by Skye Warren
There was violence in his movements, pain in my response, but there had never been a more pure expression of his love. There was no better gift from a man of meticulous restraint than letting go. No greater way for me to thank him than to give myself, unhindered by payments, free of the cool ice shell that always encased me. I was more naked than I had been a hundred other times, a hundred other beds. I was exposed, raw—and vulnerable. He could break me this way, if he chose to.
Impossibly, his thrusts grew more powerful, more frantic, as if he wanted to reach the farthest place inside me, and God, he had. He squeezed his eyes shut, and I knew he would come soon. I reached up and mouthed the skin at the base of his neck. A flick of my tongue, and he shouted his climax, the cords of his neck vibrating against my lips. At his orgasm, he pushed into me once, twice, then again, stroking himself with my body. I whispered words of encouragement and praise, wishing he might never stop.
He slumped down on me, heavy and supple. The most vulnerable time for a man, I’d always thought. I found myself protective of him in this moment, that he would expose himself this way—not the baring of skin, which I was too familiar with, but the lowering of his guard. He didn’t have to be wary of me. No, I would guard him. At all times, and especially when he was made slack and unseeing with bliss, I would watch over him and keep him safe.
Placing kisses over the tops of my breasts, he leisurely pushed inside me and then out, as if he wasn’t quite ready to end it.
He froze when he saw the scar.
I lay still, allowing him to look his fill, to pass judgment. The reddish skin puckered just under my collarbone. Almost perfectly circular, a clean shot with no additional scarring from when they had pulled the bullet back out. It might fade in a few years, the doctors said. It might not.
“Does it hurt you?” he asked hoarsely.
“Not really. Not on the surface anyway. Sometimes deeper, if I move the wrong way.”
I expected him to pull out, to pull away after seeing the scar. It was ugly, but worse than that were the ugly memories. I knew he blamed himself. Everyone blamed themselves for my mistakes, first Allie, then him. But he didn’t move away; he stayed inside me. His eyes were on that scar, filled with a kind of mourning.
He touched the space beside it, the pale, unmarred skin. “So strong.”
I turned my face away. He kissed my cheek, capturing a tear on his lips.
“What would it take for you to believe that?” he asked.
“What would it take for you to stop searching for your sister?” The words were meant to push him away so that he would stop pushing me. But they came out with no bitterness, no rancor, only an earnestness that revealed too much.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I’m here now. That’s something, right?”
“That’s something,” I whispered.
He replaced his condom and entered me again. I was tender, sore from our previous rough session, but he moved slowly, soothing me until I felt a soft glow of pleasure. There was no bruising grip or frenzied thrusts this time, only the smooth glide of his cock inside me, the steady rise of his broad shoulders over me. Only the press of his temple to mine, as if we were connected by more than our bodies—we were. He came with a soft expulsion of, “Oh, shit.”
We fell side by side, limbs entangled and hearts beating rapidly.
This was what he’d always wanted, if his declaration in the kitchen was to be believed. We had always been heading to this—to ruin, for a prostitute and a cop had no future. Neither of us had a future, caught as we were in the past. Still, I couldn’t help feeling that something else drove his fascination with me. So bent on saving me, as if a guilt much older than the past year propelled him. There were too many similarities to ignore. His sister was a prostitute with Henri; so was I. His sister was blonde; so was I—well, usually. Now my hair was dyed brown, and to his credit, that didn’t seem to slow him down. But maybe the strongest sign was that his sister had paved her own road to destruction…just like me. A decade younger. The do over.
“It wasn’t your fault. I brought this on myself. This gunshot. My entire life.” More softly, “I’m not your sister.”
“I…I think I know that,” he said drily. “Considering what we just did? Yeah, I’m pretty sure.”
“I don’t mean literally.”
“I know what you meant.” He spoke in a low, almost teasing tone. “You aren’t trying to diminish me, are you? By taking away my choice?”
I laughed, recognizing my words from last night. Then, I had been self-righteous and defensive, aggressive and fearful, but now… “God, no.”
He continued. “Because I seem to remember you telling me that no matter what had happened in the past, you could choose your present. No matter how broken you were, it didn’t take away your right to consent. It seems only fair I should get the same treatment.”
“You are very pleased with yourself right about now, aren’t you?”
“Very. But that probably has more to do with the two amazing orgasms I just had.”
The trill of a cell phone sounded from the kitchen. An echoing alarm rang in my chest. It was happening, dissolving in my hands, and nothing I could do would stop it.
“I’ve got to check that.” He ducked into the bathroom and emerged, slinging on his clothes. “There might be news on Henri.”
“What if there is?” I sat up, pulling the sheet to cover me.
“Then we’ve got to get over there. I do, anyway. You can stay here.”
I frowned. “You’re not going without me.”
He made an impatient motion as the phone abruptly cut off, probably going to voice mail. “We can figure that out later.”
“That means you can tell me no later. I’m going.”
“Look, for all I know, it’s a wrong number,” he said, though that seemed more unlikely as the phone rang a second time. He gave me a curious look. “What’s wrong, Shelly?”
Everything. “I’m just trying to figure out if that was our last time, that’s all. If we go back to Chicago and confront Henri, then what? Will I go back to being your informant? Or not even that? Will you call me and leave voice mails about how your day went? Just tell me where we’ll stand.”
A frustrated sound left his throat. “I don’t know, but if we don’t find Henri soon, we’re all fucked. That has to be our first priority.”
Priorities, responsibilities. There was Claire and the shelter. So many girls who needed help, when our failure was all but guaranteed.
“Why can’t we just stay here?” I heard the pleading in my voice and hated it. I knew it was unreasonable, but we were flying here. Almost delirious with weightlessness, I would rather burn up in the sun than fall in the grit of the earth. “You said that it’s safe. Undetectable. Why do we need to go back?”
“And never leave?” The doubt in his voice conveyed just how ridiculous that idea was.
“I don’t need anyone but you.”
His face softened. “I understand it’s scary. But this is the best way for everyone. What about Ella?” He paused. “And I thought you understood. This is my best chance to find out what happened to my sister.”
Tightness formed in my chest, one I recognized well. The disgrace of selfishness, the feeling of inevitability. Like staring out the window, looking over the houses of my friends, feeling cold hands lift my skirt. I couldn’t stop any of this. Once upon a time, I had tried to escape my fate. To my eternal shame, I had been willing to use my friends as an excuse. I had pretended to help Allie so that I could be free. Here I was, years later, doing the same thing, desperate to stay with Luke at his expense.
I swallowed. “I know where Henri is.”
“Right. We’ll find him and—What?”
“Or at least a clue. The girl in the bathroom said he was in a building called the Barracks. It might be an old airport just outside Chicago.”
He blinked. “You’re just now telling me this?”
“I’m
sorry.”
“Christ, Shelly. I don’t need an apology.” The anger in his voice made me wince. “Tell me why.”
I’m a coward. I angled my head, looking up beneath my lashes. “I wanted to spend a little more time with you.”
He made a slashing motion, green eyes flashing. “I told you not to play the hooker with me.”
“Don’t play the hooker? This isn’t a game, Luke. It’s who I am. Don’t you get that? I can’t stop being one any more than I can cut away my skin.”
His harsh breaths filled the space between us.
I liked to think he understood all the things I couldn’t say. I liked to think he felt it too, the melodious tumble of locks fitting together that happened whenever we came close. From our professions to our backgrounds, everything conspired to keep us apart. But from the moment we’d met, all I could think about was being together.
The shrill tone of his phone broke the spell. He turned and left the room.
Naked on the bed. How many times had I found myself this way?
I was tired of it, so weary of being used and discarded. It was my own fault for flying so close to the sun. Maybe this was what Allie had been trying to protect me from. I lay in bed alone, listening to him make plans without me, the low sound of his voice was a cold and somber lullaby.
Thank You
Thank you for reading Dirty! I hope you enjoyed Luke and Shelly’s story. The situation gets very dark in the final installment—Secret is available now.
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“Emotional, angsty, and just enough suspense to keep you hooked to the very end.”
~ Smexy Books
Click here to read the final book in Shelly and Luke’s story!
Other Books by Skye Warren
Standalone Dark Romance
Wanderlust
On the Way Home
His for Christmas
Hear Me
Take the Heat
Stripped series
Tough Love (prequel)
Love the Way You Lie
Better When It Hurts
Pretty When You Cry
Chicago Underground series
Rough
Hard
Fierce
Wild
Dirty
Secret
Criminals and Captives series
Prisoner
Dark Nights series
Keep Me Safe
Trust in Me
Don’t Let Go
Dark Nights Boxed Set
The Beauty series
Beauty Touched the Beast
Beneath the Beauty
Broken Beauty
Beauty Becomes You
The Beauty Series Compilation
Loving the Beauty: A Beauty Epilogue
About the Author
Skye Warren is the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author of dark romance. Her books are raw, sexual and perversely romantic.
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Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. Except for use in a review, the reproduction or use of this work in any part is forbidden without the express written permission of the author.
Dirty © 2015 by Skye Warren
Smashwords Edition
Previously in Selling Out © 2012 Amber Lin
Cover design by Book Beautiful
Formatting by BB Ebooks
Edited by Ann Curtis
Table of Contents
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Thank You
Other Books by Skye Warren
About the Author
Copyright