by Molly Molloy
RIPPED
(A Dark Romantic Suspense)
by
Molly Molloy
www.DirtySexyRomance.com
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Ripped, A Dark Romance
Part 1
By
Molly Molloy
Chapter ONE
I'm in Venice.
And ohmigod it has got to be the most sublime place in the universe for a romantic vacation. Not that I've been around the universe much-or anywhere else for that matter. This trip to Europe is my first big adventure.
Solo. Yeah, I went all “Eat, Pray, Love” but so far it's been more Eat and Pray, than Love.
So what the hell am I doing on a romantic vacation by myself? I came to this dreamy city all alone determined to prove myself after sliding down the slippery slope, straight back to square one in the romance department.
And boy does it smart. The pain is like an unseen torturer stretching my heart while pricking my skin with a pointed instrument. I might never let the walls collapse for another man ever again.
Maybe true love is something only made up in books because we're all dreaming so hard about it. But being in Venice I'm really craving a man to love. This town inspires that yearning from the moment you step out of the train station right onto the edge of the Grand Canal.
Back home, I pop a giggle at the tourists cruising along the Canal in a hotel lobby under a fake painted blue sky. But here, I absolutely long to ride in a gondola. Low down on the water with only the almost full moon and rippling sparkles from the soft streetlights casting a glow around our desire.
Our desire – the man I'm so passionate about I'd give up everything for-the man who doesn't exist except in my overactive imagination.
As soon as I saw that hotel ride in Vegas, I determined that one day I'd come to the world's most ethereal city with someone I was truly in love with. Instead I’m bruised inside and out. Completely lacerated by Dwayne's abandonment. And my trip of self discovery hasn't helped one bit.
“OhmiGod are you insane going all that way by yourself?” Sarah, my only remaining ally squealed when I plunged into buying a ticket. “Everyone's gonna think you’re a loser with no friends.”
“Everyone can think what they want. I need to have one adventure in my life and I'm not waiting for some guy to show up and escort me there 'cos it looks like the good 'n' hot guys are all taken.”
“Yeah- to another planet by aliens. They certainly aren't loitering in this town. Nothing but a-hats blowing money on gambling and hookers.”
Did I mention Sarah has a cynical view of the world? Her job dealing at a mid-range casino, only slightly off-strip, is the one to blame.
“Can't you just go to, like, Cancun and drink margaritas?”
“No. I want to go far and away to mystery and romance. Something more than drowning my misery in tequila on an algae-infested beach.”
“I'd come with you,” she said, without much enthusiasm, “But I just got a new car after the old one blew up the instant it had devoured all my savings.”
“Thanks, that's sweet but I'll be fine. Not trying to be all koo-koo here, but I really want to find myself.”
“Well okay, but don't get lost,” she quipped.
Traveling alone doesn't freak me out too much. But being in this impossibly magical city where the streets vanish into water and every crosswalk is a raised stone bridge with men in tight pants singing underneath, I feel it.
My coming-back-to-myself journey after a brutal divorce, where more than the usual amount of mud was slung for the benefit of the lawyer's fees and disbursements has left me more solitary than a clawing inmate. The emptiness tears me open at a visceral level. Now I'm wandering the ethereal walkways exposed and raw in my personal barren wasteland.
Slap. Slap.
Not the sound of water against sidewalk quay but of me pulling my shit together. If you're going to be a quitter, Riley, why don't you walk off the edge of this dock thingy right now? You can sink and wallow at the bottom of a bottomless canal.
With every person I pass being one half of a couple, I have to focus on being happy for them in their romantic idyll. Try to forget that no one on earth would miss me, or even notice if I did step off the edge into one of these unfenced canals.
I sat on the vaporetto- the open bus boat- the first two days, riding up and down the Grand Canal in a state of awe. This city so astounding, it makes my senses ache from overuse. Every last building at least five centuries old, with not a single jarring Walmart or fast food chain to mar the Renaissance fantasy. Every house bulges with Old Masters paintings. And water all around, lap-lapping at the edge of every sidewalk.
Now though, I'm busting my own balls to stop feeling sorry for myself. I bought a mask I couldn't afford at one of the bazillion mask shops in town. Where do the people that live in Venice buy food? Or paper towel? And now I'm headed to a fondamenta (don't call it an alley, it's a street bordering a canal) to tentatively enter the fray of Carnival.
The heightened gaiety pervading the walled streets is more than intimidating. Everyone is in love or lust. The decadent masks giving them liberty to drop all inhibitions for this final fling festival before abstinence. Dancing in the plazas, along the quaysides. Carousing, kissing, it's an absolute free for all in public.
So although I'd fantasized an entire illicit Venice romance while planning my trip and on the long plane trip over, I know deep down, I’m too uptight to meet anyone. So resistant to potential pain it's as though there's a force-field surrounding me saying; “Back off” (or something a lot more abrasive).
So- I do what I always do and put on a brave face, smiling through the agony inside, not wanting people to turn away from the burden of a heart wounded woman. Get over it. Everyone's been through a break up.
But nobody's been through my break up.
It hurts but worse it scares me big time. What if another man lures me in only to rip out my heart and soul and leave me senseless? I've got no shield left for that – the force-field has been breached and cannot be repaired. Radar seems to be down as well.
My senses were useless in detecting Dwayne's heartless self-centerdness. I'd succumbed so easily to his sweet talk at the beginning and his snarkiness at the end. Now I'm vulnerable to any man who might trick my heart the same way if I let him in. It's easier not to.
You're doing great. Now get out there. With huge resolve, I've tied the satin ribbons of the painted mask tightly in back of my head. The black and white hand-painted disguise is beautifully made, finished with gold gilt.
The woman in the store explained the history of Colombina, which I barely understood. She suggested this particular mask, all covered in sparkling crystals and feathers, signifies a flirtatious fun girl.
“Just like you,” she said.
Yeah – that's me. Fun and flirty. In another life maybe.
It cost a fortune of course. More than I could afford. But like I said, I'm determined to throw myself into the exuberance of this bucket list experience of a lifetime.
I merge with the throngs of people in the maze of streets behind the Doge's Palace. Every narrow quayside bordering the canals is rammed full of people dancing and drinking and generally carousing.
The tourists are obvious in their gaudy souvenir-stand masks, easy to pick out. But the locals wear authentic-looking period costumes from the 15th and 16th centuries of heavy silk and velvet, loaded with gold and jewels.
Their masks are ornate, hand-painted and gilded and slight
ly eerie as the eyes turn into dark psycho slits behind the cut outs. Other outfits are modern creations, full-blown color and spectacle because apparently a prize is given on the final day. The color bobbing along the gray stone winter streets is eye-popping.
I'm dancing along the old quayside, carried along by the crowd, on the razor edge where it drops perpendicular into the dark gray-green water. I'm high on toying with danger, a mountaineer on a crevasse, as the crowd pulsates against me and the giddiness swirls in my head.
I'm not really alone in this crush. I'm part of the amoebic creature that unites us, searching out the next hedonistic high. We move our joined body as one, pounding out the music with intense desire to be set loose.
Merged with the group, my loneliness slips away. I dance like a whirling dervish, thumping all the past out through my pores. We've been dancing for what must be hours. Then, with one ecstatic pulse, the comfort of the crowd slips away and I'm falling into nothingness.
Time stops for a while while the sky surrounds me, drawing me into its gray expanse. Then it slowly grinds into gear as I tumble in a long slow arc off the edge of the quay, through winter thin air toward the icy black water.
I should scream now. Or say goodbye to someone.
Except there's no one.
His breath is ragged hot on my cheekbone. Our bodies collide with the full impact with his powerful grasp of my flailing arm. I crash hard into his shield of torso and the clamp of his solid bicep curls around my waist pulling me tight into its puffed velvet covering. The emerald green of his costume scalds my eyes with the sudden brightness, exquisitely soft under my shivering palm.
“I've gotcha. You're safe.” His voice is as luscious as the doublet, treacle dark in my ear.
My heart is pounding so hard it must be beating a tattoo against his solid chest.
“You saved me,” I whisper, my breath catching girlishly in my throat, like I'm swooning for a superhero in a movie.
“I'd have ruined this outfit jumping into the canal to rescue you, but it would have been totally worth it.” His dusty voice is filled with humor, both relaxing and invigorating me.
I'm desperate to see his face. It can only be divine with a such a rich vocal timbre. His voice reminds me of something I want to eat, rich and delectable.
I stretch my neck to look up at him, his grip holding me firm to him so my back bows, but his face is completely covered and he's hidden too well. Now I get the seductive nature of carnival.
Being masked enlivens the senses and emotions until they tear through the body like a diesel train through pristine countryside. His is large and golden, oddly shaped. The huge beak of nose and protruding chin give him a slightly sinister look when combined with the dark eyes sunken behind the angled slits.
Only his lips are visible, left uncovered so he can eat and drink without ever revealing his identity. His chin is strongly chiseled as the sculptures I've seen all over the city. The lower lip thick and downy, like a ripe fruit to be sucked on. I yearn beyond all reason to rip the disguise away.
The swell of my breasts crushes into him and we stand frozen on the edge of the canal while the heaving crowd pushes past. My rescuer is a solid beacon against the hoard trying to pound us. He's immovable, holding me in his tight embrace and they pull back from his majestic presence as they whirl on by.
Even behind the mask I can tell his eyes are searing into me, making me want to surrender into his powerful hold.
“You're shivering,” the husky voice says.
“It must be shock at my close escape.” Except heat is radiating between my thighs sending sharp tingles through my body.
A black swirl of fabric arches high and his arm comes around to envelop me in the deep shadow of the cloak hanging from his shoulders. With him. He clasps me close into his solid mass. Our bodies totally hidden in the massive swathe of fabric. His face is so close to mine I smell his woody aroma and it makes my heart patter against my chest leaning against his.
I should thank him but my lips won't move, I'm so overwhelmed by being this joined to a man again. The length of his warm body compressed with mine makes me quiver all down my thighs. And when his mouth covers mine, my eyes close and I immediately lose myself in the mindless pleasure of his kiss.
My usual shyness, the worry that I'm not pretty enough, not skinny enough, for a man to want me disappears. Perhaps the mask allows me freedom, the deep cocoon of the cape and his broad torso makes me feel unusually petite. All my usual concerns evaporate as I surrender to his mouth.
His soft lips claim me and I part mine to let him enter. His tongue presses gently inside and entwines with mine, curling around in a divine dance of inquiry and discovery. I'm being delved deeply into and intimately known with just one kiss.
The swirling of our tongues lasts an age before we are eventually swept back into the pulsating throng. He has me trapped in his grasp and I cling tight to his velvet forearm and we dance with the insistent pulse of the beat. The heat coming off him despite the opulent costume is overwhelmingly heady. In the joy of the movement my body is massaging out its pains through the rhythm.
Our single massive dancing machine disgorges from the repression of the narrow quays into a plaza surrounded by jostling old buildings. Dusk has fallen suddenly and the soft yellow lights make everyone divinely attractive. The beat gets under my taut skin, my torso does a little ripple, my hips sway and it feels so good.
The exotically dressed hunk and I are compressed by the bodies around us,wringing out every repression and I slip my leg between his like a wanton wench. I've barely spoken three words to him but my thigh is nestled between his thick hard ones, stroking against his a huge hard mound.
If I'm not mistaken it's one of those big round ball things the men in medieval times used to stow their appendages in their tights. Such exhibitionists.
My heart flutters toward my stomach as the heat builds between my thighs and dampness pools. My arms snake up around his neck, stroking the thick sinew and curls of hair straying from beneath the hood he wears. I feel him stiffen. Have I gone too far? Did I mistake his intentions with the force of my own desires?
Ohmigod suddenly I feel like an idiot.
The music is louder, more insistent, the gaudy terrifying masks loom up in front of my face. Only his emerald velvet keeps him visible as our fingers come uncoupled. I dance with wilder abandon and intensity so that I'm oblivious to being separated from my Renaissance mystery suitor. Other bodies replace his.
Dancing with him, his lips pressing into mine, I felt sensuous and sybaritic and alive. I've rejoined the living at last. I'm carried along the fondamenta with the heaving lascivious group, enveloped in the music. We turn a corner, up some steps over the bridge, down the steps, another corner.
It's okay- if I just dance fast enough, hard enough, my eagerness for intimacy will seem like part of the play and my humiliation will move on. Of course he didn't want me like that. I'm still dancing but now I’m alone. The crowd has fallen away and I feel faintly ridiculous dancing in the cobbled street by myself.
Chapter TWO
I turn one corner, then another seeking my posse and I'm lost. The narrow alley stops short, barricaded by an ancient wall that is the side of a building. I'm in a dead end and I'm all on my own.
Again.
How did I lose that flash of emerald in the crush? I'd been so lost in my reverie of movement, whipping my body around to shake out the trapped emotion, the invigorating kiss- everyone moved on without me. It's cold and dark, the canal lapping at the green slime coated wall beneath my feet is menacing black. The walls all around are too high and closing in.
My heart pounds in my chest and the air dries up behind the mask. I can't breathe, am tugging at my lungs. I jerk the stupid shield away from my face and gasp for fresh oxygen, pulling in jagged gasps of icy damp air until the constriction in my chest eases. I'm still bent forward slightly, clutching my knees, when a voice emerges from the shadows dancing around the ol
d brick walls.
“Are you okay, my lady?” Mock chivalrous, soft molten gravel that makes me burst from my skin.
I whirl around this way and that. There's no one there. The fear of ghostly apparitions leaps into my heart. Then he emerges from the shadowed doorway, a massive centuries old slab of ancient wood reinforced with pocked iron bars and studs and my heart races with a totally different beat.
“I, oh, I took a wrong turn,” I say with a stammer of shock.
The lone iron streetlamp in too far back down the alley for me to determine much about him aside from the dark mask, highlighted in gold around the dark wells where his eyes lurk. His body is solid and powerful, in the old fashioned garb of the height of Venice, a puffed up doublet of gorgeous fabric and a pair of hose around some exceedingly ripped legs.
The guy could be a football player or any kind of athlete. Why is a man slithering around the back alleys of Venice in Carnival without his friends? My heart is making my chest ache with its insistent hammering and goosebumps prickle all the way down my spine.
“You have to watch those in Venice. You can come to a watery end.”
He's American,. I think. But there's an exotic twang, something seductive and lush. At least I can comprehend him although part of me is responding too intensely to the lilting accent mixed with the timbre of wet sand.
“It would be a shame to lose a woman as beautiful as you,” he says.
He wears the mask with the huge protruding nose, this one black and for an instant my heart thrills when he steps into the light and I see a sumptuous doublet, thick tights encasing those bulging thighs. But no, his body is not the one I encountered in the dancing throng. That powerful broad seductive stranger is forever etched in my vision. How can I possibly be disappointed at that loss? But my heart drops low again with sullen defeat.
The tall hunk takes a few steps toward me and I take an involuntary one back, lifting my chest in some sort of defense. I realize I'm walled off still against any man approaching me, no matter how innocently. Will I ever let go and be natural with a man again?
