Skirt (Ruthless Kings MC #5) - K.L. Savage Page 0,32

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