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)
“Dis-le.” His forceful whisper in French is hot against my lips. My pulse skips fifty beats. I might be deceased, and even though I know exactly what he said, he translates out loud, “Say it.”
Say it.
I take one hand off the mattress to bury my fingers in the back of his hair. I am holding on to Phoenix, our mouths a tormenting inch apart. His thumb slides to the edge of my jaw as he cups my face with strength and longing.
Say it.
“Fuck,” I grunt out into a deeper moan, my chest caving, my breath ragged. That’s not the word I need to say. I’m gripping a gear shift. I’m the one in control.
“N’aie pas peur,” he breathes, staring down at my lips, then back into my eyes. He’s telling me to not be afraid. He can’t promise this won’t trigger the ending of all we’re working toward, but what is the band without Phoenix anyway?
A shell of itself. Soulless. The music I’ve loved most has been the music I’ve made with him. Why stop now?
“Yellow light.” I say it.
His lips crash into mine, and I grip him close while every nerve ending in my body is torched like a city on fire. I am burning alive.
Phoenix kisses deeply, powerfully—like he’s claiming my mouth and laying waste to my fears. He tastes unbearably good. Mint and something distinctly him. His tongue makes sensual work against mine, and I’m fighting to keep up and not just fucking crumble beneath the feeling of him. Of his hands raking across my body as he claims my face, my chest, my flexing abs.
I try to ravage back, but fuck me—like seriously, fuck me.
He’s hooked his leg between mine, and his knee digs in the mattress between my thighs as his body naturally moves over me. While we’re lip-locked, he fists the back of his long-sleeved shirt and yanks it over his head between breaths.
I want to skate my hands down the ridges of his muscles, but I’m gripping the curve of his neck, just hanging on while I meet his ardent, relentless kisses with fierce ones of my own. Then his hand slips beneath both my Warped Tour tee and the white long-sleeved shirt underneath.
The second I feel his callused palm trail across my bare skin, a moan ejects from me, but he catches the sound in his mouth.
Nothing about him is slow. He is the vicious, untiring beat of his sticks against the snare. I can’t even think about shedding my clothes. He does it for me and chucks my two shirts aside before he’s back on my mouth. All the while his hands draw up my biceps to my forearms, lifting them higher, and before I know it, I’m on my back and he’s on top of me, pinning my wrists to the bed.
I unleashed a head-on collision.
“You need a breath?” he asks right up against my lips, which is stealing more oxygen from me.
In truth, yes. I could use many breaths. Do I want them? No. I want to be so choked of air, I pass out under him. That’s how insane I feel.
So I just kiss him.
He catches my bottom lip, then deepens what I thought was a beautiful kiss into something epic.
Extraordinary.
That’s what it feels like in this moment being with Phoenix St. Pierre.
Holy fuck, don’t get emotional. My eyes sting. But isn’t that what we’ve been? This whole time has been me and him wading through all the emotions.
Why stop now?
It’s what I’ve really wanted.
Phoenix digs his forehead into mine, his thumb wiping the wet track out of the corner of my eye. The depth of his gaze is fisting my heart. I can feel more than just his desire twisting and constricting around me like endless vines. Sharp thorns threaten to embed in my skin, deep enough to leave scars, but I don’t want to pull out a single one.
I want to feel everything with him.
While my head dizzies with lack of air, I buck up to kiss him, but he’s not letting me. He roots my shoulders to the bed, and he draws his mouth backward every time I try. “Catch your breath.”
“I think I’d rather just pass out under you,” I admit in a heavy pant, my lips stinging. “Think you can make that happen?”
“Only if you want me to call 9-1-1.” His hand is yanking at my belt buckle. My cock has never wanted a pair of lips more than his.
“No fun,” I tsk. “The only emergency requiring EMS will be the heart attack I give you when you come in your pants—”
“Tom.” His fingers move faster with the button of my jeans. I’m smirking at the threat in his eyes. “Shut the fuck up.”
“Make me,” I say against his mouth.
His next forceful kisses don’t quiet me. I tremble under him, and a sudden groan tears out of my lungs when he drives his hand down my jeans and fists me. “Phoenix,” I moan. “Fuck, dude.” I’m not going to survive this for long.