Ripped (Killer Lips Book 2) (3 page)

Mark hugs me, kisses each of my swollen sore nipples then picks up a pile of my clothes from the floor and goes to the window to hurl them out into the canal.

“Noooo.” I scream, crawling across the straggle on the floor to grab at his ankle.

“Don't tell me you want to keep this old stuff. I'll buy you all the clothes you want.”

“Don't ruin the Renaissance master view with Forever 21,” I say. “A black garbage bag is all those crappy outfits are good for.”

We go to a seafood restaurant, famous among the locals, behind the Rialto market and Mark orders a bottle of prosecco to go with the dozen oysters. The waiters stare at their only customers in surprise and confusion.

“Should we be out celebrating at a time like this?” I whisper with a invigorated small laugh. Everyone else is locked up behind closed doors, fearful for their necks.

“We're never going to stop celebrating,” he growls.

Mark locks my hand on the table buried beneath his huge fist. It's almost as though he thinks I might run away he's holding me so firm. But he knows I won't. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, isn't that how the cliché goes? In every one of those sayings there's a core kernel of truth. I would say the thing that drives you apart also brings you close together. Unbreakably joined, the way Mark and I are now.

“I've always thought you're a great dad,” I say and wish I'd kept quiet, as Mark's eyes turn black.

“I mean that you accept him. That's important to a child t o feel loved unconditionally right?”

Maybe I should just shut up and have another drink but I burble on.

“I know I never was. I think my mother hated me from the day I was born. She took such pleasure when I was unhappy. I never felt okay, never mind good enough. It was always my fault. You know, like, if someone bullied me at school, I must have done something to deserve it. If one of her bazillion boyfriends disappeared it must have been because I threw my ugly ass at him.”

The waiter brings a gorgeous dish of
vitello tonnato
and I laugh out loud so that Mark looks up from the white tablecloth to scan my face.

“And I have this totally weird relationship with food because of her. I hate eating and I also can't stop. She used to force me to eat until my stomach was ballooning. If I ate she was pleased if I refused she'd throw a fit. I guess she wanted me fat while she was thin. Must be a mother daughter thing.”

Now it's Mark's turn to laugh. But in an ironic head shaking way.

“What's funny?” I say, opening my mouth for him to enter with a forkful of exquisite thick creamy fish sauce.

“It isn't only mothers that use food as control.” He pops another yummy mouthful into me. “Force-feeding is a method of torture though. And either parent will use it as a means to get the upper hand over the vulnerable trusting child.”

Is he telling me something about his own father? His gaze is years back in the past, half enraged, half destroyed. Almost exactly the way I feel.

“But you've got good self-esteem which I have to force myself to embody because it doesn’t come naturally. Your father must have made you feel good enough.”

“I was always in competition with others to get his love.”

“Noooooo,” I squeal as the waiter returns with a bowl of dark creamy zabaglione. “That looks like whizzed up cream and sugar.”

“No cream only egg yolk.”

Mark ignores the two spoons laid either side of the dish and instead dips his finger into the velvety rich mix. The instant he touches it to my lower lip, I open up to let him inside my mouth. Licking the underside of his fat finger like he like his cock tongued.

I make his eyes droop to half mast with the same lust pounding at my core. As he slowly slides his finger from my suction, I swirl my tongue around the tip, keeping my eyes fixed and locked in his.

“No cream?” I say, coquetting. I run the tip of my tongue across my lower lip, scooping up the thick nectar with a lascivious smile.

“I can't stand this fucking table between us. It's separating me from creaming you all over.” Mark lifts the table to shove it to one side then drags me by the hand squealing and laughing from the restaurant.

“There's no time to walk across the damn bridge either.”

He tears to the water's edge and almost tosses me into a gondola, throwing out the command to punt fast across the canal back to the palazzo. I wrap my legs around him inside the
felze
where we're hiding from the evil wind.

“Don't start with me lady,” Mark growls. “I'm ready to boil over. Do you want me to fuck you right here and have me finished by the time we get home?”

We stumble up the stairs, kissing and biting each other as we tug the clothes from our bodies and are naked before we manage to reach the door to my bedroom. He wraps his hand beneath my thigh, grasping a handful of flesh to pull my leg up around his waist. At the same time as he rams me into the wall, against the antique wallpaper lining the hallway. He raises my other leg around his waist and hoists me from the floor, using the wall as support while he pushes his swollen iron prick inside me all the way up to the hilt.

“Someone might come, Mrs B-” I moan.

“I don't fucking care, I have to be inside you right now.”

He punctuates his statement with a deep thrust that makes me cry out. My breasts are squashed into his face as he laps all over, wanting all of me at once. With me spread wide sitting on his pole, he rams into me over and over while my back grinds against the priceless old wallpaper.

One hand holds me under the butt, pinioning me into the wall and his other hands rubs my clit expertly. I come in moments, throwing my arms back into the wall as I tug Mark's massive prick into me.

Holding me impaled on him, he walks down the hall without a care that the clothes that haven't been tossed on the stairs are hanging off us. He kicks my bedroom door but it's locked and the key is in his pocket back there on the stairs.

He strides down the hall with a growl and kicks another door that gives under his force. He enters a room even large and maybe more opulent, kicks the door shut behind us and still deeply buried inside me, throws us down, solidly joined on the wide couch in front of the windows.

The dusky late afternoon is filled with our repeated bouts of lovemaking. I want all of him as much as he wants me. He calls out my name when he comes into my mouth or my tight tunnel. The way he licks and laps my swollen breasts, kissing the tight nipples with his teeth, I know he's mine. He way he clasps me to him with such ferocious longing I know he'll never leave me to go to another.

I feel glorious, my naked skin bathed in the softening light as The room turns gold then orange then red before finally darkness drops. We've dozed and made love, dozed and fucked. My pussy is in a delicious engorged agony but still he wants me again and again.

I come out of a beautiful dream with his mouth nuzzling the side of my neck.

He's fetched a bottle of vibrant musky red wine and some scrumptious little Italian antipasti. He passes me a heavy gold-rimmed crystal goblet once I've propped myself into a stack of golden silk pillows, adding a long kiss.

This place, this man, every day feels like I'm on the most ideal perfect honeymoon. He kisses every part of my body between sips of the pungent wine. He refills my glass and while I lie back and take a long sip, he goes to retrieve a nightgown from my bedroom. When he returns, he dresses me in his favorite silk negligee.

“You threw out all my clothes,” I say, laughing, so unbelievably happy.

“You wear a peignoir like an Italian movie star,” he says. “It suits you. You should never get dressed. And you no longer need to.”

He bends to kiss the tops of my breasts again before refilling my glass.

“Are you trying to get me intoxicated so you can have your evil way with me all over again? It's going to backfire because this rich wine is making me really sleepy.”

“You've had a busy day my angel.”

I fall asleep in Mark's arms, his lips on me, his fingertips caressing me.

Josh & Mark

I'm sure she dreams of me all night long, beautiful Riley. Even if I can't be with her in her bed, still she comes to me in her dreams. I know how her amazing body trembles for me and aches to be filled with me.

Soon we'll be together in the right way. She won't have to be locked in her room ever again. I'll be able to take care of her and lie with her in my arms all night long. She'll be my muse and my queen. Just as soon as the current problem is eliminated.

You'd think that after the connection between us deepened, Mark would spend the night in my bed. He held me close into his chest while I fell into the impossibly deep sleep of the dead but when I wake, clammy and quivering at dawn and reach out for his comfort, he isn't there.

It must be the amount of heavy red wine we drink each night that makes me dream such wild and vivid images. Sometimes I dream of Mark. As I did when I first arrived a the palace. Him squeezing my breasts until they swell with hunger for him. How he tugs on my hard pellets and twists them until they bolt up for his mouth.

I feel it as though it's real, the circles he rubs around my hard little clit and dripping wet hole. And sometimes I hear screams. But I don't know whether they're mine. Perhaps it's a forewarning from the old Roman Gods.

My ears strain at the dawn, listening for more screams in the distance. Mixed with the sound of the grand Canal bashing at the walls of the
palazzo
. And I imagine the calls for help are coming from the
portigo
. When there's nothing beyond the water lapping and the realistic illusion of the unconscious world.

I'm certain it was a dream and not that my lover has left me in the night to go to his torture chamber. No, he can't possibly have anything left after he's finished fucking me for hours, sometimes it's all afternoon and evening, hours and hours of fucking. His sexual appetite cannot be that insatiable.

My skin sparks with raised bumps running the length of my arms, whether from the damp chill of the air or my imagination running wild, I can't be sure.

I'm not sure of anything any more other than that my existence is blissful, my every whim catered to by the most perfect man. Whatever makes me happy is what he wants.

No one has ever cared about whether I'm happy. My mother had curled her lip as she informed me happiness was imagined and not to be expected in life. It would never alight on me as an everyday occurrence she said.

This feels pretty damned real to me. My body has discovered levels of desire I would not have thought possible, ignited by Mark and the passion between us. Whenever he isn't with me, every nerve ending is livid and on edge, my breasts fill with eager pressure, yearning to be under his fingers again.

Again I have the dream of a woman crying out, that continues when my eyes snap open. One of those dreams that crosses from sub conscious into awakeness and renders you totally disoriented.

I lie in my beautiful princess bed with my ears acutely listening for the longest time. But all that can be heard are the masculine shouts on the canal from the boatmen calling to each other.

Some days I don't even dress. He adores me when I'm floating around in an expensive silk nightgown.

“I love how easy it is to slip this silk from your shoulders and have it slither to the carpet. And you standing before me naked. So beautiful, Riley. Naked and hungry for my touch.”

“You've started your own personal bordello,” I laugh.

“A bordello with one perfect courtesan.” He drops his powerful bulk to his knees and pulls my lips apart to explore my slickness with his fingers and tongue.

I don't tell him I hear voices. He knows it's a dream. Sometimes he comes to me in time to go out to lunch at one of Venice's exceptional fine restaurants. But every time, our eyes meet across some sumptuous specialty dish, both thinking the same thing.

He feeds me from a fork or from the end of his finger and shortly after we're back at the palazzo. On three occasions we haven't made it back to the palace in time.

Mark's had to drag me into a side alley and push me up against the wall as he tears down my underwear. He's already a velvet iron sheath when he pulls his stunning cock from his pants and thrusts it all the way into me.

“I love your body,” he moans into my neck. “I love your breasts.” He can squeeze and knead my soft flesh for hours. He never gets tired of my full tits.

The afternoon that he's called away before we make it back to my room, he deposits me in the library. He says I have to stay right here. But I’m restless and unable to sit and read with all the sexual energy firing me. I wander down to the kitchen and find la Signora B. cooking up a feast.

“There's only the two of us,” I say.

Although of course the servants have to eat something, but still, there's a mountain of food. I ask if I can help.

“
Aiuto
?”

She laughs, probably because I'm butchering her language harder than she's tearing those chicken carcasses apart. But she nods and I stand at the massive wooden chopping table and do what I can. Mostly I watch and learn from the mistress. If Mark loves food so much, I want to be able to prepare something to entice him.

Mark and Josh

I will never stop fucking her. Or wanting to every ten minutes. I think about her constantly and it makes my cock bulge bad in my pants. No sooner has my dick gone down than I'm thinking about her wetness gripping me all over again while I crush her breasts in my fists.

She's learning to cook from Signora B. My special cook, the one who's made my exclusive recipes since I was a kid. I watch them from behind the kitchen door as beautiful Riley moves around the room looking for ingredients.

She sways those hips like a Hollywood streetwalker, bending down for a pot and tilting her perfect ass up in the air right in front of me. Then she leans over the thick chopping block resting on her arms with her legs triangled, to watch my Mrs B.

Oh fuck, I wish I was across the room so I could see her glorious tits pressed tight together by her upper arms. I could suckle both her hard nipples into my mouth at the same time or lick the length of my tongue across both at once.

Fucking fuck my dick is roaring. With her legs that wide apart, her round ass stuck out, I could so easily reach out for her from where I stand.

I could hike her skirt up over her head. Rip her panties down and slide my finger into her slickness before filling her up from behind. Delicious sweet and sexy Riley. You'll always be mine. You can never leave us.

Riley

I never enjoyed cooking until I came to Italy. Dwayne was an all-American meat and potatoes guy and not only in his diet. There was nothing creative about preparing dinner for my ex and he never appreciated any kind of taste sensation. He just wanted his running to pudge stomach filled with something as bland as possible.

Mark is a taste sensation in his own right and he loves to have his tongue excited with something tasty. So I spend hours watching Signora B cook, amazed at how much passion she puts into the preparation.

The food is all fresh from the market. Mark says Signora B is known to make a scene if she's sold anything less than perfect produce. She cuts a terrifying figure at the stalls.

Once we've set all the perfect antipasto out on a heavy porcelain platter to tempt my lover's tastebuds, I wander off back to my bedroom. I'm thinking I'll slip back into my silky nightgown and wait stretched out on a chaise lounge waiting for him to return. He wants an Italian movie star, well, I'll give it all I've got. I head to the stairs and a figure emerges from a door then ducks into another.

“Josh!” I run down the hall after him.

He was at the opposite end of the palace which is quite a sprint and when I get there, I'm not sure which door he slipped through. I try one, it's a storage room for the silver and shit. My god, this place is a freaking museum for sure. The next one is another ante room where not much goes on. It's hard to find a use for so many rooms in the modern age. I pull open the next and run into Mark.

“Where are you off to all dressed? Not trying to get away.” Mark scoops me up in his solid arms, lifting me clear off the ground.

“Is Josh back early? I saw him.”

“No baby not 'til the weekend.”

“But I saw him come out of – a door.”

“A door? You're dreaming. Should I be jealous that you're dreaming of my son?”

“No of course not but I know it was him. He came out of the door then went right back in.”

“That was me angel. I came up from the
portigo
to the kitchen then realized I'd forgotten my wallet in the boat and went back for it. How can you be confusing your lover with his son?”

“I'm – don't know.” I was about to insist and say I wasn't but think better of it.

“Fuck, I missed you.” Mark bites lightly along the side of my neck.

“I just want to check that last door.”

I'm struggling in his arms to no avail and give up laughing as he slips his hand inside my shirt and squeezes my eager nipple.

“No way. I want you naked in front of the fire. Now.”

And with me thrashing around and squealing with laughter as he carries me in the bridal hold up the stairs while kissing my bare breast, I forget all about my vision of Josh.