Page 16 of Ripple Effect, Vol. 2

Wrapping my arms around my stomach, I squeeze my eyes shut, wishing I could pop a pill. Just one. Between the chicken, the IV fluids and patch, the hot shower, nothing has sated the nagging craving that even a single forty could cure. And with my memories tormenting me on top of everything else, both my body and mind are desperate for that escape.

I shake my head and beat my temple with the heel of my palm. Don’t let it in, don’t let it in.

My present-state is a whole other nightmare, but one I feel I have some control over … somewhat.

I know the violence and the gore Rip is capable of, and what’s worse, his nonchalance about it. Pouring acid over a man’s ravaged carcass as easily as though he were pouring coffee for the two of us. He associates no remorse for his actions, which essentially makes him a psychopath. At the same time, he should’ve killed me. Twice. I saw him kill. I stole from him, for Christ’s sake. That alone should’ve made me knife bait.

My job for the next two months is merely to use that to my advantage and walk away with twenty grand. Twenty fucking grand. A girl in my situation could get a nice head start in life with that much.

Assuming I survive.

Tucking that thought away, I hold the blade in one hand, staring down at myself. I’ve never shaved bare, not that I have much down there anyway, but I never quite understood the appeal of completely hairless. With the shakes still vibrating my muscles, I’ll probably end up hacking my muff and the guy won’t want anything to do with me. After lathering up the bottom half of me with soap, I set the razor to remove the triangle of hair he apparently doesn’t like. Leg hiked up on a protruding bench, I drag the blade down into my ass, leaving a smooth, silky surface in its wake.

The process takes me a good half hour, my fingers brushing behind every stroke of the razor to be sure there’s not a trace of hair left.

I glance up and stumble back into the wall, knocking the razor to the floor.

Through the glass barrier of the shower stall, Rip’s eyes are riveted on me, brimming with the kind of hunger that prickles the skin, where he stands with his arms crossed.

One arm stretched across my chest, I attempt to cover my breasts. Even though the guy will see and has seen all of it, there’s something incredibly intrusive about a man watching a woman shave.

“Pick it up.” His gaze falls to the floor and back. “Fuck yourself with it.”

My eyes widen in horror. “What?”

“The handle. Fuck the handle.”

God, no. Whatever I’ve done in the past was under a haze of drugs that kept me disconnected from my own body. I was only vaguely aware of what happened to me in the thick of my high. There’s no way I can do this sober. Not without thoughts of Randy invading my headspace.

My lip curls at the thought of shoving something so impersonal up inside of me—a razor of all things. But if I deny him, he’ll think I’m not experienced or willing enough to earn that money. Bending down, I pick up the razor, running my thumb along the thickness of it as I rinse it in the water—more than my finger, but skinnier than the dildo I once found in Chanel’s nightstand. “I don’t like putting objects in … there.”

“There? You talking about your lady bits or something? You’re a fucking woman, Dylan. It’s called a pussy.”

Frowning back at him, I swallow a harsh gulp. “I don’t like putting objects in my … pussy.”

The fog of the glass door gives way to sharp clarity as he slides it open and his eyes rake over my body before he grips hold of my wrist, unraveling my arm from my breasts. “What exactly am I paying for, Bandit? For you to decide what constitutes everything I want you to do? If I wanted to get told no at every turn, I’d have paid to fuck a nun for two months.”

My heart begs to shrivel at his words, but his fingers, sliding down my breast toward my puckering nipple, have my breath all out of whack and my stomach feeling warm.

“You’re not a victim, Dylan. I gave you a chance to walk and you refused.” The way he circles the hardened peaks of my breasts takes me back to the nights I watched him from my bedroom window, dreaming of this very moment. Fantasizing about those calloused fingers replacing my own, drawing a deep and powerful tug at my belly. Closing my eyes brings his voice crashing along my spine and casts an ache between my thighs. “I can be very persuasive when I want and I’m very good at what I do. But I’m not paying ten grand a month to talk you into shit every step of the way. I have certain tastes, and if you’re not down with that, then the deal is off and you can get the fuck out. Free to go. I won’t stop you.”

If I didn’t know better, I’d almost think that’s what he wants. I’m almost certain of it, which settles the matter as far as I’m concerned.

My head feels light, dizziness settling over me as his whisper light touch works up an impossible need inside of me. Coupled to the pounding of the water, my muscles turn warm and rigid, soft and hard. Pulse after tormenting pulse beats through me. The longing to feel those teasing fingers inside of me sets my body arching into him, damn near begging him for it.

I’m not giving up the money. I need that money more than I need my sense of pride. “Okay,” I whisper. “I’ll do it.”

A tremble moves through me when his fingers release their hold of my budding nipple and he takes a step back, arms crossed again.

With the business end of the razor facing away, I glide the handle down my clit and hike my leg up onto the bench again. His dark eyes watch intently, devouring my embarrassment as if it’s a part of his diet. I line the tip at my seam, sliding in small measures at a time across my clit. The cold metal, rounded at the end, reminds me of the speculum used in the gyno visits—only slightly uncomfortable, but certainly not painful. I keep my gaze locked on the shower door and the fogged glass that blurs my vision.

“Eyes on me.” His deep voice innervates my spine, and I can’t do this shit. I can’t look at him.

High on drugs was one thing, but putting on a little show for him—all intimate and sober—is messing with my head. All I see and hear is Randy and the way he must’ve bragged to all his friends about those images. How they probably laughed and dissected my body into sections of what they’d take if given the chance.

Like insects.

A fire ignites in my veins and I chuck the razor past Ripley where it crashes to the floor. He doesn’t so much as flinch with the movement.