RIPPED: A Dark Romance (Killer Lips Book 1) Read Online Free PDF
Author: Molly Molloy
gazes. The fire is too intense because a flare of heat sears my skin.
“There's only Josh and me right now,” he says. A soft growl in his throat.
“Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't know-” Shit, did somebody die? Everybody in his family? My fingers almost reach to brush the length of the dark stubble along his ridge of jawline. I'm perilously aware of the curling muscles pressing back against his snug, expensive black sweater.
It's the heat, the opulence of the huge room bathed in soft glow that somehow makes me feel beautiful. Like I could have a man like Mark. I need to touch him. Even though I'm sure his skin would set my fingertips alight. For the smallest moment it seems that he's going to tip his head down to kiss me. The air crackles between our lips. And passes on.
“Will you have a glass of wine with me downstairs before dinner?” he says.
His woody warm breath glances across my upper lip like a caress. He seems reluctant to break away from our invisible embrace. Despite the heat raging in my limbs, I shiver. My clothes are dank from the fog and snow plowing into me on the boat journey and I say really I'd like to change.
“Although I don't have the right clothes to do justice to the surroundings.” And heartily wish I was also a Vogue model, with the wardrobe to match.
“There's a stash of outfits in the closet. Feel free to grab anything that suits your fancy.”
As soon as Mark leaves me I go to the tall slender doors, mirrored in tin coated glass created in Venice during the Renaissance at stupendous expense, but find the ensuite of solid white Carrera marble. The bath is fit for a Roman Empress with wide steps leading up and back down into the tub. I long to climb in for a hot fragrant soak after the travel ordeal but my host will be waiting.
I discover the wide closets, filled with an assortment of designer outfits – Prada, Gucci, Armani, Dolce - All Italian designers unsurprisingly. I finger the beautiful fabrics nervously. My immediate customary reaction that the outfits will all be too small for my curves makes me ashamed.
And yet, impossible as it seems and very surprisingly, they're all my exact size, every last one as though Mark only associates with women of a particular shape. Every dress and skirt I pull out seems unworn.
Does he keep this collection in order to seduce women in out of the storm? But still that doesn't explain how every item is my size.
I slip into a marvelous Prada concoction then fall to my knees and rip open the lid of the top box on a stack that stretches the width of the six-door closet. Oh baby. I pull out the Swarovski crystal studded Louboutin. A platform pump completely encrusted in red sparkles that I sit and caress like a long-lost child.
While clutching my baby I lift another box lid and gasp at the pink glitter buckled sandals, another holds a pair of gold platforms, another black sparkling knee-highs and then, Ohmigod.
The sort of shoes I saw on girls at Wynn pool club parties but would never have had anywhere to wear even if I could afford them. Silver sparkled pumps with ferocious studs sticking out all over. Vicious and completely elegant. Not even daring to dream, I slip my foot in, ready to apply force so the perfect creature contains me.
It fits me like a bespoke cobbler's special creation. How is it possible? Mark must be an amazing man to understand how much women adore their shoes. I pull apart the weighty lined silk curtains and a slivery gust of cold air through the ancient panes of frosty glass makes the candles flicker but there's no view besides a shimmer of tungsten glow through the thick fog.
I turn back to the palatial room and when I take note of the girl in the mirror, my usual critical stance regarding how wide I look is gone. “Riley Hunter you look like a complete stranger- a butterfly come out of a cocoon. Who are you, girl?”
Mark & Josh
“It feels like I'm living in a dream,” she tells us, creeping nervously around
“There's only Josh and me right now,” he says. A soft growl in his throat.
“Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't know-” Shit, did somebody die? Everybody in his family? My fingers almost reach to brush the length of the dark stubble along his ridge of jawline. I'm perilously aware of the curling muscles pressing back against his snug, expensive black sweater.
It's the heat, the opulence of the huge room bathed in soft glow that somehow makes me feel beautiful. Like I could have a man like Mark. I need to touch him. Even though I'm sure his skin would set my fingertips alight. For the smallest moment it seems that he's going to tip his head down to kiss me. The air crackles between our lips. And passes on.
“Will you have a glass of wine with me downstairs before dinner?” he says.
His woody warm breath glances across my upper lip like a caress. He seems reluctant to break away from our invisible embrace. Despite the heat raging in my limbs, I shiver. My clothes are dank from the fog and snow plowing into me on the boat journey and I say really I'd like to change.
“Although I don't have the right clothes to do justice to the surroundings.” And heartily wish I was also a Vogue model, with the wardrobe to match.
“There's a stash of outfits in the closet. Feel free to grab anything that suits your fancy.”
As soon as Mark leaves me I go to the tall slender doors, mirrored in tin coated glass created in Venice during the Renaissance at stupendous expense, but find the ensuite of solid white Carrera marble. The bath is fit for a Roman Empress with wide steps leading up and back down into the tub. I long to climb in for a hot fragrant soak after the travel ordeal but my host will be waiting.
I discover the wide closets, filled with an assortment of designer outfits – Prada, Gucci, Armani, Dolce - All Italian designers unsurprisingly. I finger the beautiful fabrics nervously. My immediate customary reaction that the outfits will all be too small for my curves makes me ashamed.
And yet, impossible as it seems and very surprisingly, they're all my exact size, every last one as though Mark only associates with women of a particular shape. Every dress and skirt I pull out seems unworn.
Does he keep this collection in order to seduce women in out of the storm? But still that doesn't explain how every item is my size.
I slip into a marvelous Prada concoction then fall to my knees and rip open the lid of the top box on a stack that stretches the width of the six-door closet. Oh baby. I pull out the Swarovski crystal studded Louboutin. A platform pump completely encrusted in red sparkles that I sit and caress like a long-lost child.
While clutching my baby I lift another box lid and gasp at the pink glitter buckled sandals, another holds a pair of gold platforms, another black sparkling knee-highs and then, Ohmigod.
The sort of shoes I saw on girls at Wynn pool club parties but would never have had anywhere to wear even if I could afford them. Silver sparkled pumps with ferocious studs sticking out all over. Vicious and completely elegant. Not even daring to dream, I slip my foot in, ready to apply force so the perfect creature contains me.
It fits me like a bespoke cobbler's special creation. How is it possible? Mark must be an amazing man to understand how much women adore their shoes. I pull apart the weighty lined silk curtains and a slivery gust of cold air through the ancient panes of frosty glass makes the candles flicker but there's no view besides a shimmer of tungsten glow through the thick fog.
I turn back to the palatial room and when I take note of the girl in the mirror, my usual critical stance regarding how wide I look is gone. “Riley Hunter you look like a complete stranger- a butterfly come out of a cocoon. Who are you, girl?”
Mark & Josh
“It feels like I'm living in a dream,” she tells us, creeping nervously around