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)
He rests his forehead on mine, his free hand diving back between our pelvises, and he toys with my clit. I squirm beneath him, and he breathes against my lips, “Pick a safe word, Phoebe.”
“Ahh, fuckfuck.”
“Not that one.”
“Rocky.”
“Or that one.”
I hold on to his bicep and feel for his large hand that’s between my legs. “I’mgonnacome. I’mgonnacome. Please, please. I need . . .” More. Him.
He stops.
Again.
Ughhh. “Rocky.” I glare.
He climbs off me. Off the bed. My heart just drops. Until he says, “Where do you keep your condoms?”
My heart floats higher than before. “My dresser.”
He goes to my dresser, buck naked, and his ass—God, he has such a perfect ass. As he angles toward me to open a drawer, I see the muscles of his waist that tease my eyes toward his cock. So much heat bathes my face and body, and I think about taking off my panties.
But I kinda just want him to.
Rocky checks a couple drawers before finding the right one. He inspects the two boxes. “This is it?” he asks.
“Yeah.” There’s plenty. I’m really confused. “Do you plan on coming twenty-four times in one night?”
He shoots me a look. “I’m not talking about the fucking quantity.” He reads a black box, his brows pinching.
“The size?” I ask. He’s holding a box with XL on the front.
“I don’t like this brand.” He examines the other box without the XL. “This one is too small. And I hate the feeling of thicker condoms. Or any of this warming shit.”
Who knew Rocky was particular about condoms? Definitely not me. We’re both learning new things about each other.
He’s unconcerned when he deserts both boxes. No condom?
“I’ve been off birth control since the move here,” I warn him.
He picks up his crumpled slacks and looks right at me. “I’m not raw-dogging you.” A breath catches in my lungs, lit up with one single deep-throated phrase, and he eyes my split legs, my ragged breath, and he grins.
“Fuck. You.” I groan and throw a pillow at him.
He dodges the pillow and fishes out a wallet from his slacks. “I already knew you like dirty talk, Phoebe.”
“You did not,” I refute in a huff, but now I am wondering when and where and how he figured that out.
Rocky procures a couple condoms from his wallet. He keeps condoms in his pocket?
I arch my brows. “Who were those waiting for?”
“You, apparently.” He gestures to the boxes on the dresser. “Who were those waiting for? Because clearly not me.”
“Sorry, I didn’t know your condom preferences.”
“You’re not sorry.” He goes and locks the door.
I like watching him strut around the room naked. Usually I’m in those positions, and the role reversal is swelling a greater affection in me. “No, I’m not . . .”
He reaches across the bed and grabs the remote. “Trevor is already awake in the living room.” Again, I’m confused at what he’s doing and why he mentions his brother until he unmutes A Nightmare on Elm Street and raises the volume to an obnoxiously loud level.
I, also, do not want his little brother to hear us. So I’m not protesting.
“What condoms do you prefer?” I ask over the movie as Rocky rips the packet. He’s still standing beside the bed, and I can’t see the tiny words on the foil.
“Ultra-thin or extra-thin.”
Hmm. “Should I take notes?” I quip, but honestly, I’m still nervous this might not happen once. I can’t even think about next time.
Rocky rolls the condom on his shaft with ease. “No.”
No?
Before hurt punctures me, he adds, “I buy the condoms.” He’s on the bed. Kneeling again, he has my hips in his strong clutch. “I’m the rich bitch. Remember?” He yanks my panties straight down my legs, off my ankles and feet. Ohhh wow.
I’m completely bare.
Pleasure sizzles beneath his hands as they return to my hips and ass. I murmur, “It’s . . . ringing a bell.” His gaze is diving so deep inside me. I already feel like Rocky has entered me.
Bracing his forearm beside my face, he lowers down on me. The thump of his heartbeat pounds against my body, and his erection bears between my legs. He hasn’t slipped in me.
Instead, he cups the inside of my thighs and splits them wider. I hook one leg around his shoulder, and he grabs my calf in the air. “Safe word,” he demands.
“Fuck me.”
“Cute fake safe word. Pick a real one.”
I wet my lips to keep from smiling. “Why don’t you pick?”
“Because I’ll choose a word you won’t want desecrated in bed.”
“Strawberry?” I’m guessing.
He raises his brows.
I’m right. “Yeah, no, don’t ruin my wholesome love of strawberries.” If I have to use a safe word, then it means I’m scared and I want to feel protected. I look at him as it hits me. “Miami.”
He’s not perplexed, but he stares into me for a solid moment. Likely recalling our time in Miami. We’ve lived in so many cities, it’d take me hours to name them all, but my time in Miami with Rocky was adrenaline-fueled, messy, and a vivid, fond memory.