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)
This is happening.
I hate how good he makes me feel. I hate how much I truly love every. Single. Second. Of him.
Because this will end soon. Don’t look at the clock. It’s dumb not to check the time. We’re on a job, but I find myself avoiding the digital clock on the nightstand like it’s a bomb ticking down.
Rocky places a kiss on my kneecap before rising back to my lips. We’re tangled in each other, and sweat already glistens on his chest and beads up on my thighs. He takes a second to peel off his black boxer briefs, and when he falls back down—hands rooted on either side of me—the sheer heat of his hardness rubbing against me is enough to prick all my nerves.
I pulsate, aching for him, and I reach up the same time he bows down—kissing again. The kissing part is safe. It’s what we’ve always done. Toy and tease and eke out an unbearable tension, and that tension stretches tenfold tonight.
He clutches my thigh and spreads me wider around his waist. Oh God. A shaky cry scrapes against my throat. “Rocky.” It sounds like a warning.
He pauses, his chest inflating and deflating with rapid, hot breath. I feel him searching me. “You want this?” he asks again.
Yes. I hang on to the back of his neck, panting. “I . . .” Don’t look at the clock.
It’ll all end tonight.
It’ll end soon.
“Phoebe.” He clasps my cheek with equal parts care and urgency. “Do you want to have sex with me?”
Every artery and blood cell in me is screaming, Yes! “Keep going,” I breathe out.
“That’s not an answer.”
“Yes,” I snap back and arch up to kiss him.
Rocky resists at first, but he descends back into the deadly vapors of our arousal. Lip-locked. His tongue slides against mine, dizzying me again, and I could lose myself to this moment. To him and time. So terribly, I want to.
We’re on a job.
It beats painfully at my heart and mind.
His muscles flex as he grinds forward and cups the back of my head. Not entering me yet, but the pleasure of being this close to Rocky comes with an anguished strain that won’t release.
He knocks his knee against my other leg, stretching me even wider, and I’m opened for him.
It’ll be disrupted. Patrick will come in midway. It’ll all fucking end.
That’s what’s supposed to happen. What has to happen. What I agreed to.
An emotional ball of pain wells, and I try to ignore the pit in my ribs. Most everything in my life has been temporary, but Rocky never has been. Tonight, he will be.
It hurts.
It hurts.
Why does it hurt?
I clench his hair with both hands, my knees locking and other joints rusting beneath him.
He goes eerily still, likely sensing the rigidity in my body. His brows are knitted together, face twisting through tormented, labored sentiments while he sweeps me. “I can’t,” he says in a rough, choked breath.
Our gazes latch, and there is so much untouched brewing under the surface.
I want this. But not like this.
I know that, too.
My eyes sear, hurt and relief jumbled together. “This was too far,” I murmur. Sex might just ruin everything between us. Hooking up on jobs is already messing with me. “I don’t want to keep doing this.” I shove his chest, but Rocky is already leaning off me.
With a racing pulse, I grab a soft feather-and-down pillow and hug it upright against my naked frame. Rocky is kneeling, and I avert my eyes from his erection. He checks the time on the digital clock near the bed.
Less than ten minutes and Patrick will be here. We don’t have the luxury of cracking open a bottle of wine like we’re jilted lovers stuck in a room together—where we can “talk it out” for an hour and dig through the mess we just created.
My “fiancé” is still supposed to catch us in the act.
Yay us.
But Rocky isn’t hustling to reconstruct our decaying plan. He climbs unhurriedly off the bed, his muscles constricted in harsher bands. “Our parents will keep using us, Phoebe.” He pushes his fingers through his hair and grabs his boxer briefs off the floor. “If we ever have sex, they’ll use that as a reason to put us in more positions we don’t want to be in. You know that, right?”
I’m not sure how much of that is true, but I do know how much I hate this feeling. “We should never have sex,” I realize. “Maybe we should never even date.”
Rocky is rigid, motionless. “We have to date for jobs.”
My cheeks roast, and I bristle. “Okay, so when we’re not on a job.” Not that we’ve ever dated off a job before. “I just meant that dating or being in a real relationship shouldn’t be a future possibility. It should be . . . banned. Off-limits.”