Skirt (Ruthless Kings MC #5) - K.L. Savage Page 0,46
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