Page 31 of Ripple Effect, Vol. 3

The second I impale myself, he grips my chin, parking my gaze on his, where everything I want is written across my skin.

My body paralyzes, like an insect stunned by a spider’s venom. It’s too much. Too intimate. I look away, but he guides my face back to him.

“I want to watch you come.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s your truth and I need to see your face when you succumb to it. When you shatter for me.” Keeping himself seated inside me, he brushes scattered papers aside, and sets me down on his desktop. He grips the underside of my legs, slinging them over his massive shoulders and sinks deep, so fucking deep, I can hardly suck in a breath. There’s a masculine sound of approval, followed by his curse, and then his body flexes with movement.

I want to crawl somewhere and hide from the way he’s looking at me with such focus, as if I’ll flutter away at any second, but when he rocks into me, all I can do is feel. Feel everything. His hands on my hips that keep me in place. His eyes that hold me captive. His dick that pumps in and out of me so good, I want to cry. I feel the full weight of Ripley pressing into me, pushing me to the edge.

I want to stay in this place forever.

In the same fog of bliss that I once felt with my pills, I tip my head back, eyes closed, taking all of him. Drowning in him.

My belly tightens. The sensation climbs higher and higher. I’m flying on the high, while my body readies itself for the fall. The waves intensify until they crash over me, yanking me out of my trance and I arch into him. I come harder than I ever have with him.

I open my eyes to stars floating in front of me, and the warmth, so tranquil like the effects of my first forty. His face pinches to a frown on the cusp of pain and he grinds his teeth.

“Fuck!” His curse bounces off the wall and he slows the hammering of his hips to a lazy glide before pulling out of me.

His body shudders as he keeps himself held off of me, and his eyes find me again. The intensity in them burns right through me. “Now I’ve shown you everything.”

I nod in understanding. Ripley just made love to me.

10

Ripley

I sit on a stump of charred wood inside the fire-gutted church, waiting for Jörgen. Beside me, I’ve carved away most of the scorched pew while my thoughts wind around the exchange with Dylan the night before. Digging my blade into the blackened wood, I draw deep cuts before chiseling the ash away, and in a matter of minutes, the stump has already taken on a different shape.

For weeks, I’ve essentially tried to do the same to Dylan. Carved away who she was, while molding her into something else entirely. But unlike the weakened chunk of wood, that’s been burned and destroyed, she remains strong at her core. Unbreakable. Exactly what the Agency would endeavor to take from me.

I won’t let them. I refuse to give her up to anyone now. She’s mine.

And as much as I fear that my demons will ultimately tear her apart, the disturbing reality is, they’d probably get drunk with hers and have a fucking orgy together. A woman like that is dangerous for a man like me, but letting her go is no longer an option. I can’t decide if she’s a nightmare or a dream. All I know is that I want more of it. More of her.

The woman’s burrowed inside my head like a goddamn mental disorder—has me so strung out and twisted with these depraved thoughts, I can’t even close my eyes without seeing her. Hearing her. Damn near tasting her.

I didn’t intend to keep her, but I also didn’t intend for her to penetrate the walls I’ve constructed to avoid all this shit, because men like me don’t trust enough to love. My heart’s only function is to keep me alive, and I don’t even trust the bastard to do that for long.

For years I’ve been numb. Impenetrable.

Dylan’s somehow etched herself deep beneath my skin, though, so rather than fight it, I’ll do everything in my power to protect her.

A rattle swings my attention toward the back of the church, where Jörgen’s mountainous shadow drifts toward me like an iceberg. For as big as he is, his boots hardly make a sound as he steps over the dilapidated planks of wood and ash. He tosses me a beer and takes a seat beside me. Once a week we meet well outside of the Bertrand brothers’ domain to exchange information.

After cracking open the can, I guzzle a sip and watch him do the same.

“Dorian will be moving to take out Marchetti. Be ready. Some shit’s coming down the pike. Father James has given me the green light.”

Like me, Jörgen is prepared to do whatever the Agency directs him to do without question, so when he nods, I add, “I don’t think he knows anything about the girl.”

“The darnel weeds are the children of the evil one. The enemy who sowed them is the devil. The harvest is the end of the age, and the reapers are angels.”

Jörgen’s accent may give a harsh clip to the words, but I instantly recognize them, nonetheless. On the streets, loyalty is a thread more fragile than survival. In the end, none of them will be spared anyway, and once again, Dylan’s question of whether any of them are worthy hammers inside my skull.

“Parable of the Weeds. Matthew 13:39. Drink.” Every kid who went through C4 training memorized excerpts from the Bible.