by K. L. Savage
“The brother of a famous UFC champion in my ring? Word gets around. Bets are high. Come.” He throws his arm around my shoulder and gives my neck a slight rub. “Ha! This is going to be a great friendship. I am excited! This is good. Real good.” Maximo tosses his head back and laughs, keeping his arm around me as if I’m a prize.
The casino looks completely different than it did the other day. The carpet is ripped up and has been replaced with gold tile. Maybe Reaper is right; maybe this guy is okay because apparently the hotel is being renovated.
Maximo and I get on the elevator, and he presses a button that takes us down. He slides a card in, and the yellow light on the panel turns red and then something below the B signaling the basement tells me we’re going to a place under that.
Shite. That’s not good. That’s some secret shit.
“Who am I fighting?”
“Eh, some guy from the East side. You can take him down in no time. I want a quick takedown, no questions, no fucking around. In a few weeks, I’ll set you up a big fight. The one that matters to you.”
I grip him by the shirt collar and slam him against the side of the elevator and then press the emergency stop button. “How the fuck do ye know what matters to me?”
He flashes a wolfish grin at me, not bothered that I have him pinned against the elevator. His goons behind us pull out their guns, and I feel one on either side of my temples. “Ah, ah, ah, it’s fine. Lower your weapons,” he orders, and in the next second the metal is gone. “I’ve done some research on you. Rohan Blackwood, the brother of the famous Conor Blackwood, who died fighting Cohen O’Roarke.”
“Don’t ye fucking dare act like ye know anything about that.” I shove him then let him go, and he straightens out his shirt, smoothing the wrinkles of the expensive black material.
“I can give you the chance to get the revenge you want. You know you can’t get that in the real world, Skirt. I can get that for you.”
My heart is a raging jackhammer. The urge for blood and vengeance has my ears ringing. When the elevator doors slide open, Skirt is nothing but a myth, and Rohan takes over me, ready to be a legend.
“This is your chance.” Maximo guides me forward, and the cage around the hexagon shines. “Win tonight, never lose, and you can take home a nice payment to you and your club. Maybe get your pretty lady something pretty, huh?”
How the fuck does he know about her?
He chuckles in a way that tells me he knows everything. “Win and let the Ruthless and the Moretti name be allies.”
I hold out my hand, knowing Maximo sounds too good to be true. When something sounds too good to be true, it usually is, and that’s how you know a deal with the devil has been made.
And the only way out, is death.
Chapter Eleven
DAWN
“Mommy!” Aidan cries for me in the dark, but I can’t find him.
I spin around in circles, searching the abyss of black around me, but I can’t see him. “Aidan, baby, where are you? Call out to me. I’m here!” I hold my arms out to reach for anything in my way. It’s too dark. I can’t see anything! “Aidan, please. Call out for me.”
“Mommy, I’m scared.”
I shake my head and smile, trying to be brave through the rush of tears on my face. “There’s no need to be. I’m here. I have you now. Just come out, Aidan. Come out; let’s go home.”
I trip over something on the floor, and my shoulder smacks into the ground. I groan just as a light turns on above me and shines on the prone figure on the floor. The body is jerking, spasming, foaming at the mouth.
“Aidan!” I cry and crawl over to him, holding his tiny, fragile body as he battles a seizure. “It’s okay. It’s okay. I got you. Mommy is here.” I pet my hand over his chestnut-colored hair and kiss the top of his head. “It will be over soon.”
And then he’s gone.
Now, I’m laying in a field. It’s green. “Aidan?” I search, but I don’t hear him. “Aidan!” my voice echoes through the empty space. Nothing is here. It’s just me. All alone.
Until I see something up ahead; it’s small. “Aidan?” I whisper to myself as I take a step forward. I’m barefoot. The grass is wet and soft, my toes sink into the mud, and it starts to rain. I run, but I’m not getting anywhere. The figure ahead is out of reach.
I slip and fall into a giant puddle. Mud ruins my white gown. I push myself up, gripping the earth, and worms wiggle and slither all over my hands. I flick them away with a disgusting shout, and that’s when I see the headstone.
Crawling on my hands and knees, the headstone is small, square, and made of simple marble. There’s a message engraved on the stone. I wipe the water out of my face, only to cake mud on my cheeks and read:
Aidan West.
Mommy let me die.
“No!” I scream at the top of my lungs as my soul is ripped from my body. “Aidan!” My hands dig into the dirt, like a dog digging for a bone, and I scoop the mud out and toss it away, only for the surface of the grave to be replaced. I’m sweating, burning with grief, but no matter how hard I dig, no matter how tight I grip the ground covering my baby, I get nowhere.
A hand shoots up from the grave, wrapping around my wrist, and suddenly the mud disappears, and Aidan’s face comes to view.
“You killed me, Mommy.”
“No. No! I would never, baby.”
“You left me with him.”
And then he’s gone, and a hand wraps around my throat and throws me in my own grave.
“I’m going to kill you just like I killed that bastard child that wasn’t mine.” Cohen stands above me with a shovel and begins to bury me alive. Dirt covers my face and gets into my mouth. I can’t breathe. The mud clogs my throat, my lungs are being filled with soil, and the harder I fight, the further I sink into the ground.
I open my mouth to scream.
“Woah, hey! I got ye. It’s okay.”
I’m lifted into a strong pair of comforting arms and I scrub my tongue with my fingers to get the dirt out of my mouth. I can’t breathe. Oh God. Aidan. I wail and crawl into Skirt’s lap, burying my face into his neck as I inhale the musky scent of sweat, leather, smoke, and blood.
“It’s okay, Lips. Yer safe. I’m not going to let anything happen to ye.”
“He’s dead. He’s dead. I know it. He’s dead. Skirt, oh God. I can’t—I can’t do this anymore. I need to find him.” I lean away from Skirt and place my fist to my chest. “I’m dying every day without him. There’s this weight on my chest, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t lift it. I’m afraid we aren’t ever going to find him.”
“We are going to find him. I promise, Dawn. I’m going to bring yer little boy back to ye. Yer here under my protection, the Ruthless Kings protection, and we will never settle for a child missing. I might have a lead.”
I lift my eyes from the red spot on his chest—blood—and meet his eyes. His cheek is swollen, and that’s the only mark on him that gives away that he’s just been in a fight. “What? Really? Tell me. I need to know!”
“The fighting I’m doing. The man says he can get me a fight with Cohen. If I can find Cohen, I’ll get Aidan. That I promise ye.” His forehead presses against mine, and the feel of him, his comfort, his power, his willingness to put his life on the line to get Aidan, erases the horrible dream I just had. I lay my cheek on his shoulder and rub my fingers down his back.
He’s so different than any man I’ve ever met. Skirt is rough around the edges, but he’s soft where it counts. His heart. He might not want to admit it, but I know. Skirt is willing to open up and let anyone he wants inside. He will give his all, even if it means he gets nothing in return.
“Thank you.” I kiss along his collarbone, relieved I have an answer of some sorts. It’s not much. Skirt might not be able to get a fight with Cohen, but there’s a chance. There’s hope. Something I didn’t have an hour ago.
“Love the feel of yer lips on me,” he mutters. “I mean. Yer welcome.
I’ll always do what I can,” he corrects himself, and his body tenses from letting the truth slip.
I peer up at him from his chest, seeing the man beneath the bruises. He’s the man who turns on a light when I’m screaming in darkness. “If you love them so much, why did you leave the way you did yesterday?”
“We don’t have to talk about that right now,” he says, pushing me off his lap so I’m laying on the bed. I miss sitting on his lap with my legs wrapped around him and my cheek against his chest to feel his warrior heart drumming. “Ye just had a bad dream. I wanted to make sure ye were okay. I’m going to shower. I have the blood of ten different men on me.” He places his lips on my forehead before rolling off the bed.
He confuses me. Skirt is hot and cold. One minute, I know he wants me, and the next he’s fighting me just like he fights the men in the ring. I exhale. Why do I bother trying to get his attention when I didn’t even want it to begin with?
He stretches his arms over his head, and my eyes follow the muscles. He has a few scratches, but nothing serious. I bet he is a beast in the cage. When he turns around, his arms fall to his sides, and I see the tears in his knuckles. I scurry onto my knees and reach out for his hand. They’re black and blue. “Skirt, what did you do? What happened?”
“The kind of fighting I do, there’s no rules. Each person gets a weapon.”
I swallow and hover my fingers across the beaten skin. “And what is yours?”
“Brass knuckles. I’m used to it; don’t worry about me.” His hand slips away from mine as he walks out the door, leaving me alone with the lingering dread of my nightmare and confusion for the redheaded man.
The shower turns on, and I imagine him all wet and nude. Oh, I bet he looks good naked. A man like that can’t not look good in the buff. I close my eyes and imagine red hair all over his body, legs, ass, and a red bush above his cock.
I’ve always loved a man with hair. Men always shave these days, and if I want to feel a soft body, I’ll touch my own.
“The hell with this,” I toss the blanket off the bed and slip my nightgown off until it’s around my feet. I step out of it and throw my shoulders back. I’m done pussyfooting around whatever is happening between Skirt and me. It’s either he wants me or he doesn’t, and by the hard ridge of his cock always pressing between my legs, I’m going with the first option.
I saunter out of the bedroom, the air cool as it breezes across my nipples, making them tight. I swallow my nerves, my belly tightens, and I lay my ear against the door to listen. I hear him moan, then curse, and the ache between my legs grows to the point where I’m reaching down and touching myself, slipping my fingers through my folds.
Steam bleeds from under the door, warming my cold feet. With a deep breath, I grab the handle and turn, swinging the door open to the bathroom.
The bathroom is huge. A chapel-style ceiling, a silver basin for a tub to the left that can sit four people, and a walk-in shower that’s made of stone and glass. I can see his body through the fog, a slight outline of his built structure. His head his bent, and his moans parrot off the walls, the acoustics of the room singing me a beautiful song.
“Dawn,” my name falls from his lips in passion.
I slink into the stall with him, shutting the door behind me. He hasn’t even noticed me yet. His head is still hanging between his shoulders, water is cascading around his strong body in a rush, and his arm is moving fast as he fucks himself.
This is it. There’s no turning back now.
I reach out my hand and place it on his shoulder, then glide my palm down the arm that’s moving while he touches himself. He tenses, and I wait for him to yell at me, to get the hell out of the bathroom, but he doesn’t. Skirt lets me wrap my hand around the hand that’s holding his cock, and I help him stroke himself.
“What are ye doing to me?” he asks, and then his body shudders when I grip him tight.
“I’m giving us what we both want,” I whisper into his ear, nibbling down his neck. I lick down his spine, drinking the water off his skin. “Do you want me to stop?”
Skirt leans his hands against the wall to brace himself, and he shakes his head, his red hair soaked to his skull. “I never want ye to stop, Lips. I love ye touch. I can’t get enough of it.”
“Then stop running from me.” I unwrap my hand from his shaft and grab his heavy orbs instead, palming them and giving them a slight twist. He arches his back and tenses the muscles in his shoulders. I’ve yet to see his cock, but by the weight and length of it, he feels big.
I dive deeper and rub the skin under his sack, and he shouts in pleasure. It’s the most erotic noise I’ve ever heard. He spins around, and the move has his cock slipping from my grip. His hands are on my ass, gripping tight, and lifts me in the air until my back is against the drenched wall, and his cock is aligned with my entrance.
My legs cross behind his back to get leverage, and his palms move from my ass. He caresses my ribcage and then he kneads my mounds, pinching my nipples as he explores me. All I can hear is the water splashing against the floor, and all I feel is the pulse between my legs. I need this. I need to feel him.
I want to feel good. It’s been too long since a man has taken his time to get to know my body, and I need this, with Skirt. I know my life will change the moment he enters me.
And I welcome change.
It’s better than the shitshow that’s become my life.
I have a feeling Skirt is the answer to the sadistic suffering of my soul.
“Is this what ye want?” He squeezes my tits so hard. I whimper when the skin turns white from his grip. “Ye want my cock in this tight cunt? Fucking ye? Pouring my cum inside?”
I shove at his chest, and his hands pin my arms above my head. The water is falling on both of us now, and his sky blue eyes latch onto me from the sheet of water between us. He has a hunter’s stare, the kind that tells me he loves a chase if given the chance. I bring my legs up and kick his body away from mine, but it only buys me a few steps of space. His fingers are still around my wrists and he uses the opportunity to turn me around and presses me against the wall.
Skirt’s hand smacks against my ass as he rocks his cock between the crease of my cheeks. “So fucking spirited. I like that. Ye fucking call to me in ways I didn’t think were possible.” His free hand drifts down my back, and his index finger probs my puckered hole. I gasp when he inserts his finger to the hilt, no lube, no gentle caress—nothing. It burns. His knuckles press against the globes of my ass, and I moan when he curls the digit inside me.
I love unnecessary roughness.
“Ye so fucking tight here. Ye like that, don’t ye? Getting fucked in every hole.”
“Fuck you,” I spit, thrusting myself onto his finger, wanting and needing more.
His other hand buries in my hair and yanks my head back until the water is spewing in my face, and I’m choking on it. “Ye’d like that wouldn’t ye? Ye’d like to fuck me.” He shoves my head back against the wall, The position gives me the opportunity to turn my head to the left, allowing me to breathe. I gasp, choking from the water, as he spins me around again, pulling his finger from my asshole.
Our eyes meet, my chest heaves, and his stare falls to my mouth. He leans in to give me a kiss, but I rear back and slap him across the face.
I’m not sure what comes over me. I feel alive. I want do it again.
He freezes, reaches up and rubs a hand on his cheek. He closes his eyes and lets out a deep groan, and that’s when I feel something hot and sticky landing on my stomach. My eyes round when I see thick streams of cum jetting from his fat cock.
Skirt’s eyes spring open, and I swear a different man is staring down at me. He pulls my hair and yanks our bodies close, sliding his fingers through his cum dripping down my stomach. He gathers it on his fingers and shoves them into my mouth. “Clean up the mess ye fucking made,” he demands, and I eagerly suck the cream off his skin. “Look at ye, hungry for my cum. Such a pretty sight.”
I love his praise.
I’ll be his fucking chapel if he allows me, and I’ll always to do my best to satisfy his needs. I’ll be the only religion he will ever need.
He turns off the water and yanks his fingers from my mouth. I’m about to ask what I did wrong, but he lifts me into his arms and carries me out of the shower stall and to his room. My skin turns cold from the sudden change in temperature, and he lifts me higher to suck a nipple into his mouth. My head flies back, and I arch into his rough suction. I want his mark. I want him to do anything and everything he wants to me.
When we get to his room, he throws me in the air onto his bed, wet and all. His cock is erect, arching over his belly button as he struts to me. Skirt knee-walks on the bed, causing the mattress to dip, and my tenacity vanishes as nerves wrack through me. What if he doesn’t like me? What if I’m not good in bed?
I honestly don’t know. Cohen never let me be active while we had sex.
I swallow when Skirt pushes his way between my legs. He falls over me, caging my head between his arms, and he bends down, kissing me softly. The rough foreplay is over. He’s shaking just as I am.
He doesn’t ask if I want it—he knows. He guides his cock between my sheath and sinks into my channel as slow as he can. “Oh, fuck. So good. So tight,” he says on a held breath.
Whimpering, I claw at his back and pinch my eyes shut as he stretches me. He’s way bigger than Cohen. I can hardly handle it.
“Tell me what to do.” Skirt immerses his face into my neck and gives me soft kisses along my jugular vein.
“You’re doing it,” I tell him, moaning when he begins to move.
“No, tell me what ye like. I—I—fuck—yer my first. I want to make ye feel good, Lips. I want to be the best ye’ve ever had.”
To say I’m stunned is an understatement. A man like Skirt, a virgin? It’s impossible, but when he pulls back and flashes vulnerability and uncertainty through his eyes, I know he’s telling the truth.
“You already are, Rohan.” I lift my head up to take his mouth in a kiss.
