Series: Cobalt Empire Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 220
Estimated words: 215301 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 861(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 215301 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 861(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
I push a hot hand through my hair. “You must love getting right in it.”
“Sorry, you need me to work you up to it?” He sounds pissed off, per usual.
I blink and remind myself he’d be awful in bed. Too fast. Too inconsiderate. It would probably hurt like hell. I bet he doesn’t use lube. I bet he just drives right in there and takes whatever he wants, then leaves the other guy lonely and cold. It’s exactly the reminder I need to power through the thickest sexual tension I’ve ever waded in.
Cupid’s arrow, gone. I pulled it out.
“No, don’t need that,” I say with an exhale. “I’m good. Drop in.”
The beat is filthy. The lyrics, rip-roaring. The last drum section is a pressure point I can barely, barely handle. Especially as Phoenix daggers his eyes on me while he attacks the drums with a visceral ferocity. I almost expect him to let go of the sticks and barrel toward me with the same fire beneath his feet that exist in his hands.
When he doesn’t, I’m in a state of yearning I should not be in—not in this way, not for him.
“You think you can go again?” Phoenix asks in a pant, sounding more curious than challenging. “Or have I run you ragged?”
Fuck me. He knows what he’s doing. My body is so tightly wound, I’m craving a moan-inducing release. I’d like to think this is mutual—that I’m also destroying him.
Phoenix is someone who likes living very close to an edge, and I’m starting to feel him pushing me there this time.
“Last round,” I tell him.
“Can’t take it anymore?” he taunts.
The truth is, no. I’m flirting with disaster just going through this again. “You have me where you want me yet?” I ask back.
“Where I want? Not even close.” He wets his lips, takes a few deep inhales and braces his hands on his thighs.
Am I breathing?
I push my hair back again and whip the cord of the mic away from my feet. I feel him watching my movements. But I don’t stare at Phoenix when I start singing.
We tear through the song one more time, and when we finish the three-minute track, his labored breathing is enough to make me hard as a brick.
It’s fucking painful against my jeans, and I adjust myself.
His nose flares, and a rougher groan fights its way out of his lips. “Tom.”
“Dude, you did this.”
“Fuck,” Phoenix swings his legs off the stool, but not to approach me. He keeps his distance and snatches his towel from his duffel. The long length of his shaft bears against his pants, and seeing him fully erect (what has to be full because goddamn) is lighting all my nerve endings on fire.
I shut my guitar in its case. “I should go.”
Phoenix releases a strangled breath. “Wait, let me take you.”
“You’re not taking me,” I snap.
He glares. “I didn’t mean like that, Tom.” He picks up his motorcycle helmet and extends it to me. “Here. I’ll drive you back.”
“You only have one helmet,” I realize.
“I’m fine without it.”
“No way.” I make a face like he’s insane. As much as I’m loving the idea of being behind Phoenix on his Suzuki, I will not be the reason my drummer suffers a brain injury or death. “See you tomorrow. I’ll text you.”
He texts me first, about ten minutes later when I’m in the back of a cab.
PHOENIX WOLFGANG
Sorry. Seriously. I went too far. Are you ok?
I swallow hard and fight an incoming smile before sending a response.
TOM CARRAWAY
Not too far. No damage done. Impenetrable.
PHOENIX WOLFGANG
Impenetrable? That tight, huh.
I put a palm to my burning cheek, sliding it against my jaw. I’m going to need a thirty-minute cold shower. “Fuck you, dude,” I mutter under my breath, then send a new message.
TOM CARRAWAY
You’ll never know
PHOENIX WOLFGANG
For the best
“Agreed,” I breathe out, shoving the phone in my pocket. I fit in my AirPods and listen to the songs we’ve already recorded for the album. The complexity of each arrangement lures me into a trance.
I’ve come to realize, I don’t despise all the extra layers of sound Phoenix wants. For as much as I keep resisting, I’ve started really loving them.
21
TOM COBALT
Someone should give me an award. I reached March without making a move on Phoenix St. Pierre. I should be inducted into the Strength of Will Hall of Fame. Sure, there have been a hundred and one times I thought about his lips on my lips. His mouth wrapped around my cock. But inner thoughts don’t count.
I’ve packed away every impulsive bone in my body to grind on this record. We finished the final studio recording of “Hellbent”—a blood-blistering song about our will to die trying. That one actually terrorizes my vocal cords, but it made Gage repeat “so sick” and “so dope” about a hundred times. So I spent the entire night with my steam inhaler and this newfound hope that maybe we’re going to reach the finish line.