Free Grit (Dirty #6) by Cheryl McIntyre

taking my second chance. Because in the end, wasted chances are the strongest regrets. I know that well.
    I was supposed to be at the gym ten minutes ago, but I have no desire to move from this couch. I’m not sure I’ve ever been this comfortable in my life. She feels good, and… I let myself appreciate her .
    I slide my cell off the coffee table and shoot Augie a text, letting him know I won’t be in for a couple more hours. If I could, I’d take the rest of the day off too, but I can’t keep ignoring my clients. I’ve already done that enough these past couple of months.
    Rocky stirs as I put my phone back. Taking advantage of our proximity, she traces my throat with her teeth. She slips to the side, nipping my jugular. The nap must have done its job because she’s feisty and playful—which happen to be a couple of my favorites of her attributes.
    “You did say orgasms earlier, right?” she murmurs, making her way up to my ear. She sucks the lobe into her mouth, biting gently. “As in multiple? Because I only recall having the one.”
    “I clearly remember two,” I say, my voice gruff.
    She shakes her head, wisps of dark hair caressing my skin. “No, it was just the one.”
    “I think you’re lying.”
    Her mouth curves into a grin against my neck. “Prove it.”
    “When you get close, you get really quiet and your muscles tighten all through your body. It feels so fucking good it’s challenging to hold back. When you come, you tremble. All over. And then after, you make this breathy sound, like a satisfied sigh. It’s sexy as hell and every time I hear you do that—knowing I was the one who satisfied you—I damn near lose my mind.”
    She lifts her head, large dark eyes drifting over my face. Her teeth drag over her lip. “You can’t say something like that to me and not give me another orgasm. It’s not fair.”
    I chuckle, ducking my head to capture her mouth. Multiple. I plan to give her multiple more orgasms.

 
    Fourteen
    Rocky
     
     
    Saturday is the one day of the week I have several hours to myself. I work Monday through Friday at the gym—acting as secretary, Link and I train at least two evenings, and I attend one self-defense class with my brother per week. Sunday, I get my lazy on, spending ninety percent of the time in bed.
    These few hours when Link goes in on Saturday are my only alone-time. Sometimes I love it. Other times I have no clue what to do with myself.
    I used to pass the daylight hours sleeping, spending my evenings in a total drunken haze. Slowly but surely, my routine has changed.
    Today, I spend the first couple hours after Link leaves scrubbing my bathroom and kitchen. Then, I immerse myself in the tub, soaking my consistently sore muscles.
    As I’m drying off, there’s a knock at my door, and by the lengthiness of the tapping, I know it’s Joe. Of course he would take it upon himself to crash my downtime. I pluck Link’s button-up off the hook on the door, fastening it as I go, the towel over one shoulder. My hair is dripping, soaking the back of the shirt and causing it to stick uncomfortably. I should have just ignored him or let him use his key and finished drying off.
    Though I know it’s him without having to look, I verify it anyway, peering out the window before I flip the lock and tug the door open.
    “You look better today,” he says in way of greeting. His tone is low, voice careful, similar to the inflection he takes when he’s getting ready to give me one of his famous I’m-worried-about-you-Rock speeches.
    I step back, giving him space to enter, though I have a feeling I’m probably going to end up regretting it. I love my brother, but as a lot of big brothers tend to be, he’s a bit of a serial mood killer.
    “Are you saying I looked like shit yesterday?”
    He shrugs, raking his fingers through his hair. Yep. He’s definitely hear to piss on my good mood parade.
    “Not like shit, but you know, not too good either.”
    I arch a sardonic