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)
I don’t let her go.
I smother her. I’m asphyxiating me in our gathering arousal. She mutters out quick, “Stop, stop, stop, no, Rocky,” as I suck the base of her neck and grind my hard confined length against her. As her voice escalates, I cover her mouth with my hand.
I swear to God, if Nova hears her, he just might shoot me. This needs to end here. We’re both breathing hard, and I really don’t want to tear away from her glare, more than anything, but I step back, check the time on my watch.
She knows I need to go.
Jake is waiting outside for me.
Phoebe tightens her loose pony. I peel an escaped strand of hair off her lips. She catches more oxygen to ask, “What are Trent’s parties even like?”
I motion her to follow me down the stairwell. “I could tell you, but then I’d need a couple Advil and bleach for the brain rot.”
She stops at the base. “It can’t be as bad as that one party in Manhattan where there was a literal dick-measuring contest.”
“Worse.”
She’s disbelieving. “It ended with a fratty asshole peeing on his girlfriend.”
“Worse.”
Her eyes tighten like she can’t picture the events. “Promise you’ll text me if you need backup.”
I arch my brows. “From you?”
She glares. “Fuck you and yes.”
I smile a little bit, and I nod to her. “I promise. But don’t wait around for an SOS.”
“Scared to look desperate and in need?” she taunts.
“More like I’d rather rupture both eyeballs than see Trent anywhere near you.” I force a dry smile and skim her flushed cheeks. I wish I could prolong this with her for another hour or five.
“That’s sort of hilarious because I’d rather rupture my eyeballs than look at him, too.”
We share a serious expression. The easier thing would be to put Victoria in our rearview mirrors. What we always do, but this was my home once upon a time.
And I’m not going anywhere.
EIGHT
Rocky
I hate horses. Yet I’ve been corralling panicky Thoroughbreds for the past hour, guiding them in hay-strewn stables at the Koning estate. Most would think I give a shit about them, and maybe I honestly give a little one.
These animals didn’t ask to be a part of Trent’s petulant rebellion against his younger brother.
Some jackass spray-painted them the colors of a rainbow, as if they’ve been plucked off the set of The Wizard of Oz. Then they proceeded to let them loose. The horses neigh and buck as fireworks shoot off. Strobe lights graze the night sky. A DJ remixes eardrum-splitting eighties songs beside the Olympic-sized pool.
It’s sensory overload, and I’ve gripped a dozen reins and ushered the animals away from the cacophony at the mansion. It’s a miracle I haven’t been trampled tonight. I can’t remember the last time a horse trusted me to get this close. I’ve never led a horse anywhere. But maybe they smell the hero beside me.
Tall, preppy Jake has rolled up the sleeves to his button-down like he’s a rugged Montana native and not born of New England privilege and clambakes. We’re sweat coated and heavy breathed as we work together to lock up the remaining horses.
“Shhh, shhh,” Jake coos, stroking a pink-painted horse as he settles her in a stall. She calms against his touch.
I padlock a blue-streaked Appaloosa in the neighboring stall. “Sue your brother for destruction of property.”
“I can’t.” Jake shuts the stall gate and secures the padlock. “These are his horses. I had mine taken off the estate yesterday to the other stables.”
My brows jump while I wipe a drop of sweat off my temple. “We’ve been manhandling his property?”
“I don’t care if they’re legally his. We couldn’t leave them out there.” He slips into an adjacent stall and heaves a leather saddle off a Thoroughbred. The word Pussy is spray-painted red on the horse’s torso. I’m suddenly reminded that I hate people.
He places the saddle down. “These aren’t normal parties.”
“What gave that away?” I say dryly.
“I can’t stop the absinthe from flowing or the drugs, but I can stop this,” Jake professes, “and too many people are already plastered.”
“Yeah, some drunk fuck will try to climb on one and get bucked off. They’d learn a great lesson. Don’t fuck with horses.”
Jake shushes the Thoroughbred as a firework booms. Hooves trample the hay as the horse scoots into the corner with a pitiful sound. Jake side-eyes me. “You want to let them back out?”
I roll my eyes in a harsh arc.
No. I don’t.
Before I met Jake Waterford, I’m not sure I would’ve cared this much about helping out a horse. Excuse me, fourteen horses.
“Trent could have you arrested for touching his shit,” I tell him. “Emphasis on you because I’ll talk my way out of it as his friend, just like I plan to talk my way out of helping you now. But I can’t save you, man.”