Chapter Twelve
TWELVE
Rocky
The Berkshires.
It’s where our parents agree to meet us. We stagger our arrivals out of paranoia. Phoebe will be there first.
Then me.
Ditching the McLaren for this getaway, I ride a motorcycle I purchased not long ago, and I come upon a modest-sized mansion with white siding and black shutters. It’s situated in a thicket of orange trees. Farmland and rolling hills landscape the overgrown, weed-ridden grounds. No other house in sight.
A month ago, Nova Graves bought this seven-bedroom estate on five acres of land under an LLC he created from scratch. It’d been designated as a home base for him, Oliver, and me since we never agreed to Phoebe and Hailey’s path of virtue.
It’s an easy place to gather and plan a short con, so we agreed it’s a perfect location to meet the godfather and godmothers for dinner. All without the entire town getting a whiff of it.
Inside, I’m caught at something in the foyer.
“Jesus Christ, Nova,” I mutter under my breath.
It’s not stained or peeling wallpaper. The early 1900s mansion is in decent condition with scuffed floorboards and a musty old-house smell. It’s a fixer-upper, and maybe if it was used as more than a safe house, we’d collectively spend money to polish the brass.
This , however, is a bad omen.
An enormous oil painting by William-Adolphe Bouguereau hangs on the wall. Dark oranges bleed into darker grays, a winged demon flying in the hellish background on the canvas. In the foreground, two naked men are in a gruesome, endless fight in the eighth circle of hell.
The one designated for fraudsters, imposters, counterfeiters, liars .
The redhead pins his knee into the other man’s back while taking a bite out of his throat.
It’s called Dante et Virgile .
Dante and Virgil in hell. Nova sold a forgery to the Musée d’Orsay a couple years ago and kept the original.
Now the original is hanging in a fucking safe house . Because there is so much about this that screams security .
The painting was inspired by Dante’s Divine Comedy . The redhead was Gianni Schicchi, a thirteenth-century Italian who impersonated a dead man so he could inherit his wealth for himself. Nova loves art, and it’s his ironic love of this painting that makes me think he needs a therapist that’s not his brother.
I hate housing stolen artifacts and possessions. It feels like collecting ticking bombs. He needs to put the painting in a fucking storage unit. Like tomorrow.
I’ll argue about it with him later.
I’d much rather be in the company of his sister.
I enter the living room and see Phoebe on her hands and knees in a simple but beyond sexy pink cotton dress. She’s laboring over an old cast-iron wood-burning stove, shoving firewood in the hatch.
My cock instantly stirs. A primal instinct tries to tear through me.
The floorboards creak as I near her.
She glances over her shoulder at me, dark blue hair falling into her heart-shaped face. She brushes the strands back, and as we lock eyes, a thousand different feelings barrel through me at vicious speed, a million different memories and lives we’ve lived all colliding at once. And this one— this life is carved out as the most fragile. Most vital. The one I want to exist inside.
Because I can do this.
I drop my motorcycle helmet and cut the distance so fast, she has no time to stand.
I’m on my knees in front of Phoebe. I clutch her soft cheeks with two unforgiving hands, and she hangs on to my neck as I crash my lips against hers. Her teeny-tiny moan builds an inferno in my bloodstream.
Her body responds by bowing toward me.
I kiss her with truths. Of how we won’t be alone for long. There isn’t sweet, little urgency in me. It’s violence against seconds, against time. I ravage the fuck out of her with my tongue, my hands, with the emotion coiling around my searing lungs.
Phoebe’s fingers cling tighter as though to command, Don’t stop .
I breathe in her intoxicating, sugary floral scent and cup the back of her head, deepening the kisses in feral, hungry waves.
More.
I need more of her.
I tear my lips off hers.
She pants out, “No Hi, Phoebe ?” She grips my leather bike jacket with two strong fists. “No How’s it going, Phoebe ?”
“Hi, Phoebe.” I slide my hand farther into her blue hair. “You want me to come inside you, Phoebe?” An aching, whimpering noise escapes her throat. Fuck her, fuck her, fuck her now. I want to burn her sounds in my brain.
“ So badly ,” she teases, her glare ratcheting up the heat between us. “You want to ram your dick inside me?”
“Repeatedly.”
Her lips part with another breathy noise. “Not now…? My brothers should be here soon—Rocky!”
I lift her by the backs of her thighs. The fire in her eyes hasn’t extinguished, and I tell her lowly, darkly, “You think I care if they see me fucking their sister?”
She shoves my arm. “You should care.”
“I care about railing you so deep, you’re unsure whether to cry or scream.” I watch her breath shorten. “I care about making you come until your eyes roll into the back of your head and you beg me to do it all over again and again and again .”
A flush stains her cheeks, but while I hold her, she leans close to snap back, “I’m not begging you for anything .”
I throw her on the couch. It’s covered with a white sheet, and she falls into the fabric and bounces a little on the cushion. Before I can pin her down, Phoebe pops up on her feet and backs away with a stubborn blaze in her eyes.
She’s so much like me, it’s almost terrifying.
I track her, but she circles me—which causes me to circle Phoebe with an unmanageable tension. Like we’re assassins come to kill each other.
“I’m not wasting any moment I have with you,” I warn her. “Even if it’s locked between two risks and six thousand dangers.”
“Good,” she snaps back.
“Great.” I take off my jacket, then yank my shirt off my head while I continue tracking her. She zeroes in on my hands as I unbuckle my belt. I toss it aside, then unzip my pants. I’m shedding my clothes rapidly. To where I’m buck-ass naked. My hard cock primed for entry into her pussy.
She gathers her hair in a pony, and blood pumps hotter through my veins. It’s not a cat-and-mouse game with Phoebe. We’re the same wrecked, venomous breed.
“You want me?” she taunts. “Come and get me.”
I stalk forward, and she steps back—but not fast enough. I catch her hips, and the inferno explodes in us—we crash together with hungry kisses. Her fingers dig into my biceps, and just as I pull Phoebe firmer against my muscles, she wrenches away and shuffles backward.
My pulse is in my ears, until I see her arousal and a daring, seductive look in her narrowed eyes. She’s roping me in, winding me around her, and I won’t lie—it’s driving me fucking mad.
I pursue her, crawling toward the unbalanced feeling that makes me feel alive.
“You won’t make it past the door,” I threaten, my glare matching hers.
“Watch me.” She whirls around to run, but she can’t even grab hold of the doorframe before I seize her around the waist, hauling her against me.
She’s a head shorter than me barefoot. I have a flexed arm around her breasts and another around her abdomen. Her back to my chest. My grip is so tight, she can’t wiggle out, even though she barely tries.
I whisper against her ear, “I’ll always find you. Wherever you go, I will hunt you down with my last fucking breath.” My love is as unrelenting as it is vicious. Phoebe can’t contain a whimpering moan.
I need inside her. I’m feeling more feral, as if I need to mark my territory so predators smell me on her and know I’ll maim and kill if they attempt to rip her from me. I practically carry her over to the wood-burning stove.
“You’re going to the floor,” I tell her as I bring her down with me.
“No, I’m not.” She hardly puts up a fight, wanting me. Wanting this. I’ve become rapidly aware that Phoebe is attracted to the fact that I will do anything to have her. That nothing will stop me, not even her verbal protests.
I crave seeing her succumb to her own overwhelming arousal. I crave being in total control of her body, her heart, her soul. Mine to protect. Mine to love.
Mine to fuck.
I’m knelt behind her, and I push her flat against the floorboards. My slacks are in a heap beside me, and while I dig a condom out, she tries to army crawl away.
I capture her ankle and slide her back.
“Rocky.” She tries to turn to face me, but I bend forward and use my weight and strength to easily force her chest onto the ground.
“ Phoebe ,” I growl in her ear as I tear her dress down her full breasts and to the curve of her hips. I snap off her lacy white bra. She is undeniably gorgeous . But I love so much more about Phoebe than her body. It’s just a vessel for what I really want to touch.
“You better hurry,” she snaps, her head raising toward the door like her brothers could walk in.
“You better not fucking rush me,” I retort, lifting her pink dress off her ass and slipping her mesh thong off her legs. With her dress still pooled at her hips and her round, perky ass in view, all I can think about is her pussy.
I slide two fingers inside Phoebe’s swollen, wet heat, and her high-pitched cry is a symphony in my ears. She’s beyond ready. I brush her clit, and her whole body vibrates against the floor. Christ.
I quickly sheathe my erection, and again, she attempts (poorly) to wiggle out from under me. I capture both her hands in mine and stretch her arms upward. Planting her palms on the floorboard, I hold them there. My muscled body envelops her soft frame, and I use my knees to spread her thighs open.
Her breath comes more ragged, faster, in anticipation, and I grind into Phoebe, penetrating her with my hard length. She chokes on a pleasured cry, and I grit my molars as she clenches around my cock. She is so tight . I flex my abs to keep myself on an edge. Melded with her, I thrust deeper, harder, in a systematic, mind-numbing pace that stokes friction and heat.
“You feel my cock burrowed in your cunt?” I hold her tighter as she shudders. “You’re not going anywhere,” I say roughly, thick arousal raking against my throat.
I have her. I rock deeper.
I fucking have her. Harder.
No one is taking her from me.
“Oh fuck,” she cries into the wood. Her body jerks forward with my thrusts, and then she tries to twist her head to see me. When she can’t get a good look, she tenses a little.
I slow, watching her carefully. Then I lower my mouth to her ear. “Let go. I’m not going to hurt you.”
She releases a breath, and her limbs slacken under me.
I clutch the back of her neck more protectively, my fingers rising up into her hair. I’ve stopped moving inside her.
“ Rocky ,” she cries, a needy little fucking cry.
With a fistful of hair, I pull her head back, and her glare hits me from upside down, especially as I say, “What were you saying about not begging me?”
“Shut up,” she growls.
I ram into her pussy, and her lips part while her glare remains. She likes this, though—our eyes drilling into each other while I fuck her deep.
“You need to hurry,” she moans out.
“I hope they walk in,” I grit back, our bodies slick with sweat. “I hope they see me destroying their sister’s tight little pussy.”
“Liar,” she cries, giving me a hotter glare.
I’d grin if I weren’t so fucking pent-up.
And then my phone rings.
“Rocky, don’t—”
I’m already grabbing the cellphone. “Be quiet.”
“You wouldn’t,” she rasps, sounding half challenging, half uncertain.
I let go of her hair and push her fully down again. Caging Phoebe with my weight, I stay inside of her. “Your fake boyfriend is calling me.” I place the phone near her mouth. “Want to say hi?”
“No.”
“I will.”
“Rock—” She cuts herself off as I hit the green accept call button, along with speakerphone.
“Jake,” I answer and force all arousal out of my voice.
Phoebe stays deathly quiet. Especially as I make slow-burning, languid movements inside her.
“Are you busy?” he asks.
“No, I’m just twiddling my thumbs and waiting around for your fucking phone call.” I drive deeper, flexing forward in pumps that dig . Phoebe presses her forehead to the floor, trembling beneath me.
“Nice to talk to you, too,” Jake replies, sounding like he’s in a hurry.
I fuck Phoebe without stopping. She is a swollen vise around my cock, and it’s all I can do to control my breathing.
“I’m on my way to a lunch with my father,” Jake tells me. “But I need to know if you play tennis.”
I sit up on my knees. “Yeah, I play tennis.” I clutch the crook of her hips and pound her quietly, seeing my cock slide inside her pussy. It’s an image I could watch on repeat, one that likely won’t leave me.
She’s clawing at the floorboards, struggling not to make a noise. I suck in a breath through my nose. My muscles are on fucking fire. I want to unload in her.
“Trent needs a doubles partner on Saturday,” Jake says.
“Yeah?” I hover back over Phoebe, and I pinch her cheeks and turn her head, so she sees me.
Her glare is murderous. Her lips pressed tightly shut.
I glare back and mouth, Come .
She shakes her head, and I grind deeper.
Her lips break apart into a breathy sound, but Jake doesn’t hear. He’s telling me, “Collin broke his wrist doing a backflip at the golf course, so he can’t play with him. If you’re serious about befriending my brother, that’s your best way in. If you’re good at tennis.”
A rough, pleasured sound scorches my lungs. Not letting it out, I level my voice. “I’m good enough.” The next push inside Phoebe has her pulsing around my cock, and I know she’s coming. Quickly, I cover her mouth with my hand, and she releases a strangled noise. I muffle it, and I take Jake off speaker.
“I don’t like this plan, just to make that clear,” he says, sounding more distant.
My neck strains as I control my shortened breath, forcing myself not to hit a peak with her. “Why not?” I ask as I put the phone to my ear.
“Trent isn’t an easy person to be around, and I’m…”
My brows arch. He’s what? “Are you worried about me?”
“I don’t like him around any of my friends.”
“We’re friends? That’s news to me.”
“What would you call us then?”
“Colleagues. Coworkers. Two guys who can’t fucking stand each other but have to work together.” I don’t pull out of Phoebe, and I observe her catching her breath.
“Then let’s put it this way, Grey. I can stand being around you more than I can stand being around Trent.”
“Save the concern for someone who needs it. I can handle your brother.” With a quick “Gotta go,” we both hang up.
Quickly, I change positions with Phoebe. Putting her on my lap, I sink her down on my cock, and she’s in a weak sex haze as I fuck her fast and hard.
“Rocky.” She’s gripping my shoulders, and I come when she orgasms again and cries into the crook of my neck. “ Fuck you ,” she moans, her voice hoarse and raspy.
I grunt out “Fuck” as I milk my climax, pumping into her. Slow strokes. God, that feels fucking… I hold the back of her head and lick my lips before I kiss her.
She melts a little.
We’re both breathing hard.
When she climbs off, she’s quick to lift her dress and find her bra and panties. I put on my clothes unhurriedly. Her eyes dart to the entryway more than once.
I buckle my belt. “Just sit with me for a second.” Having sex next to the fire has left both of us sweaty, but I sink back to the floor.
Sitting, Phoebe weaves her arms over her tits and faces me, about to cross her legs until I drag her closer. Her smile fights through, especially as I rub the length of her leg, and she holds on to my knee like it’s a teddy bear.
It’s cute. “You liked that?” I ask her. “What we just did?”
Phoebe tucks a hair behind her ear. “You couldn’t tell?”
“I just want verbal confirmation.”
“Yeah, I liked it. Did you?”
“Loved it, actually.”
“That’s good since…” Her eyes flit up to mine. “I love you.”
I’ve never heard her say that, and my lungs inflate with a power I could live and die inside. “Say it again.”
“I really love you, Rocky.” Her overwhelmed gaze softens on me. “Like probably way too much at this point.”
“Same.” I clasp her warm cheek. We kiss more tenderly, and when we retract, I think back to the sex we just had and say, “Don’t get mad when I ask you this.”
Her brows bunch. “That’s not ominous at all.”
I reword it. “Preface: I’m not trying to be a dick when I say this.”
“Say what?”
“You do know what a safe word is for?”
She flinches in surprise. “What? Why would you even ask that?”
I pull her even closer. She’s now sitting between my spread legs, and hers open around me, too. I keep a hand on her lower back. Her defenses drop while she’s more up against my chest. She holds my waist in a loose hug.
Quietly, I say, “There was one moment where I thought you might’ve gotten in your head about something, but I couldn’t see your face.”
“I was fine,” she murmurs.
“Yeah?” I chase after her gaze. “I’d believe you more if you looked me in the eyes while you said it.”
Her narrowed eyes find mine. “ I was fine. You don’t need to worry about me when we’re sleeping together.”
“I do if you’re too stubborn to use a safe word when you need it.”
“I didn’t need it.”
I study her. “All right. Okay…but I’m telling you now, I can only read your body so much, Phebs. I can’t read your mind, too.”
“I know.”
I kiss her again, and she kisses back in an intimate, softer moment between us. Then she rises and walks over to the bookcase. I pick myself off the floor and follow. I’m at her side as she takes a picture frame off the shelf.
Photos of two little toddlers playing in tall grass.
She flashes it to me. “This could be us.”
“I doubt you were blonde as a baby.” She has olive skin, likely Mediterranean ancestry, and her natural hair is darker than mine, even if my hair is dyed black right now. I’m probably of British Isles descent, if I had to guess.
She examines another frame.
“They’re all stock photos, Phoebe.”
“I’m seeing if the cameras are turned on.” She’s checking the devices embedded in the frames.
“I told Nova to turn them off.” I double-check a couple frames on a higher shelf to be sure. More mics and hidden cameras are set around the house, and a surveillance room is on the second floor. Once we ensure nothing is recording from the bookcase, we go to the dining room and set the table using white gloves.
Tonight is also about collecting our parents’ DNA. One step closer to figuring out who’s biologically related.
I’m meticulous about the place settings. No fingerprints. No water splotches. I repolish a gold knife for longer than Phoebe would, which is why she says, “What are you doing?”
“Watching cartoons,” I say dryly, lifting my eyes to hers. “What does it look like I’m doing?”
“Jerking off a knife.”
“Funny.” I swipe it one more time, gaze latched to hers, and she swallows. I zero in on her throat, and as I place the knife down, I contemplate if there’s enough time to take her again.
“We’re still telling them, right?” Phoebe asks. “Your siblings, my siblings. We’re telling them that we’re really together?”
“Yeah, when they get here.” I didn’t seriously want her brothers to catch me in the act with her, but that would’ve solved the fucking orchestration of having to drop this news on them.
As the front door creaks open, I realize that time is now.