his grazing hands like toxic fumes cloud the room.
“Thrusting,” he says, untying a knot with one last pull, “so deep inside your wet . . . virgin pussy. You would’ve seen stars for endless fucking days.”
The cocktail dress slackens at my hips like a pillow sack. Once he glides the thin straps off my shoulders, the entire dress cascades in a silver pool at my heels.
My expression wields a strange amount of power over Rocky, possessing him more than my perked nipples and the bareness of my body. Even as his fingers slip in the lacy band of my white thong, he’s glued to my eyes and my lips.
My pulse hurries in a lovesick pace, but I tilt my chin up to meet the depth of his gaze. “You wanted to be the first inside me so badly,” I taunt, a headiness still swirling between us.
“So badly,” he parrots, his fingers climbing up my neck. “Tell me, Phoebe. When I wasn’t the first to fuck you, how long did you cry over me?”
I’m barely breathing. “Every. Single. Night.” I try to deadpan, but the words are caught in a tangled moan.
Rocky clasps the back of my skull, and he kisses the ever-loving fuck out of me—a desperate, raw kiss that explodes me to his chest with force.
I gasp as smoldering pleasure surges, as the blistering seconds burn into timeless moments. I rip through the buttons of his white shirt, and he tears it off his arms, tossing it aside. Bare chested, he unbuckles his belt, and I kick off my heels.
He presses his forehead to mine and breathes huskily, “You want this tonight?”
I want you.
“I want it.” This is the greatest confirmation. He wastes no time cupping the backs of my thighs and hoisting me around his waist. My heart is beating out of my rib cage. I claw at his hair, our kisses ravenous and edged with poison. Being with Rocky feels lethal—like it could end me at any moment—and yet, I loathe the very idea of stopping.
He hurls me on the bed, and I bounce on top of the fluffy hotel comforter, rose petals smashed under my back. Our gazes are fucking before our bodies even touch. We forgo slipping beneath the cover and sheets, and as he crawls over my body, he tears my lacy thong down my thighs and legs.