Fighting Dirty

  Dirty 4

  Fighting Dirty

  by Cheryl McIntyre

  Table of Contents

  One Link

  Two Rocky

  Three Link

  Four Rocky

  Five Link

  Six Rocky

  Seven Link

  Eight Rocky

  Nine Link

  Ten Rocky

  Eleven Link

  Twelve Rocky

  Thirteen Link

  Acknowledgements

  Other books by Cheryl

  One

  Link

  “Why do you have a picture of the cowboy that attacked me?”

  At first I think I misunderstood her. At first, I think Rocky must have asked why I have a picture of the people that attacked Olivia—of the people that attacked me. But how could she know that? And then I realize she said “cowboy.”

  Time slows until it’s standing still. It must be because neither one of us is moving. We’re not speaking. We’re not breathing. My heart has even ceased beating. I’m frozen to the core as her words finally sink in.

  Why do you have a picture of the cowboy that attacked me?

  My limbs feel heavy, weighted with adrenaline as I reach for the photo. Her eyes move from the picture, still in her hand, to my face. They flick over my features quickly, searching for answers. I can only imagine what she sees.

  “Which one?” I croak. “Which one attacked you?”

  “Why do you have this?” she demands, her voice rising—not in volume, but in pitch, portraying her surprise and uncertainty. “How do you know him?”

  I clamp my jaw down tightly, my teeth aching from the force. I can feel the muscles in my cheeks throb. I don’t want to be associated with these men. I don’t want to be lumped into the same group. She thinks I’m friends with these people and just the idea makes me sick to my stomach. I’m physically ill over the thought.

  I drop my hand when she takes an unsure step back, not giving up the photo. Her gaze falls once again, staring down at the old, faded picture, and she shakes her head slowly as if in disbelief. I can see the suspicion—the distrust—suddenly brewing in her mind. Above everything else, I think this disturbs me most.

  “Those men,” I begin, my voice gruff with too many emotions. I have to clear my throat and start again. “Those men are the ones that killed Livie.”

  Rocky’s head snaps up. She stares at me, her lips parting in shock, before she peers down at the photo for the twentieth time.

  “Tell me which one attacked you,” I command. I need to know. I hope it’s Gregory Anthony. I hope Rocky will give me a reason to not care that he has a daughter and a pregnant wife. I’m praying she gives me the final push I need to end his life.

  She takes a hesitant step toward me. I watch silently as she turns the photo so I can see, and then points her index finger at the man on the end.

  Not Anthony.

  My jaw clenches, teeth grinding.

  Not Woods.

  But I knew that already.

  Not Morrison.

  I inhale a stuttered breath.

  Carter Bates.

  The only one I didn’t know until Morrison handed me the photograph. Even though he’s smiling and his arm is wrapped around his friend’s shoulder, there’s something about his eyes. A coldness. Almost emotionless. I don’t think anyone would notice it if they weren’t looking for it, but I see it.

  Maybe I just want to see it.

  “How do you have this?” Rocky asks, stirring me from my thoughts.

  “The guy I was just telling you about—the one I encouraged to kill himself—” My voice catches and I have to stop for a moment. It’s too much. It’s just too close to home.

  I lean into the couch and rub my forehead. The world is so big and somehow so small at the same time. What are the chances? I close my eyes as it really dawns on me. This man stabbed me in the back. He murdered my girlfriend. And then he tried to do it again. With another woman connected to me.

  Does he know? Does he know we’re connected? Does he know who I am like Morrison did?

  It’s too much. My thoughts are spinning out of control. I can’t focus. I can’t breathe.

  Too much.

  Too close.

  Too much.

  “Link?” I hear Rocky’s voice. I hear her say my name. “Are you okay?” But it’s distorted, garbled by the whooshing of roaring blood echoing in my eardrums. It’s like a gust of wind is scooping up her words and blowing them away. I can’t grasp them. I can’t hold onto them.

  I can’t hold on.

  How can one man be so evil? How can he continue to hurt people?

  He needs to be stopped. I need to stop him.

  I have to find him. I have to do it. I have to end this. I have to end his life before he can do it again.

  “Link.” Rocky says my name again as she crawls onto my lap. Her thighs hug mine and my hands instinctively curl around her waist drawing her closer. I clench her to me, her stomach pushed tightly against mine. I’m probably squeezing too hard, but she doesn’t complain.

  Her hands cup my cheeks and her lips brush my ear. “It’s okay. It’s okay.” She repeats over and over, her breath caressing my skin with each recurring word. It’s soothing. Reassuring. Calming.

  Addicting.

  I slowly release my grip on her waist, drawing my fingers up, under her shirt. Her skin, smooth and warm under my palms, brings me back to the now. “Do you realize how close you came?” I ask.

  She tries to pull back, but I cling to her, my fingers digging into her flesh. I need her close. I need to feel her pressed against me. I need to feel every breath she takes. I need to feel her heart racing against mine.

  I need to know she’s here. Safe.

  She’s not like Olivia.

  She won’t be like Olivia.

  Not as long as I keep her close. Keep her safe. Shield her better than I did Liv.

  “Are you sure it’s him?” Her voice is shaking. Her whole body begins to tremble. It pains me that she’s scared. But I need her to be aware. Knowledge is power. Fear is armor. If she uses both to her advantage she’ll be better protected against people like Bates.

  “I’m sure.”

  “I think I can find him,” she whispers. “I can get him alone.”

  I shake my head, burying my face in her hair. I inhale deeply, squeezing her tighter. “It’s too risky. Just tell me where to look and I’ll do the rest.”

  She’s quiet, pondering my words. I slide my fingers around to her stomach, still inside her shirt, and move up slowly until I’m just beneath her breasts.

  She turns her head, grazing her lips against my neck. My cock stirs beneath her. If ever I needed to lose myself it’s now. I lift my hands, guiding them inside her bra, and scrape my fingernails over her tightened nipples. She sucks in a breath, cooling my neck with the action. It’s all the encouragement I need.

  I wrench her t-shirt over her head and yank her bra down, revealing her perfect breasts. I lean in, wrapping my mouth around one nipple, biting down with just enough pressure to make her squirm.

  Her breath hisses between her lips and she claws at my head, forcing me closer. I’m aching for her. I want my cock glistening with her moisture as I thrust in and out of her. I want her now.

  “Can you do this?” I husk. “Can you let me inside?”

  Two

  Rocky

  The torment in his voice, full of aching hunger and desire, tightens every muscle below my waist. I want him so much it’s frightening.

  But can I let him inside?

  Inside my body.

  Inside my mind.

  I’ve already allowed him in one. I know I want him in the other. But I’m scared of where else he�
��ll invade. What other parts of myself I’ll open for him. Right now, despite my fear, I’m willing to let him take all of me. Even the pieces I haven’t used in years. It could be the heat of the moment. He has the ability to light me up like no other man has before. Or maybe it’s because I feel safe for the first time since high school. Or maybe it’s just him. His strength. His pain. His passion. His ferocity. His protectiveness.

  Maybe I actually want to give myself to him.

  “Yes,” I utter breathlessly.

  Link doesn’t waste a second. He scoops me up and lowers me onto the floor. His fingers clamp around the waist of my sleep shorts, his eyes locking on mine as he skims them down my legs and off me feet. My panties follow next, but he leaves my bra in place, under my breasts.

  My breathing accelerates as I watch him stand and free himself of his boxers. My eyes rake over his naked form, feasting on every sexy inch. I adore this man’s body. All the time spent in his gym shows in the sculpted muscles highlighting his frame.

  But I also appreciate the imperfections. The scars that mark his devastating past. They’re not just a part of who he is. Somehow they complete him. I can’t imagine him without them. And I can’t stop wondering which man from that picture did this to him.

  “I don’t fuck around,” he says, lowering himself over me. “There’s only been one woman, since Livie, that I haven’t used condoms with, and I’m checked regularly. Are you on the pill?”

  I’ve been on the pill ever since Garrett did what he did to me, just in case it were ever to happen again. I never want to take another morning after pill. I nod, feeling his thick shaft at my entrance.

  “Is this okay?” he asks, his voice low and husky.

  I nod again, not sure I can speak my consent.

  “I need to hear you say it, Rocky.”

  I wet my lips and clear my throat. And then one word leaves my lips. “Yes.”

  Link pushes inside slowly. I can feel him stretching and filling me as he continues to guide himself in. There’s a flash of discomfort—it’s been a very long time for me—and with it, comes a sense of unease. An anxiety that has my heart pounding and my mind spinning. There’s a roaring in my ears as visions of Garrett attack.

  I can’t do this.

  I try to stay in the moment. This moment. With Link.

  I try, but Garrett is taking over, consuming my thoughts. His hot breath on my skin. His scent in every gasp I inhale. His hands pinning me in place as he callously drove into me.

  I feel like I can’t breathe. My hands are trembling as I cover my face. Tears sting my eyes and I don’t want Link to see them. I don’t want him to see how fucked up I still am. How fucked up I will always be.

  Garrett’s taken everything from me. I’ll never be normal again.

  I can’t do this.

  I CAN’T DO THIS.

  Stay in the moment.

  Link. This is Link.

  He isn’t Garrett.

  He isn’t Garrett.

  “Hey,” Link murmurs.

  Link. Not Garret. Link.

  His voice is so soft I can barely hear it, though I feel it in the rumble of his chest, pressed against mine. He shifts, holding himself up with one hand as his other pries mine away from my face.

  I open my eyes and the tears spill over, traveling quickly toward my ears in a heated path.

  “I won’t hurt you,” he rasps. His thumb catches the tears, wiping them away. He doesn’t hide the concerned expression on his face. He allows me to see it. He’s been doing that a lot lately—letting me see him. And I wonder if he’s letting me inside, too.

  “I won’t hurt you,” he repeats.

  I wish that was enough. I wish I could take control over my emotions. I wish I could be free. Be in charge of my life.

  Link rolls to the side, easily bringing me with him. He settles his back on my painting tarp, never separating himself from me. He keeps us connected, rooting me to this moment—to him—as one.

  We’re a foot away from my easel and painting. He’s probably laying in paint, but he doesn’t seem to mind. His only concern right now is me, and he makes it clear in the way he looks at me, watches me, waits. One of my hands slides through a glob of red as I brace myself over him, but I barely notice it.

  “You’re in control,” he states firmly as he drops his hands to the floor, no longer touching me. “We’ll stop anytime you want.”

  I place my hands against his upturned palms, holding them in place, and slowly raise myself up. His eyes flutter with the sensation and I glide back down, coating his length with my arousal. His lips part as he releases a quiet moan and his fingers curl around mine. He doesn’t apply any pressure, making it clear I can pull away if I choose.

  I keep looking at him. Focusing on his eyes. On the pleasure on his face. On the muted noises purring in his throat. I push Garrett away and stay with him. With Link.

  Link.

  The way he reads me, giving me what I need—the fact he even understands what I need—makes my chest tighten with emotion. I could do it. I could fall for this man.

  My mind repels the thought. Every destructive instinct is telling me to push him away. Men like him don’t exist. His careful kindness must be a trap. A ruse to lure me in and lower my walls.

  And then there’s the part of me that still holds on to hope. The part buried deep within that believes there are good people out there. That part of me is growing louder, begging me to trust Link. Insisting he’s one of the good ones. I want to believe it. He’s told me his secrets. He’s dedicated his life to helping women. He’s helped me. He’s helping me now.

  I touch his face, my hand cupping his jaw. He just feels right. We feel right. And nothing has felt right in so, so long.

  I run my thumb over his rough chin, smearing a line of red. I pull my hand back, examining it. Link grins, lifting his own hand to see the paint smudged there as well.

  “Oops,” I say breathlessly.

  “Oops?” He cocks a brow, chuckling quietly. The sound causes a flurry of need to pulsate in my core. “Do I have paint on my face?”

  I bite my lip and nod unapologetically. Because he looks even more delicious in red splotches. Before he can reply, I begin moving once again, rocking against him and taking him deeper inside me. He sucks in a breath between his teeth, quickly forgetting about the paint marking his skin.

  His fingers flex, repeatedly fisting at his sides in a succession of short and long movements, like some form of Morse code only I can read.

  I pick his hands up, one at a time, and bring them to my chest. “It’s okay,” I say before he can ask. “I want you to touch me.”

  He hesitates for only a moment, and then his hands slide up, smoothing over my collar bones and onto my neck. I feel the damp trail his fingers make as he brings them back down, over my breasts, and onto my stomach. Painting me.

  He runs out quickly and swipes his palm over the tarp, feeling for more paint. The idea that I captured his likeness just hours ago, and now he’s using me as his canvas, intrigues me and excites me in a way I’ve never experienced before.

  I slide the palette off the table—along with several paint tubes—and begin to fill it with color. Red, blue, purple, orange, black, gold. I mimic the colors I used in his painting and place them beside him. He watches every move I make with rapt interest. I press my fingertips into the paint. It’s thick and sticky. Cool to the touch. My fingers dance across his heated skin, leaving trails of color and goose bumps in their wake.

  Link’s breaths quicken with each swirl of my hand. My hips match the rhythm, picking up pace. I place my hands flat on his chest as I move even faster, riding him harder.

  His gaze is fixated, watching himself disappear inside of me. His lips part on a moan. I echo the sound as I feel the euphoric pressure building inside of me.

  Link drags his finger through the blue and traces around my nipple, pinching gently. It’s cold against my sensitive flesh. The different sensations are ag
onizingly perfect. I sigh in pleasure, and he repeats the action, choosing a gold this time. He smiles, proud of himself when he elicits a whimper from me.

  “You’re quite the artist,” I breathe.

  “You’re a beautiful canvas,” he whispers, slipping his hand behind my neck and drawing me to him. I go easily, dispersing the paint across our chests.

  Link places a series of slow kisses behind my ear. I can’t believe how good he’s making me feel. I can’t believe I almost didn’t go through with this.

  “A work of art,” he adds. His hands hook around my hips and he begins matching each of my thrusts. He moves again, just one hand this time. He works it between our bodies, finding my clit, and strokes in unhurried circles. I cry out as my body tightens. I’m close. So close. I bite down on his shoulder, stifling another moan.

  I forgot how good this can be. I forgot there was a time I enjoyed sex.

  “Is this okay?” he rasps.

  I nod, unable to articulate. It’s more than okay.

  I raise up, taking over once again, just as my orgasm rips through me. My fingers dig into Link’s taut stomach and I call his name through gritted teeth and panted breath. He grabs hold of me, rolling us once more. We hit the easel, tipping it sideways. My painting crashes on top of us before falling to the side, but I don’t care. There’s very little I care about right now.

  He plunges into me faster, harder, setting off another flare of ecstasy that erupts throughout my body. I feel his cock pulse as he joins me in bliss, emptying inside of me.

  We’re both breathing heavy, gasping for air. He presses his head to mine and closes his eyes. I can feel the sweat on his skin, mixing with the paint. We’re a mess—completely dirty—and I love it.

  Link’s lips are so close to mine I can taste every exhale. His heart is pounding against my chest. And I feel good. So good.

  I’ve never wanted to kiss someone this badly before. But I force myself to hold back, respecting his wishes, even as hard as it is to resist.

  “Thank you for trusting me,” he utters.

  Before I have time to react, he presses a quick kiss to my lips and pulls away.