Page 11 of Ripple Effect, Vol. 4

His brows come together at the same time he grips my jaw, and for the first time in the last hour, I see something flicker across his face—pain, anger, I can’t tell, but it’s better than the stoic expression he’s been wearing. “I’ve killed him a million times in my mind for touching you, Dylan. You’re having trouble showing gratitude? I’m having a fuck of a time playing the good guy here. I don’t save people, sweetheart. I kill them. In brutally violent ways, but last night …” His lips form a hard line, brows stern. “I would’ve taken every bruise they put on your body. Every punch for you. Only for you. Seeing you laid out like that flipped my fucking switch, and I lost control.”

I still at his words, breathing heavily with the struggle of fighting him, and stare into his eyes. Damn him. I want to hate him for these emotions that make me feel insane and childish, but I can’t.

Ripley is salt in my wounds sometimes—a deep, penetrating burn that heals as much as it hurts. It’s a sting I’ve grown to need, though, because it forces me to feel something again.

Slamming my mouth against his is all I can think to do, in spite of the pain to my lips, and when he grips the back of my head and grinds his dick into me, a surge of victory swims in my veins.

His scent is incredible, a deep woodsy masculine flavor that hits the back of my mouth, making me crave him like some kind of fucking animal. In fact, I don’t even feel feminine and sweet around the man. I’m ravenous and impatient. He makes me this way.

He’s become my drug. The rush that excites me, and the high that keeps me addicted.

“I want to show you my gratitude,” I breathe against his lips, rubbing my hand over the bulge in his jeans. “Please let me.”

“I’m not taking from you, Bandit. Not after what happened to you back there.” His hand slips along my jaw and he kisses me carefully, avoiding my bruises.

“Please. I’ll call the shots tonight.” I slip my shirt over my head, baring my breasts to him and when I bend toward him, he clamps on to the bruised nipple, inciting a howl of pain. It occurs to me how much damage Randy has done to me. At Ripley’s withdrawal, I grip the back of his head and shake mine. “No. Fuck him. Make me love the pain as you do.”

He resumes his rough suckling of my nipple, and the sensation is the sweetest agony. With every pull, I forget Randy’s hands on me, and all I feel are Rip’s tormenting lips vying for my focus. The harsh scrape of his teeth, tempered by the gentle laps of his tongue and the teasing sensitivity against my flesh.

He shifts beneath me with a grunt, and when I open my eyes, bathroom fixtures slip in my periphery as he carries me to the bedroom.

“What are you doing? Ripley … your wound.”

“Shut up,” he says around a mouthful of my breast, still suckling it, stumbling toward the bed. The soft mattress hits my back as he lays me down, standing over me with his fists planted at either side of my body.

I press his chest, urging him upright and go to work unbuckling his belt. Standing with his legs set apart, he watches me push his jeans to the floor, until he steps out of them and grabs hold of his dick.

My mouth waters at the sight of him stroking it in front of me.

His hands on me may be gentle, but he is raw masculine power in the flesh.

“Will you lie on the bed?”

He reaches down and cups my chin, his thumb stroking my bruised cheek. “I’ll let you call the shots, Dylan. But if you’re going to pussyfoot around with questions, I’ll be the one steering this rig, and neither of us wants that after what happened to you tonight.”

Okay then. I jerk my head toward the headboard behind me. “Get on the bed, Rip. Now.”

The corner of his mouth breaks into a smile, and he climbs onto the bed, leaning back against the headboard. He twists into his wound, grimacing for a moment, then gives me a nod. Unfortunately, the pain will probably help get him off.

“Arms up.” Commanding such a dangerous man casts a tremble of excitement through my body, even if I can see the conflict burning in his eyes.

When he puts his arms above his head, gripping the top of the headboard, almost in surrender, good God, I want to climb onto him and ride him into a stupor.

Instead, I grab his knife from the nightstand beside us and unsheathe the blade.

“Careful, Bandit. That’s a big knife.” His chest rises and falls, and the smile in his eyes when his tongue sweeps his lower lip tells me I’ve incited something inside of him.

I smile at that and place the tip at his chest, between the two perfectly symmetrical wings on each of his pectorals. Down the deep groove, I drag the tip of the knife along his skin, careful not to press down too much.

“You think you know all of my fantasies, but I’ve learned some things about you, Rip.” I tongue the corner of my lip, making feather-light slices across his chest that never break the skin. “I know pain gets you off. I know blades, in particular, excite you.”

I balance the tip of the blade at his stomach, and he doesn’t so much as flinch. “You and I are more alike than you think.” Scooting back down his legs, I bend forward and bite the sensitive skin between that mouthwatering V of his hips, dragging his flesh across my teeth. At his grunt, I release him, allowing his dick to glide between my breasts, merely toying with him, as he pumps his hips against my chest.

I drop the knife on the bed, squeeze the base of him, and at the first bead of fluid, I tongue his tip, stroking him with fervor. Closing my mouth over his length, I take him deep and caress his balls.

“Bad fucking girl,” he croaks out, thrusting his hips upward into my mouth while the headboard thumps against the wall.

He’s virile and beautiful, but the need for him to come makes him vulnerable, and I can see the pain flickering across his face.