Page 16 of Ripple Effect, Vol. 3

Everything he does is a confusing dance between dominance and reverence. A wolf cloaked in soft lamb’s wool.

He repeats the same move, and I finally close my mouth around his bottom lip, following his rhythm. Fingers curling tight around my jaw, he deepens the kiss, and tightness in my belly has me squeezing his thigh. His movements are slow and controlled and pure seduction.

I sit paralyzed against the seat, caught between shock that the man can be so tender and that he’s a damn good kisser.

A storm brews beneath my skin as his lips pull me away like the tide. The world around me slips from my periphery, and for a moment, it’s just Ripley and me. Lost in a calm sea.

I’m out of breath, grateful that I’m sitting down because he’d surely have me weak in the knees, otherwise. I open my eyes, to see his are closed, brows furrowed, and another rush of heat between my legs leaves me digging my fingers into his thigh muscles.

I want to climb over the console and straddle his lap, but I don’t.

I’ve been kissed by boys before. Even Randy. But I’ve never been kissed by a man. A real one. A rough and powerful man who breaks necks with the same hands that are gently caressing my nape.

He pulls away and I’m breathless. Absolutely, can’t suck in enough air, breathless.

All I can do is lick my lips and swallow hard, eyes glued to his delicious mouth.

“I may fuck you like you’re my whore, but I’ve never treated you like one. There’s a difference. Understand?”

I nod, mentally willing the heat inside my body to cool, before I overheat and do something stupid.

He settles back into his seat and throws the car in gear, tires squealing against the gravel that pings the undercarriage as we take off.

“Ripley,” I say in a quiet voice. “Will you do that again sometime?”

Glancing to me and back to the road, he slides his hand from the gearshift to my thigh. “Before I fuck you, from here on out.”

I chuckle at that, resting my hand atop of his but pull away when I realize how intimate the gesture is. Instead of removing his hand, though, he curls my fingers into his and lifts them to his lips for a kiss against the back of my palm. I’m not stupid enough to think there’s anything to it, but I’ll admit, it’s nice. For about a split second, I feel like his princess, until I catch a glimpse of my bare legs peeking out from beneath his oversized T-shirt, my dirty coat, and ratted out Converse I wore without socks. “Won’t they think it’s a little weird that I’m not wearing any clothes?”

“No. I know the owner.”

“A woman?”

“Yes,” he answers coolly, sliding his hand higher up my thigh in a possessive grip.

I shouldn’t be jealous, but the idea that she wouldn’t bat an eye at me showing up in nothing but a coat and T-shirt tells me he’s either done this with another woman, or he’s got some pretty messed up friends.

He turns the car into the lot of the small but cute shop that boasts a young crowd appeal with its gritty urban décor. The outside of the building is painted in graffiti. Nothing vulgar, though, just murals of city life. It’s the newly painted black window frames and well-kempt lot that hint at more than just another abandoned building.

I can’t help the next question burning inside my mind. I have to know, but I hesitate to ask. “This woman … have the two of you …” Had a contract? Fucked? Ever been in love? Deciding on the right words is harder than I thought.

Instead he’s quiet for a moment, staring out of the windshield. “Emily’s a special girl. I think you’ll like her.”

As usual, a total non-answer, and I’m left pondering what makes her special. Not in a catty way, more curious than anything. Special, in my mind, means the person is exceptional, and Rip doesn’t strike me as someone who keeps anyone close enough to set her apart from everyone else.

“Sit tight.” As he rounds the back of the car, I wait inside until he opens the door for me. Taking my hand, he lifts me out of the vehicle and slides his hand in mine as we walk toward the front of the building.

A bell tolls when we enter, and the floral scent of jasmine hits my nose—clean and crisp, it soothes the tension of having to meet one of Ripley’s friends in nothing but a T-shirt. The inside of the building is as urban as the outside, with exposed pipes, chipped brick walls, and unpolished hardwood floors. It’s all part of the charm, though, accentuated by track lighting and abstract pieces of art.

It doesn’t strike me as a store per se, more of a factory or storage facility.

A young woman pushes through a set of long black curtains, and I pause. She’s beautiful, probably in her early twenties, with short brown hair and bangs that drape over her eyebrows. Across her cheek, though, is a scar, like Ripley’s, and the peasant top she wears exposes a scarred collarbone, as if she’s been burned.

At the sight of Ripley, though, her face lights up. “Gabriel.” There’s reverence in the way she says his name, enough to spike my curiosity, and when she rises up to wrap her arms around him, the first pang of jealousy hits. His hands on her are gentle, like he’s afraid to break her, which has me thinking back to his rough handling of me just hours ago.

Damn it, I shouldn’t be jealous. He’s not mine, and I don’t want him to be, because I have no intentions of staying when all is said and done.

Releasing her, he sets his hand on my ass, and I inwardly frown at the difference in touch. “This is Dylan. She’s staying with me.”