Ripped (Killer Lips Book 2)

by Molly Molloy

  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.

  Chapter SIX

  Riley

  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 h
im 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.

  Chapter SEVEN

  When we've finished with two bouts of intense sexual aerobics, Mark goes to get the wine and antipasti from the kitchen and I realize I'm back in my old room.

  In his haste to get me completely naked he carried me in here instead of the other room I've been sleeping in since he dragged me back from the restaurant. It feels nice to be back in my old familiar surroundings. Like I belong here, have come home.

  Weird feeling seeing as I do not live in this palace. Note to self – hello – have you forgotten? But hasn't Mark told me numerous times, too many to tally that I cannot leave. And it's been a number of weeks so I've definitely passed the vacation fling cut-off date.

  “You opened the Brunello huh?” Mark teases me when he returns with the expensive wine. “I guess it's only fair after you spent the day cooking these amazing bocadillos for me.”

  He stuffs an appetizer of exquisite cheese resting on sun-dried tomato and pesto into his mouth like a man starving then feeds me a crisp bright yellow zucchini flower. And I thought Italian food was not much more than pizza.

  “Am I going to be bankrupted by your expensive taste in lingerie and fine wine?”

  I didn't open the Brunello, it must have been Signora B. He's only joking, I know. He doesn't care how much he spends on me. He's told me a hundred times I can have whatever I want whenever I want it. Anything.

  But I don't want him to think I'm that girl, living in his palace and taking advantage of his generosity. And I'm about to tell him that, just to reiterate so he's sure when his phone rings and he tugs it out of his tight jeans.

  His face turns black as the dark canal water outside and he frowns so brutally I'm almost afraid.

  “I have to leave. No, what have I told you about that pouting?” He takes hold of my chin between his thumb and finger to tip it up for a kiss on the mouth.

  “How long are you going to be?” I ask with a bit more of a whine than is attractive.

  “I don't know. This could take a while so don’t wait up. Stop now or I shall have to give you that spanking I promised when I get back.”

  “I want you to give me that spanking if it will make you come back quicker.”

  “Don't tempt me Riley. I don't want to leave you and if you look at me like that I won't.”

  He shuts the door and I hear the key turn in the lock. So he still doesn’t tr
ust me not to leave him. It's one thing when I'm asleep but to shut me in all evening by myself is no fun. If anything happened like the massive swathes of curtain catching fire the only way out would be to leap into the freezing canal.

  I eat just one of the delicious little canapes of tiny whole fried fish and pour myself a huge glass of the delicious wine. It's going to be a long night but at least I'm back with my magic closet. I'll amuse myself taking out all the boxes of Louboutins, Choos and Blahniks and have my own private Cinderella party.

  In the morning I roll over and a great wave of nausea rushes through my stomach. I already know by the chill between the sheets that Mark isn't with me but the cool smooth fabric eases my forehead a tiny bit. Before I can tell whether he ever returned another surge curls up through my stomach and I'm sure I'm going to hurl.

  I need to get to the bathroom, I need to check on whether the sheets are rumpled, the pillow dented. But I can't see a thing. The room is twirling around dancing so fast the furniture and painted walls are nothing but a blur of soft colors like an impressionist painting in a carnival ride.

  My head's too heavy to lift and I lower it back into the pillow face first. Mark's pillow, except I know he hasn't used it. His smell, the warm musky masculine aroma I love always permeates the pillowcase when he naps beside me and now it's absent. Nothing but the soft lavender aroma of the Signora's laundry detergent.

  Many times I've fallen asleep with that pillow crushed in my embrace. When I've woken up and discovered Mark gone it's the one thing that comforts me back to sleep.

  And the throbbing pain between my legs is more intense than any of the afternoons spent on my knees in front of the fire. I reach down and the gossamer silk of my nightgown is soaked at the area of my pubis. The fabric is sticking to my thighs from the damp.

  At least I have the relief of knowing he was here last night after all. Maybe he came back and we drank a load of expensive strong wine. So much that I can't remember a thing. It's as though my memory banks for yesterday have been wiped.