Page 21 of Ripple Effect, Vol. 4

A part of me feels wrong for wanting what was forced on me, but my body doesn’t want to fight it.

It doesn’t hurt, not how Sarah, one of the girls the Westpricks took in, used to tell me it felt like when her foster brother snuck into her room at night. Maybe I had higher expectations of pain, based on those horrific visuals of Rook. Or maybe my dear killer has a soft side, after all. Ripley’s gentle, slow and deliberate, while his tongue traces the shell of my ear.

I can’t help but reach down to stroke my clit.

“Shameless.” There’s amusement in his husky voice that brings a smile to my face.

“I like to think—” A grunt from deep inside my chest interrupts my words, and I arch into the full push of his finger inside of me. “Oh God!” Lip caught between my teeth, I moan into the pillow. “Of myself as an opportunist.”

“Your ass is so beautiful, so goddamn perfect.” He slides his finger out and the tip of his cock takes its place, pressing into me. “I’ll go slow,” he whispers, breaching the tight ring of muscles that feels like flames searing that sensitive spot. His thick cock fills me up, and the pressure hits my belly as it occurs to me how deep inside he sits.

Pleasure in pain.

I don’t remember the words having been said, but the vague images of an object sitting in my palm, cold snow on my cheek, and hot breath on my neck, tell me it was the night with Rook. Pleasure in pain.

I don’t feel pain, though.

Ripley’s fingers clamp down on my nipple, dragging me out of those thoughts.

I cry out, clawing at the mattress, while my fingers continue to slide along my seam.

“That’s it, baby. Keep playing with your pussy.” He grunts and rests his head against my shoulder blade. “Fuck, you’re so tight, Dylan.”

It’s strange when the body relents, and where there was discomfort just seconds ago, an intense desire builds, overshadowing the sting, until a needy moan escapes me and all I want to do is come. It’s the most twisted realization—I like what he’s doing to me.

He replaces all those vague images in my head by drawing me deeper into him, making me crave his depravity. He’s breached that forbidden place and knows all my dark secrets, as I dig my fingers into his thigh and bite my lip.

“Every time you sit, I want you squirming in your chair, thinking of this. Thinking of me.”

Between his cock and my fingers, I’m clinging to the edge. Like the night he had me tied to the post and the sensations shot from all directions, converging to that one hot place between my thighs that now promises the most explosive orgasm I’ve ever had.

A sharp sting hits the back of my head where he grips my hair, and I let out an unearthly sound, as I grind into him, fucking him back.

“You like this, don’t you, Bandit? My beautiful butterfly loves getting her tight little hole fucked.”

His voice. And that dirty mouth.

I can’t. I can’t.

He whispers a countdown in my ear, “Five, four, three, two.”

A strange sensation swells inside of me and pushes me over the edge when he reaches one.

The pressure to hold it together explodes deep in my belly, the heat spreading across my thighs while a jolt of lightning climbs my spine, hitting the back of my skull in a blast of bright light. I clutch the pillow with both hands now, as he continues to pump into my ass, upping his pace, and scream into the soft cotton.

My whole body is shuddering from the climax, clenching around him, and he grunts with every thrust of his dick.

His fingers bruise my hips, curling into my flesh.

I reach back and grip his nape, squeezing in the same rhythm as his pounding from behind. Warmth spills into me, dribbling across my skin as he empties himself inside of me. His cum drips out of my ass, making for a smooth glide when he pulls out.

For a moment, the only sound is his heavy breath that heats my back as he rests his forehead there and kisses my shoulder. “I don’t know what it is about you, Dylan. You touch some dark and carnal part of me that makes me fucking crazy when I’m inside you.”

I let out a breathy laugh and stroke his nape as he plants another kiss to mine. “Crazy, like you want to kill me?”

“No, like I want to bend you over every surface in this house, until you can’t walk a straight line.” His palm massages my breast before gliding across my belly and tugging me into him. “I want to wash you, Dylan. Come shower with me,” he manages to say through pants of breath. “You’ll stay with me tonight.” The bed dips, and his arms slip beneath my side, scooping me up as easily from the bed as if I weighed nothing, and carrying me toward the bathroom.

I snuggle into his chest, breathing in his masculine scent of sandalwood and sweat. In his arms, I feel calm, sated, clinging to him, while I contemplate the duality of this man—both a vicious killer and a savior. It’s ironic that his violence is what saved me. That the very hands that killed have gently put me back together.