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)
That smirk. That arrogant, cocky smirk.
In my mind, I growl out, “You think you’re so funny,” as I stalk toward him.
“What are you going to do about it?” Tom goads with a mischievous laugh. “Because I’m not changing—”
“Shut the fuck up.” I push him against a plaster wall. We’re heavy, hot breath.
Like at his apartment when I had him there, he doesn’t back down. He can’t back down. “Try me,” he taunts.
My hand flies to his mouth. I feel the warmth of his lips, the warmth of his ragged breath. I thread my legs between his, bearing my weight into his lean build. With my other hand, I reach for his zipper.
Tom is glaring like you won’t.
I will.
I will undo him. I think about shoving him to his knees and shutting him up with my cock. But I want my hand wrapped around him. So I dive my palm down his elastic waistband and stroke his hard length. Then I fist him.
His humor fades into a rough, bottled groan. His knees shift against me. He struggles to stay on his feet as I squeeze. My lips hit his ear in a deep whisper, “I will be unrelenting. Until you can’t form one fucking word outside of please.” I make him feel my erection.
“Fuck,” he moans against my palm. I drop my hand from his mouth to hear him groan out, “Fuck me.”
In the shower, I’m sliding my hand along my length, mimicking what I’d be doing to him. I place a hand against the tiled wall. My breathing deepening.
I cup his skull, bringing his head down to my shoulder so he can rest his forehead there. So that I can feel him spasm against my body. When he comes in my imagination, I spin him around and shove his chest hard against the wall. I yank down his jeans with his boxer-briefs. As soon as I imagine gripping his ass and slipping inside him, I jerk forward and release into the shower.
A knotted groan tries to scrape out of my burning throat. My abs flex, and I milk my arousal with two final strokes. So much cum. Too much. How fucking pent-up had I been?
My chest rises and falls heavily as the adrenaline and dopamine slowly recede. I squeeze my eyes closed and guilt crawls across my skin.
“Fuck,” I curse and slam a fist against the tile wall. Tom admitting he’s masturbated to me doesn’t help the situation. I should be above this.
I should know better.
I’m aware how bad this could go.
It didn’t even make me tired. Not that I thought it would. Masturbating has never helped me sleep. I also hate that I just proved Tom right. He’s all I can think about. He’s like a poison I drank, and it’s altered my DNA. I don’t know how to rid myself of my new genetic code.
It honestly feels like I belong to The Carraways in body and fucked-up soul—and it’s only been a fucking week!
Jesus Christ, I have to get a grip. After washing my body again, I exit the shower, pushing aside the pickle-printed curtain that Steffi bought for the shared bathroom. My feet sink onto the matching pickle rug. The dill spear wears a cowboy hat and bites a toothpick.
Knotting a towel at my waist, I seize my phone quickly from beside the sink basin. It’s buzzing with a call.
Great.
14
PHOENIX ST. PIERRE
“Hey, Mom,” I answer, my temples throbbing from lack of sleep. I don’t want her to think I’m avoiding her, even if I have been skirting around this—another five-minute monologue about focusing my time on the orchestra and not The Carraways.
This career pivot is all her and my dad can talk about, and the last conversation with Philippe St. Pierre took two hours and a Tylenol.
Now my mom is in my ear, cautioning me and saying I should be risk averse. She asks about my debt.
I tell her, “I’m paying it off here and there.” Barely.
“How, Phoenix?” I hear the coffee pot brewing on her end. “You didn’t sign the record deal with The Carraways. You joined after the fact, so you don’t get a cut of their advance.” Accurate. Tom’s old drummer and bassist were paid. Not me. I won’t see a dime unless The Carraways sell through the advance and make royalties.
She knows this.
She knows it’s unlikely I’ll pocket any money. Tom said his advance was half a mil. How many bands actually earn out the six figures they were given?
“You need to be paying off your loans, the interest…”
I let her impart her parental wisdom and worry, but I can’t listen. I’ve heard it a hundred times. I’m the one who sees the number increasing, not decreasing.
My credit is shit. I’m doing my best not to charge everything and incur more debt on my Mastercard.