Series: Webs We Weave Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 167
Estimated words: 162520 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 813(@200wpm)___ 650(@250wpm)___ 542(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 162520 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 813(@200wpm)___ 650(@250wpm)___ 542(@300wpm)
Jake watches us with hooded eyes. “Jesus fuck,” he curses and then groans.
Oliver wears a self-satisfied smirk, and they both fist each other at the same time. It’s another battle of speeds. Jake sliding his large palm along Oliver’s erection in slow, sensual movements. His other hand braces the back of Olly’s neck.
Oliver rampages in fast, forceful strokes.
They both look undone. Heavy grunts, weathered expressions like they’re fighting to stay the course. Curses mix with winded breaths. I squeeze my legs together to stop the wetness from spreading.
Oliver growls, “Just go faster, man.”
“No,” Jake rasps.
Oliver lets out a choked noise and presses his forehead to Jake’s. They stare into each other’s eyes, combative. Challenging. Until they both shudder against each other in quaking spasms. They release at the same time, and cum coats both their abdomens. Jake keeps his hand against the back of Olly’s neck, and Oliver keeps his on top of Jake’s head. Chests heaving and caving with ragged breaths. They both angle their heads to look at me.
I’m full of unspent desire. But really, I have one specific want. And I’m not too shy to ask.
“Can I lick up the cum?” I ask bluntly. The craving flushes my face, but I don’t want to take it back. Especially not when they both start smiling like I’m the most precious thing on this bed. Oliver even lets out a soft laugh.
Still out of breath, Jake nods.
So does Oliver.
I clean them both up, satiating my wants as easily as they satiated theirs.
I stop thinking about my mistakes, and I start thinking about something more tortuous. More unbelievable.
I start thinking that I want this to last much longer than just the summer.
THIRTY-TWO
Phoebe
Early-morning rain patters the yacht, the only sound between the seven of us in The Ithaka’s main saloon.
“Phoebe,” Rocky says from the floor, various blankets and pillows strewn around the long curved sofas. Two marble coffee tables, a fully stocked bar, and floor-length windows outfit the luxury boat. Varrick offered to have his private chef board this morning and whip up breakfast for us, but we were all craving the comfort of local food. So earlier, Nova and Oliver picked up takeout from Seaside Griddle.
All the guys are eating their breakfast on the ground. I have no clue who slept where, except for Rocky.
I woke up in the primary suite, and he was there.
He just held me for a while under the sheets and explained the fallout of the worst party imaginable. I couldn’t talk. My throat is still scratchy, like I’ve guzzled a gallon of sand. Might be the aftereffects of the drugs.
I haven’t wanted to physically separate from him. I even dragged him into the shower with me.
We had emotional sex against the tile wall, and even though it feels like he’s still inside me now, it’s not close enough. I want the weight of Rocky. I want him to bear his body against me. I want his arms in a choke hold around me.
I want him to never let go.
He’s sitting too far away. I’m on the couch. My wet hair soaks my oversized pink Strawberry Shortcake tee. Hailey is beside me in sweats, too, and we’re underneath a knitted sage-green blanket. I have two warring needs—the need to be with Rocky and the need to be next to my best friend.
After what happened to her…
“Are you mutilating it or eating it?” Rocky snaps me into focus again, and I glance down at my eggs.
“It’s a breakfast scramble,” I say with the same heat. “It can’t be mutilated any more than it already is.” Though, I am stabbing the crap out of the bacon bits. “Why don’t you worry about deep-throating your burrito?”
Oliver peels an orange on the floor. “Can he take the whole burrito? That’s the question.” I just barely catch Oliver looking over at Jake.
“Shut up.” Rocky grips his egg burrito with one hand, his forearm on his bent knee, and his intense gaze hasn’t left me. I love that desertion is so far off the table, even his eyes refuse to abandon the sight of me.
I intake a sharper breath through my nose. Unfortunately, everyone can hear in the silence. I’m tired of saying, I’m fine, when I’m just sort of fine, and instead, I say, “So, some guy named Howie slipped me drugs, but Trent was the one who asked him to. Right?” I turn my head to Rocky.
He’s strangling his burrito. “He confirmed it. Yeah.”
Heat brews in my lungs, but it’s not because of what Trent plotted. It’s the fact that Rocky has a split lip and a nasty welt blemishes his cheekbone. I heard he nearly drowned Jake’s older brother in the pool. Fists also flew. I hope Trent’s face looks like he made contact with several brick walls and cement floors.