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)
“Deal is off,” I declare.
Phoebe frowns. “Why?”
“You know why.” I switch on the sink faucet and then slide open the glass shower. I turn it on. Warm water gushes out. The sound will muffle our voices well enough.
Phoebe pretends to be interested in a jar of potpourri made in Italy. “I want you to say it,” she breathes.
“You want me to say it?” I say with control, but I’m on the verge of combusting. Phoebe sets the potpourri down, her hands gripping the sink behind her, and I face this girl in a pseudo standoff we’ve had for years.
Our hate isn’t real. It’s the armor we carry to shield us from the truth.
But our frustrations—those are real.
It goes far beyond sex, but while Phoebe stands there with her nipples hardened through her white shirt and her breath shallowed, sexual frustrations attempt to take precedent. Carnal thoughts ignite.
Me, pushing her up against the wall beside the towel rack. Whispering in the pit of her ear how I’d devour her. Tearing off her jeans and panties with rough speed. Spreading her open for me. Spurring a moan out of her—being inside of her for the first time in my life.
I’ve jerked off to the mental image of ramming so deep into Phoebe and watching her come on repeat and holding her beneath me. It’s a fucking classic in my head, and I never ever dreamed it’d be a reality.
I still don’t dream that impossible dream.
Because I know it can’t come true.
I inch closer, stretching tension.
Her neck lengthens and shoulders draw back with anticipation.
“I can say it,” I tell her, an aching foot away. “I. Can’t. Have. You.” My words are cold and dark between us. “As long as we’re working for our parents, I will never be able to have you. I will never be able to give myself to you. But it physically pains me to see you with anyone else—and if I can’t have you, then no one else can.”
She’s breathing heavy, empathy blistering her gaze. “Same.”
Same. “There we go,” I say heatedly. “We said it. Now what, Phoebe?”
She lifts her shoulders. “I don’t know, Rocky. Maybe we just get it over with and don’t make a big deal out of sleeping with each other.”
I’m shaking my head, my jaw tightening.
“Rocky—”
“No.” I hold her gaze. “If I fuck you, it won’t be for power or for money or for them. It’ll be because I love you and every ounce of my being couldn’t contain the love I have for you, no matter how much I should’ve.”
She blows backward, lips parted. It takes a solid minute for her to speak. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Don’t say those words.” Her eyes glass and grow angrier. “We don’t say I love you to each other off jobs.”
Funny how the words always felt too intimate to say to one another, but I’ve been swimming inside the emotion for years.
Dirty, destructive love.
I’ve been in love with Phoebe since I was a teenager.
“You don’t want to be loved by me?” I put that out there, trying not to feel my stomach churn saying it.
“It’s not that.” Her voice cracks. “Fuck, Rocky. What kind of happy ending is there? What’s the point of loving someone if you can’t have them?” Her gaze bleeds into mine. “Hearing it, feeling it—it’s suffering and anguish.”
No shit.
That’s what we’re doing here. That’s what we’ve been doing.
Tormenting ourselves.
I comb another hand through my hair. Steam begins caking the mirror behind Phoebe, and the vapor thickens the heat already stirring in me.
“I hate your mother,” I say in a murmuring sneer.
Phoebe isn’t surprised. “I’m the one who’s rebelled against her desire to hook us up, so maybe you should hate me instead.”
“Yeah, that’s not happening,” I growl out. “The depth of how much I hate your mother is nontransferable. And you don’t need to protect her from my hatred, Phoebe.”
She frowns, possibly not realizing that’s what she was doing. Phoebe would sacrifice herself to protect her mom. One who’d likely redirect a gun at her daughter if it meant saving herself.
My mother is just as selfish.
They’re trained manipulators, and Elizabeth and Addison have made their daughters believe that whenever anything good happens and goes to plan, it’s their doing. Elizabeth is why Phoebe succeeded.
Elizabeth is why Phoebe is happy.
Elizabeth knows best.
“I’m not trying to protect . . .” Phoebe trails off, frustrated. “You act like she’s walked all over me. I’ve resisted her wishes when it comes to you and me, Rocky. I’ve told her I don’t like you just so she wouldn’t be obsessed with us.”
“And manipulate us,” I clarify. “We’re afraid of the same thing.”
“No.” Phoebe shakes her head. “I’m afraid of my mother being too involved if we ever get together. You’re afraid they’ll manipulate us if we even have sex and they find out. I mean, you might even be paranoid about kissing me outside of a job for that reason.”