by K. L. Savage
“No man has ever held up a promise to me.” I take another step away and bolt to the front door. I have no idea where I’m going, but my path will lead me somewhere. Aidan needs me. I have to think about Cohen, the steps he takes, the places he goes. I have to think like a lying, conniving snake.
It’s the only way I’ll ever be able to find Aidan.
As I open the door and let the sun in, a pair of arms wrap around me, stopping me from leaving. I see the familiar devil on the top of the hand, and I know it’s Skirt. I kick and scream, punch and shout, “Let me go! Let me fucking go!” I wiggle, putting as much force as I can into my body, bowing my back, but Skirt’s hold is too tight.
“Ye aren’t going anywhere all pissed off. Ye won’t get anything done that way.” His mouth is against my ear, and he whispers, “Calm down, Lips. I swear, I’ll find ye son if that’s the last thing I ever do on this earth, but ye got to give me a chance.”
My body sags against him, the fight once again draining me from as I fall limp in his arms. Suddenly, I’m swung in the air, and Skirt holds my head against his chest, blocking my eyes from everyone staring at me as I silently weep into his chest. I feel like such a burden. My soul is heavy. Without Aidan, I don’t think I’ll ever learn how to breathe again.
I’m not sure where Skirt is taking me, but I’m going to trust him. I have no one else here I can trust. I may as well try my luck with the nicest guy of the group that calls themselves ruthless. Not Ruthless enough to find my son, though.
We seem to walk forever. His boots pound against the floor, and then a door opens and the sun heats my skin; the warmth feels good, comforting, but not as comforting as Skirt’s embrace. He isn’t supposed to have this effect on me. No man can have this kind of hold over a woman so quick. I’ve made that mistake once, and I can’t afford the lack of judgment again.
The familiar feeling of rising with every step jars me, and that’s how I know Skirt is going up a set of steps. An awning of shade blocks the sun, stopping the scorch of light from burning my skin in such a short distance from the clubhouse to wherever we are going.
A long creak squeaks as Skirt opens another door. The air dries the sheen of sweat on my flesh, and something soft is under me in the next second. I wipe my eyes and look around. I’m in a cabin sitting on a black leather sofa. Logs make up home instead of plain drywall. No pictures hang, nothing personal.
There’s a TV on the wall, big and wide, set on a glass stand. There’s a wooden coffee table than has yet to be stained, and I wonder if Skirt made it. It looks handmade, but people can buy things like that left and right these days. I sniffle, wiping my cheeks again when Skirt lays a blanket over me.
“Thank you,” I say in a small, weak voice.
“Aye,” he answers and tucks the blanket around my body. He’s close, and my eyes catch his as something quickly passes between us, but then he pulls away and clears his throat. “I’m going to pour myself a drink. Ye want one?”
“Yeah. What do you have?”
“Just whiskey, babe. It’s all a man needs,” he says.
There’s a mini bar on the far side of the wall, and the shelves are full of different whiskeys. He gathers two scotch glasses from under the bar and adds a square chunk of ice into each. I watch as he scans the shelves, deciding which whiskey will do for the day when he finally plucks one off the shelf and pours until each glass is nearly full.
Christ. I can’t drink all that. I’ll be drunk.
That sounds good right about now, anyway.
Skirt carries two glasses in his hand and sets them on the coffee table, then plops on the couch next to me. He stretches his defined arm over the back of the couch and sips the amber whiskey down his throat. His skin is pale, but with the freckles and tattoos, it seems darker than what it really is.
He sighs in contentment and leans his head back against the couch, closing his eyes. I reach for my drink and take a large swallow.
Bad choice. Horrible choice. It burns. My eyes are watering for another reason now. I can barely gulp it down my throat before I’m coughing. My nose is burning, and I want to gag. This shit is disgusting.
“Shite, Lips! Ye can’t drink it like that. This stuff will grow hair on ye chest.” Skirt pats my back as he stares at me, a slight twinge of a smile on his lips.
“I know. I can feel the hairs spurting from my skin.” I cough so hard I think I’m about to lose a lung. Forgetting it’s whiskey in my hand, I take another sip to clear my throat, but all the harsh liquor does is burn my airway. “Shit, I forgot.”
“Ye crazy. How can ye forget?” He takes the drink from me and sets it on the coffee table. “Yer something else, ain’t ye?” he asks, his sky blue eyes lock onto mine, and his thumb wipes my cheek. He seems to do that a lot. Always wiping my tears away. He’s the only man that ever has.
Besides my son.
“Aidan,” I say with a brokenness I’ve never heard from myself.
“I know,” Skirt says. “I’m fucking sorry, but I’m telling ye right now…” His hands lay on either side of my face, his touch so gentle my bruises can’t even feel him “I’m going to find him. I’ll make it my personal mission. Okay? He won’t take Aidan away from ye like he did my brother.”
I know he means Cohen. It sounds like he doesn’t even like saying his name. I don’t blame him. Cohen brings death and destruction wherever he goes, and Skirt has experienced it firsthand just like I have.
We’re connected that way. I’ve never connected with anyone so effortlessly before.
“You can’t promise that,” I say, looking away from the intense gaze.
“I can promise that. I know ye aren’t used to men holding up their end of the bargain, but I’m not most men. I’ll fight, okay? I’m used to fighting.”
“Me too,” I whisper, reaching for the glass of whiskey again and wrap my fingers around it. I bring it to my lips and take a few deep swallows. This turmoil is rushing inside me, an intricate web of pain and worry.
I’m doing my best to keep my emotion in check, but not knowing where my son is, is going to make me become unhinged. My hands are quaking, and the ice is clattering against the sides of the glass as I bring it to my mouth. It’s disgusting, but I guzzle it down, just like an empty tank needing gasoline to get me to where I need to go.
And hopefully this whiskey makes my eyes close and takes me to a world where my son is in my arms again.
Another sob breaks free, and the whiskey spews from the glass onto my face. Skirt takes the drink from me, it’s almost empty, but the tears just won’t fucking stop. “I can’t … I can’t control it,” I say, thinking of Aidan’s sweet face, crying out for me, needing me. It tears me apart. If I wouldn’t have pissed off Cohen, I would be with Aidan right now.
“Don’t cry, Lips. Ye making me feel helpless; I don’t know how to make this better.”
“What if … what if he’s dead, Skirt?”
“Nay, ye can’t think like that, Dawn. Ye can’t. Come here,” he says, laying his hand on the back of my head as he pulls me against him again. “Ye’d feel it.” His hand falls over my chest, right where my heart thumps, and he pats it. “Ye’d feel it right here if he were really gone. I knew. When my brother died. I knew he was never coming out of that ring again.” Skirt’s hands fall to my side, the strong fingers digging into the dip of my waist, and his nose brushes down my cheek. He exhales hot air, and the scent of whiskey never smelled so good before.
I’m not scared of how he looks at me or even how he’s seeing me right now. With Cohen, if I cried, he’d give me another reason to cry about it. Skirt isn’t like that. He’s kind; I can sense it. He’s good in a world of bad, and that says a lot since there is a lot of bad out there.
I lick my lips as his eyes flicker to my mouth, and I hold my breath. I stopped crying a few second ago, but a wayward tear falls out of the corner of my eye. “I hate seeing ye cry,” he admits, brushing his beard against my cheek and in doing so, he cleans
away the tear.
His soft pants tickle the shell of my ear as he debates something inside himself. His hands fist my shirt. “I hate it so fucking much.” He tilts my head back and doesn’t think about it for another second; he steals my mouth in a brazen kiss that takes my breath away, along with my ability to think.
Skirt’s mouth on mine takes away all my worries. He transcends me to another place in time, a place where nothing and no one can harm me. The softness of his lips are a contradiction with how rough he kisses. His tongue dives between my lips and licks over mine. He groans alongside my whimper when I realize how different the bourbon tastes coming from his mouth.
He leans me back and settles between my legs. The hot steel of his cock presses against the apex of my thighs, and my body surges with arousal, something I haven’t felt in years. My fingers claw at his back, wanting more of him; knowing I shouldn’t want him, but I can’t stop it.
My nipples are tight, and his hands are around my waist instead of plucking the tight beads like I want him to.
“Fuck!” he yells, ripping his mouth away from mine. He pushes off the couch, leaving me breathless and dizzy. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. I just took advantage of ye. Yer all sad and shit, and I just couldn’t stand to see ye cry. Ye fucking my eyes with ye lips. Fuck!” He paces and pulls at his hair. He looks like a fighter prowling the cage, waiting for his opponent to strike. The dried blood on his face doesn’t help matters any. He looks reckless, carnal, ready to kill, but when he sets those dangerous eyes on me, fear is the last thing I feel from him.
He wants me.
“Damn it!” he yells, grabs his cock to readjust it, then stomps away from me, slamming the door to the bathroom.
I hear the water of the shower turn on, and I’m left with my mind reeling. What the hell just happened? My lips tingle from our kiss, and my mind is numb. I can hardly string a complete thought together. I never felt anything like that when I kissed Cohen. This was different.
It can’t happen again.
My focus has to be on finding my son and getting out of Vegas. No matter how tempting Skirt is with his bad boy looks and his possessive charm, falling for another fighter won’t get me anywhere good in life. My son deserves the best, and being with a man who enjoys hitting flesh? It’s too much for me to handle.
What kind of mother am I to give into temptation and kiss Skirt when Aidan is missing? I cover my face with my hands and turn over to my side, letting the darkness wash over me as a welcoming cloak. I deserve the misery I feel right now. Thinking with lust instead of my brain isn’t going to get my son back.
Whatever is building between me and the sexy Scotsman, cannot happen. He’s a fighter. I’m a mother. The two don’t get hand in hand. Fighters fight for greed. Mothers fight for love. Last time I checked, greed and love only forms hate.
I’ve experienced enough hate to last a lifetime.
Skirt’s different, the voice in the back of my head pipes up out of nowhere.
I don’t care how different he is. No amount of difference can change the fact that he’s in a dangerous MC, has women walking around half-naked ready to suck cock, and he throws his fist for a living. None of that screams that this is a safe environment for Aidan.
It’s settled.
When Aidan is back in my arms, we’re putting our fighting ways behind us.
Chapter Eight
SKIRT
My cock is hard as a rock, and my balls are pulled tight to my body thinking about her lips against mine. Fuck, I’ve never had a kiss like that in my life. I’ve never felt so much desire that if I didn’t stick my cock inside her and feel her heat, I’d explode right out of my skin. It’s that feeling I’ve been waiting for.
So long now, I thought something was just fucking wrong with me because I never wanted to fuck, but now it all makes sense. It’s Lips I’ve been waiting for, and fuck if those lips didn’t taste as good as I thought they would.
I groan as I wrap my palm around my cock and stroke myself. I lean my head against the tile, letting the rush of water fall down my body, heating my skin along with the lust in my veins.
The drain gurgles as light pink water rushes down the pipe, the dried blood finally coming off my body. I pay no mind to it. I watch my cock slide in and out of my palm, wishing it was Dawn’s fucking tight cunt I was sliding into.
For the first time.
I slam my fist against the wall as I imagine how her pussy feels all wet and soft, like fucking velvet squeezing me as I fuck her. “Fuck me…” I reach down and pinch the space between my arsehole and balls. My taint is fucking sensitive. I’ve had a lot of time to explore what gets me off and what doesn’t, and the rougher I am with myself, the quicker I come.
What if Dawn likes that too? What if she likes being slammed against the wall, hand wrapped around her throat, and my cock driving into her sheath without protection? If I asked her to fight against me, would she?
“Fuck, I’m a sick bastard.” I don’t have a rape fantasy or anything. It’s hard to explain. I want her to shove my chest, slap me in the face, and ask me to fuck her harder.
I hiss when I twist my sack and fuck my cock simultaneously. The water rushes over my face as I lean back, picturing her hot mouth sucking each swollen orb between her lips before she licks my taint. Fuck, I want to. I want to come all over her face, paint it fucking white with my seed, then wipe my fingers through it and make her swallow every single drop.
My fist hits the side of the shower as I come. I jerk myself through my orgasm, wanting that sensitivity to stop me from touching myself, but I keep going. I always do. “Dawn,” her name falls from my lips in a soft whine. Thick jets leave my cock as I point my shaft where the drain is so I don’t have to clean up.
By the time I’m done, my cock is still rock hard, and I only feel more on edge. Not even a fight will help this feeling.
No matter how much I want Dawn, no matter how much I want to prove to myself that I can show her love, I’m starting to realize that maybe I can’t. She deserves better than a guy like me, a fighter, a better life what I can give her with the club. Not everyone can handle it, and with what she has been through with Cohen, she shouldn’t have to. She needs to be happy without any pain in her life.
I need a cut-slut. That’s what I need.
I turn off the water and dry off with a towel, my cock tenting the damn thing. I just had the longest, most intense orgasm of my life, and the fucker wants more. All because of Dawn. It’s her fault I’m suddenly like this. Her big fucking green eyes, strawberry blonde hair, her cock-sucking lips that have the perfect shape to them.
She’ll wreck me, and I’ll let her.
I’m good at giving people what they need from me, but I never get what I need in return.
She has to stay away from me.
Steam swirls out into the living room as I open the bathroom door, almost blocking my view of the lone figure on the couch. She’s asleep. Good. She needs the rest. With my hand gripping the side of the towel, I enter my bedroom, I designed it with me in mind. High ceilings, big bed, and walk-in closet. I whip off my towel and toss it on the floor, then walk to my closet butt fucking naked, my cock swinging as I go.
I have two rows of kilts.
And I find myself not reaching for one. It’s the first time in years, but I need something else today. I need to be someone else today, so I reach for the only pair of jeans I own. They are black, worn, old as fucking dirt with the knees torn. I put them on, leave my hair in a wet mess, and slide on my cut.
My reflection catches my eye and I hardly recognize myself. No wonder my brother hated jeans. My balls can’t breathe. I comb my beard out and walk out of my room, grab the bottle of whiskey, and take one last look at the woman who has dug up emotions I thought were buried; emotions I never thought I’d feel again.
I run out the door, lock it behind me, and take a deep breath of the dusty Vegas air. Fuck, it’s so much better out here than i
t is in there. It’s stuffy, with awkward sexual tension, and I need to get my head on straight. My boots scuff along the dirt, and I bring the bottle of whiskey to my lips, smiling when I think about Dawn taking a big swig of it.
She can’t handle whiskey, but she sure did try.
No, fuck. I can’t be thinking of her. She deserves better than me, and I’m not going to give up my revenge so she can sleep tight at night. Fuck that. No woman is going to come in and change my plan. Not one fucking woman.
Before I know it, I’m passing the bikes and climbing up the steps to the front door. When I walk through, all heads turn to me. Every single mouth is open. Except Pirate. He’s drinking and he starts laughing, pointing his finger at me. “Holy Shit. The Skirt has went and found himself a pair of pants.”
“You feeling okay, Skirt?” Reaper asks from the bar, taking a swig of beer.
“I’m fine,” I grunt. I’m here for one thing and one thing only. To get off and hopefully I can feel better about my decision to leave Dawn alone. I scan the room for any cut-slut who gets my attention, but none of them are ringing my fucking bell like Dawn does. They don’t even compare.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in pants,” Tongue says while he looks at the TV, ankles crossed over his knee while Candy tries to get his attention by rubbing her tits on his face. He isn’t interested. I’m not either. Fake tits have always been a turn-off for me.
“Well, welcome to the fucking show. I should charge ye assholes for staring at me like this.” It’s not a big deal. They’re just fucking pants. There is no significance. People need to leave it alone and drop it.
“I like the show,” Jasmine, one of the sluts, purrs as she nestles her body against mine. She isn’t bad. She has long dark hair, brown eyes, and a set of tits on her that would make Pamela Anderson jealous. She’ll do.
“Ye want to show me how much ye like it?” I ask, backing her up until she hits the pool table. Her legs wrap around my waist, and she lets out a breathy laugh as she rocks her pussy against my cock.