Ripped (7 page)

Ripper stepped between me and Ice. “You’re not killing her. No one’s killing her.”

“Oh, I get it. You’re being chivalrous until you get her into bed.” Ice laughed, and it sounded ugly. “Makes women easier to deal with that way, doesn’t it? You don’t have to deal with them struggling and trying to bite your nose off. You never were much for anything exciting.”

I was disgusted. What was this Ice man, and what was he going to do with Starling?

“Think what you like,” said Ripper. “I won’t have you anywhere near her.”

“And the sister?” said Ice.

Ripper turned to look at me. His gaze cut through me, waking up my core, making me tingle. He spoke in a low, raspy voice, one that only I could hear, and it was full of promise. “Odds are you’re never going to suck my cock if I let him kill your sister, are you?”

I choked, scrabbling against the car for balance. I felt as if his words were knocking me over. It was completely the worst thing to say to me, and yet there was something powerful about his coarse demand. I felt my sex throb. “I’m not going to suck your cock,” I managed.

He smiled at me, sure of himself. “Trust me. You most definitely will.”

Another throb, this one making me clench a little. I shook my head wordlessly.

He whipped back around to face Ice. “Not the sister either.”

“You can’t stop me,” said Ice.

Ripper polished his fingernails on his shirt and then surveyed them, fingers bent. “Oh, I think I could stop you.” He looked up at Ice, a smile taking over his face. “Shall I try, then?”

Ice smirked. It was obvious, even through his mask. “All right. That could be fun, I guess. You try. You won’t even be able to find me.”

“I will.” Ripper raised his eyebrows. “But you have to promise not to kill her while I’m looking. That wouldn’t be very sportsmanlike.”

Were they really talking about this like it was some kind of game? Did my sister’s life mean nothing to Ripper? Was he really only saving her because he wanted a blow job?

“I’ll give you two days,” said Ice. “And if you haven’t stopped me, I get that one too.” He pointed at me.

Ripper made a sour face. “She’s not part of this.”

“Either she’s part of this, or there’s no deal. I’ll go back and cut out the sister’s intestines and feed them to her.”

“Oh, don’t be disgusting.” Ripper rolled his eyes. “No one can live long enough to eat their own intestines anyway.”

“Maybe not.” Ice sounded a little sulky. “Still, it’s all or nothing. Both girls. Is it a deal or not?”

“Fine,” said Ripper.

“Fine,” said Ice.

They stared each other down for several minutes.

And then Ice darted off into the darkness.

* * *

Shell

Ripper was sitting on the couch in my apartment, staring intently at his laptop.

It was dark. I hadn’t bothered to turn on the lights.

Celia was asleep in her bedroom, and I kept worrying that we were going to be too loud and wake her up. Well, it was mostly me who was being loud. I was anxious, and every time I talked about it, my voice started to rise shrilly.

“There’s no way you can trust him not to kill her. He doesn’t strike me as the kind of person who would keep his word,” I said. I was sitting across from him in an easy chair, squeezing a pillow.

“Maybe not,” Ripper said absently. The light of the laptop screen lit up his face, making him look exotic and gorgeous. His fingers moved over the mousepad.

“Well, we have to find him now.”

“I’m trying to find him.” Ripper still didn’t look up. His voice was conversational. He wasn’t the least bit upset.

I, however, was losing my shit. “What he said about feeding her intestines—”

“I told you, that’s not even humanly possible.”

“Well, he could still kill her, right?”

“Maybe,” he said.

“So, why aren’t you doing something?”

“I’m trying to figure out where he might be.”

“How?”

“I have files on this laptop, from when he and I used to work together. There are kill sites he’s used before, places he might have taken your sister.”

“Kill sites?” I squeezed the pillow even tighter, and my voice topped out at a pitch so high I hadn’t even known I could speak that way. “You have kill sites, too, huh? That’s like your job. Killing people.”

He shut the laptop. “What are the odds that you’re going to shut up anytime soon?”

“Shut up?” I got up out of the chair. “How dare you? My sister is in danger, and I’m going out of my mind worrying about her—”

“Yes,” he said. “And I don’t mean to make a big thing of it, love, but if it weren’t for me, you and your sister would both be dead by now.” He considered. “Well, maybe he’d be slowly killing one of you while the other watched, but—”

“Oh my
God
.”

“Sorry.”

I rubbed my forehead. “Look, it isn’t that I’m not grateful, and I certainly am not going to turn down your help, but the thing is, I just… I don’t even understand why you
are
helping me.”

He mused, rubbing his fingertips against the bottom of his chin. “I’m not real clear on that either, to be honest.”

I folded my arms over my chest. “You don’t
know
?”

“I think it’s because I kind of have a crush on you.” He flashed me a white-toothed smile.

“Crush?” What the flying fuck? He could not be serious. “Who has crushes besides twelve-year-old girls?”

He laughed. “Me apparently. And you.”

“I do
not
have a crush.”

“Sure you do. On me. I mean, why else would you let a contract killer into your house? Not that I’m admitting to anything, mind you.”

I rolled my eyes. “Because you said you’d save my sister, that’s why.”

“Oh, so, it’s all about her.”

“Yes. Despite the fact that you think you can domineer me into giving you a blow job or something, the world does not work that way. When men act like total smug bastards with women, it actually turns us off. You’re a total creeper.”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah, I’m definitely getting that sense from you, love. Like you’re turned off by me. That’s exactly what… actually, no. I don’t get that at all. What I’m basically sensing is that you’d like to rip my clothes off.”

That goddamned accent. He shouldn’t be allowed to have an accent like that. And there was no way on earth that I was going to concede that I wanted him. I did, of course, but he absolutely didn’t need to know that. I sucked in a breath and stared him down. “Well, you’re wrong.”

“Am I now?” He was really smiling now. He set the laptop down on the couch and stood up.

I backed up instinctively, all the way into the wall.

He closed the distance between us.

Now I was trapped. I clutched at the wall, wincing. “Go sit down and look through your files. I’ll be quiet. I promise.”

He leaned over me, settling one hand on the wall, so that his arm was blocking my path to the doorway. “You
do
want me.” His voice was quiet.

I shook my head, biting my lip.

He seized my chin, holding it in place. “You do,” he insisted. He kissed me—quickly taking my lips, invading my mouth, and then pulling back.

I gasped and reached out to touch his chest.

“Say it,” he said.

I nodded. “Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes,” I managed, “I want you.” It felt difficult to get air all of the sudden. My hand flattened against his rock hard chest. I could feel the shape of his muscles through his shirt.

“Good.” He put his forehead against mine, and for just a second, I saw a vulnerability in his eyes, as if—for all his bravado—he hadn’t really been sure of me. “Because I have wanted you all goddamned day.” His voice was rough.

I put my other hand on his chest.

He kissed me again, hot and wet, assaulting my mouth.

I moved my hands lower, to his stomach. It was just as firm as the rest of him.

He put his hands on my waist, skimmed it, and then let them move higher, to my breasts. He cupped them, rubbed his thumbs over my nipples.

They stiffened under my shirt and bra. I let out a little moan.

The sound seemed to galvanize him. One of his hands moved down my body, thrusting under the waist of my pants, finding the center of me.

I let out a muffled cry as a shot of bliss went through me.

He urged my hand lower on his body, and I fumbled to open his fly.

All the while, he teased and stroked me, rubbing my clit with two fingers.

Pleasure splintered through me, and I wrapped my hand around the girth of him and stroked.

He grunted. He put his mouth on mine again.

I felt that, felt his tongue dancing with mine. I felt his erection pulsing against my movement. But all that mattered were his fingers as they pushed at me, prodded me. Everything was starting to well up into a ball of ever-expanding pink light, and I was floating in it.

The pleasure was going to overtake me if I let it, and I found that I wanted to surrender to it, wanted it badly.

This felt too good. It was heat and light and joy and wondrousness, and I kissed him harder, pumped at him harder, wanting to push myself over the brink, tumble into the place where everything was bright and hot and nice, so nice…

I had my eyes squeezed shut against it.

And then it came for me. The deepest, most intense pleasure that I thought I’d ever experienced. It expanded all at once, flooding me with such brightness. I was
drowning
.

And the waves were coming again and again, radiating out from the center, bathing me in this lovely feeling.

“Good,” he was whispering into my skin. “That’s it. Good girl.”

And I felt him explode against my palm, just as the waves of my climax were beginning to crest.

He twitched against me, my own orgasm turned inside out.

It seemed to go on and on, both of us suspended in a moment together, spasming together, lost together.

And I didn’t move, and neither did he. His forehead was resting on my shoulder, and he was panting, and I could feel his heat against the front of me and the cool smoothness of the wall behind me.

I opened my eyes.

Slowly, he pulled back.

We looked at each other.

He took several steps backwards, tucking himself back into his pants. “Sorry,” he mumbled, and he wasn’t looking at me.

I was shaking, remnants of the mother of all orgasms still rippling through me. My hand was covered in his ejaculate.

He went back over to the couch and picked up the laptop.

I got myself a tissue—no, three—with my clean hand. I wiped my other hand off.

He rubbed his chin. “Where the fuck would he go?” he muttered to himself.

I swallowed.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Cade

I glared at the computer screen.

What the fuck had I just done? It was beneath me, seriously. I didn’t think I’d ever been such a bumbling idiot with a woman before.

I watched her duck out of the room, heard the spigot come on it the bathroom. She was undoubtedly washing her hand off.

I cringed.

I meant that to be something else, not some adolescent embarrassment.

But it had been a tense day, and I didn’t have it in me to stretch anything out. I hadn’t been able to control myself. The minute she started making noise, the minute I had my fingers against her wet heat…

I drew in a shaky breath just thinking about it.

She must have been wound up pretty tight too, considering how easily she fell apart under my fingers.

I remembered the sensation of her clit twitching under my finger.

Fuck.

I should say something to her.

Sure. Like… what would I say?

Screw it. I was just going to pretend it never happened. Or that I did it on purpose. I squared my shoulders, shifting on the couch, and forced myself to focus on the computer screen. I scrolled through folders and folders of receipts for money.

It might have seemed counterintuitive to keep files on an illegal business, but one of the very real problems of making lots of money illegally was the threat of the IRS. Oftentimes, no one could figure out a way to prove you were a murderer, but they took you down for tax evasion instead. Since there were no records, they could make all kinds of wild estimations of how much money you made.

My files didn’t mention who paid me or the other killers in my organization, and they didn’t mention what it was that we did. But each one detailed how much money we’d made.