Page 20 of Ripple Effect, Vol. 2

“Tell me no. Tell me to stop and I will. Fuck, I’ll stop.”

“Don’t stop.” Hooking my legs around his back, I slide my feet down the back of his thighs, taking in the power and control in every one of his thrusts. My body relaxes around him, relinquishing my guard. “Don’t stop, Ripley.” I have to know how this ends, how it feels to have such a formidable man like this fall into a vulnerable moment of ecstasy.

I grip his shoulders, only now realizing how wide and broad they stretch across me like a shield of armor. His body is rock-hard, damp, and smells like oranges that hit the back of my throat with a mouth-watering crispness. With every pump, his muscles flex against my palm, and I trail my finger to his biceps that hold him up off my body.

He’s strong and solid, and my arms wrap tight to him like ribbons around steel.

In my mind’s eye, he’s beautifully savage. Taking what he wants with the sole purpose of feeding what he craves.

And I want to give it to him. I want to feed his appetite for my ruin.

I don’t know why, except that the surrender feels so promising.

Confusion slams against my skull and I close my eyes, listening to the bed squeak to the rhythm of his rutting. Oh God, I’m sick. I’m so sick. He’s not a rapist, but he’s a killer. A killer who’s fucking me. For money, which makes me as much a whore as my mother was.

A junkie. Weak.

Only I’m worse than my mother, because I like it. This man is big, strong, and dangerous. The thought of what he’s doing to me, the whole experience, gives me a rush, like diving into forbidden waters.

Don’t. Don’t do this, my head battles back.

Although it’s painful, it’s not hurtful. He’s not jabbing me for some sadistic pleasure, but instead, searching for his own.

Pressure hits my throat again, the fabric of my T-shirt tightening around my neck, forcing my arms above my head. I open my eyes to white spots floating in my view that smash together into the white cotton covering my face, while I lay with my arms bound by the cloth. I suck in a breath through the shirt and when his mouth clamps down on my breast, a jolt of ecstasy slams through my veins. The pain. The lack of breath. The helplessness of my arms bound by the T-shirt. The pressure of his cock inside of me. They all converge into one incredible ball of tension that shoots through my muscles.

Oh God, oh God, oh God. Yes!

My pussy clenches around him as I lift my ass off the bed and a tingle shoots up my spine, a crash of lightning at the back of my head that spreads to my limbs in a blissful rush. I succumb to the second orgasm he’s given me in a matter of minutes.

He releases the T-shirt, letting it fall away from my face, and I gasp for breath, unleashing a long droning moan.

He keeps on, upping the pace, until it’s clear he’s not going to come and something strange kicks up inside my head. It’s wrong, on so many levels.

Why won’t he come?

Two more thrusts, and he pulls out of me. The bed dips and bounces back.

“Fuck! Fuck!” A grunt follows, but sharp in nature, and ends on a gasp as if he’s punched himself?

I sit up on the bed, kicking myself back toward the headboard, as I pull the sheet up over my breasts. It’s ridiculous that my first thought is that I’m a lousy lay.

A man may be physically strong, Dylan, but a woman can bring him to his knees if she’s good at what she does. Sex is power. Remember that.

The words of my mother are a slap in the face, while I scan the darkness for him.

His footfalls are the only sound, moving across the room, until the light flicks on in the bathroom, and it’s then I can see the mess dripping down his thigh.

Blood.

* * *

The slam at my throat jolts me awake and I bring my hands to my neck, staring into vacant, cold eyes that hold me captivated while the barrel of the gun presses into my forehead. Ripley looks as if he’s gone mad, his eyes completely dilated, lips downturned in disgust, as he breathes heavily. “Why are you here?” he asks.

“Ripley … it’s … it’s Dylan. Remember?” I swallow a harsh gulp, and close my eyes, as the deathly aroma of cold steel fills my nose. “Please … I think you’re having a dream.” In spite of the panic bouncing around inside of me like livewires, I force calm into my voice, and speak quietly. “Wake up.”

The rubbing of his thumb along the edge of my neck prompts me to open my eyes, and I wonder if he’ll accidentally pull the trigger. I wonder if my brains will be splattered all over the pillow and for some fucked up reason, I wonder if he’ll dump me in acid to cover it up.

My heart throbs with the pounding against my ribs and the short pants of breath leave me oxygen starved and dizzy.