Chapter Thirteen
Jade
Rip led me through the courtyard to the Kiss of Death compound, then to the warehouse with his apartment.
My heart pounded with each step. I’d made my decision without fear driving it.
I felt no desperation or anything other than pure want coursing through me.
My fingers trembled slightly as they wrapped around his, but not from anxiety.
This trembling came from anticipation, from knowing exactly what I wanted and finally feeling brave enough to take it.
He pulled me inside and closed the door behind us, turning the lock with a soft click that echoed in the quiet room.
The lamp on the nightstand cast long shadows across the bed, bathing the space in warm amber light.
Rip stood just inside the doorway, his large frame somehow making the room feel both smaller and safer all at once.
He waited, watching me with those dark, calm eyes that seemed to see right through me.
I knew he wouldn’t move first. He’d promised to let me set the pace, to make my own choices. So I chose him.
I stepped forward, closing the distance between us.
My hands landed on his chest, palms flat against the solid warmth of him through his shirt.
His heart beat steadily and strong under my touch, a counterpoint to my own racing pulse.
I looked up at him, taking in the masculine planes of his face, the stubble along his jaw, those eyes that never lied to me.
“I want this,” I said, my voice steadier than I expected. “I want you.”
I rose onto my toes and pressed my mouth to his.
His lips were warm, surprisingly soft against mine.
For a moment he remained still, letting me lead, and then his hands came up to cradle my face with a gentleness that made my chest ache.
He kissed me back, careful and measured, his restraint evident in the tension I felt in his muscled body.
When we broke apart, his thumbs brushed across my cheekbones. “You good?” he asked, his voice low and rough. “Tell me if anything’s not working for you.”
“I’m good.” I nodded, the words coming out breathless. “Better than good. I think I need this, Rip. But only with you. I don’t want anyone but you.”
“Just say the word and we stop,” he said. “Anytime. No questions asked.”
“I know.” I smiled at him, my heart light and everything inside me settling. “That’s why this is right. I trust you like I’ve not trusted anyone in a very long time.”
He kissed me again, deeper this time, letting me set the terms. I pressed closer, sliding my hands up to his shoulders, feeling the solid muscle. And, oh God, desire shot through me like a rushing river buried under layers of fear and pain, waiting for the right moment to resurface.
Rip pulled back slightly and reached for his leather cut.
He slipped it off his shoulders, folding it carefully before placing it on the chair in the corner.
The care he took with that symbol of his life, his brotherhood, struck me as profoundly intimate.
Then he gripped the hem of his T-shirt and pulled it over his head in one fluid motion.
The sight of him stole my breath. His chest and arms were a canvas of ink and scars, stories of his life.
The overhead light caught the contours of muscle, the definition earned through years of physical labor and prison workouts.
I reached out, my fingers tracing the outline of a skull surrounded by flames that covered most of his left pectoral.
“This is beautiful,” I said, following the intricate lines of the design. My fingers found a scar next, a long, jagged line across his ribs. “And this?”
“Guy with a shank didn’t like that I was still standing.” He grinned down at me. “I took exception, and we both spent time in the infirmary.”
I traced the scar gently, feeling the raised tissue under my fingertips. Then I moved my hands to the hem of my own shirt. Rip watched me, his eyes darkening as I pulled it up and over my head. The cool air of the room raised goose bumps on my skin.
He didn’t move right away. His gaze roamed over me, taking in every inch, every mark.
I fought the urge to cross my arms over my chest, to hide the last fading yellow bruises along my rib cage.
Instead, I stood straighter. These marks were part of my story.
I wouldn’t hide them anymore. At least, not from Rip.
Rip’s hand came up slowly, giving me time to pull away if I wanted. His fingertips brushed over the bruises with a touch so gentle it barely registered. “Still hurt?”
“No.” I smiled up at him. “Not even a little.”
The corner of his mouth lifted in that hint of a smile that always made something warm unfurl in my chest. His hands skimmed up my sides, careful around my ribs, coming to rest just below my bra. He looked at me, a question in his eyes.
“Yes,” I said, answering before he asked.
His fingers found the front clasp and undid it with surprising dexterity. The bra fell away, and his breath hitched audibly. I felt powerful in that moment, watching desire darken his eyes, knowing I had caused that reaction in him.
He pulled me back against his chest, skin against skin now, his chest hair crisp against my sensitive nipples.
With one hand around my back, the other cradling my head, Rip lowered his head to kiss me.
The kiss turned hungry and urgent quickly.
I reveled in the power I felt when this strong, sexy man trembled under my touch.
I wrapped my arms around his neck, pressing myself against him, wanting to feel every inch of him pressed against my body.
He walked me backward toward the bed, never breaking the kiss.
The backs of my knees hit the mattress and I sat, looking up at him as he towered over me.
Another man standing over me like this would have triggered panic, memories of being trapped, controlled.
But Rip’s presence felt like shelter, not threat.
I moved back on the bed, making room for him.
He followed, lowering himself over me with careful movements, supporting his weight on his forearms. His body covered mine without crushing me, strong and solid above me.
I ran my hands over his shoulders, down the muscled plane of his back, feeling the power contained in his frame.
“Still good?” he asked, his voice rougher now.
“Better than good.” I found a smile tugging at my lips. I really did feel better than good. “More.” I pulled him down for another kiss.
His mouth found my jaw, my neck, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses against my skin.
Every place his lips touched lit up with sensation, awakening nerves I’d forgotten existed.
There was no fear here, no anxiety, just the glorious feeling of being touched with reverence by a man who saw all of me and wanted me anyway.
Rip moved his mouth down my neck to my collarbone, leaving a trail of heat wherever his lips touched.
I tunneled my fingers through his hair, needing to anchor myself so I didn’t fly away on the incredible sensations Rip created in me so effortlessly.
He moved lower. Each kiss felt deliberate, almost reverent, like he was learning the map of my body one inch at a time.
When his lips closed around my nipple, a gasp escaped me, the sensation sharp and sweet.
The most exquisite pleasure cut through me in a way I’d never known possible.
His tongue circled the sensitive peak while his hand cupped my other breast, thumb brushing across the nipple in perfect counterpoint to his mouth.
I moaned and arched into his touch, hungry for more contact.
His stubble scraped gently against my skin as he moved to the other breast, the slight abrasion heightening every sensation.
I closed my eyes, focusing on each touch, not wanting to miss a single moment of this wondrous experience.
Rip shifted lower, trailing kisses down my stomach.
His hands stroked my sides, careful around my healing ribs, no matter how much I told him I had no pain.
The gentleness of his touch contrasted with the intensity of the sensations he created, making me tremble underneath him.
He reached the waistband of my jeans and paused, looking up at me from beneath his lashes. His eyes were dark with desire but clear with question.
I nodded, then remembered what he needed.
“Yes,” I said, the word coming out breathless.
“Please. I don’t want you to stop.” I raised my hips and fumbled with the button at my waist. He maintained eye contact as he gently brushed away my trembling fingers and undid the button himself.
He lowered the zipper with unhurried patience, then slid my jeans down my legs.
Soon the denim joined the growing pile of clothes on the floor.
He caressed my thighs, strong hands kneading the muscle there before sliding up to the edge of my underwear. Again, he paused.
Instead of answering his unspoken question, I hooked my thumbs in the waistband and slid them down my hips.
Rip took over from there, drawing the silky fabric down slowly, his eyes never leaving mine.
Once they were gone, he settled between my thighs, his broad shoulders gently pushing my legs farther apart.
The position should have made me feel vulnerable, exposed.
Instead, I felt wanted, beautiful under his gaze.
His breath was warm against my inner thigh as he pressed a kiss there, then another slightly higher. He worked his way upward with agonizing slowness until finally his mouth found my clit.
The first stroke of his tongue drew a sharp breath from me, the sound surprising both of us. “God, Rip,” I breathed, my hands finding his shoulders, needing something to anchor me.