Page 11 of Phobia
“Hm,” Katrina hummed out loud, the gesture pulling me out of my dark reverie. I wanted to haul her into me. I wanted to bury my nose against the crook of her neck, to inhale her, and grip her tightly in my embrace and promise to always protect her and keep her from harm.
She stared at me with those cartoony features pulled into a sly grin and a gleam in her honey-brown eyes. Her slender shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. “Well, he likes her.”
Clearing my throat, I looked away from her and kept my tone indifferent. “The only thing Rhys likes is himself.”
But I knew that wasn’t entirely true, either. I’d seen exactly what she’d witnessed, too. He was uncharacteristically gentle with Josie, and it betrayed everything I knew about him.
The question waswhy?
“How old is she?”
“Saoirse’s age,” I volunteered. Saoirse was twenty-one to my thirty.
She harrumphed. “Too young to be dating an old man.”
I narrowed my eyes at her, not missing the jab. “Who you calling old?” There were only five years between us, and it had never been an issue.
Katrina pinched her lips together to keep from laughing, taking a step closer toward the taxidermy animals. I waylaid her before she could get too far, bounding an arm around her slim waist. “I asked you a question.”
She leaned against me, the globes of her ass pressing against my stirring cock, her soft sigh mainlining straight to my brain and coaxing out my uncontrolled groan.
Fuck. The breathy sighs and sounds she made could bring me to my knees.
“You, maybe,” she taunted under her breath. My cock tented against the seam of my joggers, finding its home against the pleat of her ass cheeks.
We should have stayed home.
Popped in a horror movie if she was so determined to have the shit scared out of her. I could have timed her climaxes with the jump scares, but instead, we were here, and she was torturing me with her come-fuck-me eyes, teasing smiles, and a million fucking questions about Josie and Rhys that I wanted to silence by feeding her my cock.
My mouth found the shell of her ear, and I lowered my voice to stop people nearby from overhearing me. My fingers splayed against her abdomen, pinning her tight against me. “I’m not above placing your hands on that glass,” she tracked my eyes to the display case next to us, “bunching your dress over your waist and spanking you until you’re begging me to stop or to fuck you in front of these people.” She wet her lips at the threat, massaging them together. “Don’t push me, Little Rabbit.”
She lifted her dilated eyes. “Old. Man,” she punctuated under her breath, pulling out of my grasp.
Fucking brat.
Katrina glanced over her shoulder, calling my bluff, and I stroked my jaw, watching the way her hips naturally swayed as she headed for the stairs. She tossed me a playful look over her shoulders. “Coming, husband?”
Oh, I’d be coming alright, and so would she.
“Coming, wife.”
Bet on it.
Chapter 4
I’d never scared easily.
Growing up, I’d made it my life’s greatest work to scare my siblings. My older brother, Sean, was the hardest one to scare. I thought that stemmed from being the "man" of the house since our dad died when I was ten to Sean’s twenty.
He was always on high alert by extension. Little got past him despite my best efforts.
Maria, the eldest sibling of our brood, was a little easier, and it wasn’t because she was clueless but because she got distracted by her work. My sister never moved back home after she started at Harvard—escaping Ma’s early morning vacuuming and shouting about how no one ever helped her—but when she came home for the holidays, it was game on. I was small enough to lean against the edge of the bathtub when she stuck an unsuspecting hand behind the shower curtain to flip the lever on. I’d listen to the shuffle of her wrestling her wool knit socks off and peeling off her hoodie and leggings. Just as she was sticking a lean, naked leg into the tub, her eyes would meet mine and she’d scream bloody murder.
“Katrina! You bitch!”
Ma was less amused when Maria was chasing me with a towel precariously wrapped around her body, water dripping off her leg, leaving puddles on the floor, a hairbrush for a weapon in her hand and revenge burning in her deep brown eyes.
Personally, I thought it was hilarious, but Maria wasn’t my favorite victim.
