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)
“Just a water!” I shout after him, my Tennessee twang more subtle than Oliver’s. Per usual, my brother is going above and beyond. Just hopefully not too far.
“Aw, come on!” Shane shouts back. “Don’t be a Debbie Downer! I’ll get you a tequila!!” He disappears into the sweaty throng with the rest of the bachelor party, not giving me the opportunity to decline.
“He wants in your pants,” Rocky says huskily, a toothpick between his lips and his elbow perched casually on a wooden barrel. He’s Rhett. My college friend. Same with Oliver. We all supposedly met freshman year at Vanderbilt.
Rocky hangs back with me, and I’m momentarily hooked on how hushed and deep he speaks. Like we’re slipping clandestine notes to each other.
“He’ll have to try a little harder. I’m waiting till marriage.” I thicken my twang. “Thank the good Lord.”
Rocky almost smiles at my lie. Almost. “Praise be.”
“Praise be,” I joke, too, but Rocky looks straight into me. He’s holding my gaze for longer than any man ever does. It’s more intimate than a full-body once-over. Flush tries to roast my cheeks.
If attraction is a scorch, then Rocky is the only one who gives me third-degree burns. I’m hooked on more than just the photogenic planes of his cutting jawline, more than his annoyingly perfect hair as a few tendrils lightly brush his forehead. More than his toughened stance that commands, You fuck with her, you fuck with me, to the rest of the bar. More than how he wards off other men from approaching me.
More than how I feel safer when he’s close.
I’m hooked on the entirety of him. How he’s choosing to be at my side. How his real coarse nature flickers across his striking features for only me to notice. For only me to see.
His dark, smoldering eyes still transfix me in a vise I’m not readily escaping. Not now. Maybe not ever.
“Rhett,” I warn half-heartedly, not wanting him to stop staring.
“Penelope.” He bites on the toothpick, never tearing his gaze away. My heart thumps harder, faster.
Last thing I need is for Rocky to believe a falsehood—that I’m infatuated with him. I’m not some obsessed puppy about to slobber on his lap and beg for a fucking pet. I don’t want to be petted. I want to be ravaged.
I’m simply a twenty-one-year-old woman with a high libido. And I can admit to myself that it’s highest around him. I can’t help that my hormones go haywire in his presence. I can’t help that I love the feeling of my racing, skidding, flyaway pulse when he’s inches from me.
It’s human nature, and these are just biological problems.
Gathering my bearings, I face forward. The fun part of tonight is the best distraction from Rocky.
Live country music booms from a stage. Blue lights bathe a guitarist and fiddler along with the dance floor. Girls in cheeky Daisy Dukes and cute leather boots are line-dancing with belt-buckle-clad guys. Most are bachelor and bachelorette parties. I see Barbie-pink bedazzled cowboy hats, sashes that say Last Rodeo, and penis straws.
I’m trying to enjoy tonight, especially since it’s our last one in Nashville.
“Do you think Hails will come out?” I ask Rocky more quietly. I’ve already texted his sister. She can pop in as a college friend who’s meeting up with us for a drink. It’d be an easy ruse to pull off.
“The godmothers specifically told her no, so no. You both don’t break rules.”
“That’s a good thing,” I point out.
“Being good gets you stepped on.” His deep voice sounds even more gravelly with his twang. “You must love looking at the bottom of your mom’s heels.”
“We all can’t be anarchists wanting to burn it down.”
His lip twitches into a slanted smile. “Does it look like I’m burning it down?”
He’s not setting fire to our lives. We are a well-organized machine of deceit. “You aren’t lighting any matches,” I observe, resting my forearms on the barrel in a casual lunge. It doesn’t draw his attention to my ass or my breasts. His focus remains on my face as he reads me.
It’s intrusive. Intimate again.
In a hot blip, I imagine Rocky moving behind me, sliding his possessive hands against the crook of my hips, and fucking me hard against the barrel. I brick-wall my expression so he can’t read those desires, but he has all the tools to knock me down if I’m not careful.
I don’t want to be careful with him. That’s the exhilarating, yet terrifying, part.
I skim his features. “Why not try to usurp them if you want to so badly?”
“Y’all don’t want me to try.” He eases out a sexy drawl and moves the toothpick with his tongue.
He might as well be saying, Because I love y’all more than I hate them.
My heart swells and pangs, and I should probably distance myself from Rocky—I should go entertain the bachelor party instead of sharing his company. I have a job to do, so does he, but neither of us moves.