CLAIM (Dirty Brothers 3)

There are little spasms running through my body, and Robert is still buried between my legs, licking me and causing little aftershocks. I can’t seem to catch my breath, and when he pulls himself away and up beside me, he’s smiling. “I like it when you scream for me.”

“I like it too.”

He kisses me, slipping his tongue between my lips, just like he did with my pussy, and I can taste myself on him. God, that was amazing. So amazing that I’m fading into sleep. I can’t seem to keep my eyes open. “I thought it was supposed to be the guy who always falls asleep.”

“Don’t worry,” he says, pulling the blankets over the two of us. “I’ve never much cared for traditions.”

I want to laugh, but I’m already being pulled under.

Robert’s fingers are the first thing I feel when I wake up. Just the first sensation as I come to the surface. Just a gentle brushing across my stomach, lazy and unhurried. Next, his body behind me—hard length and heat. I take a deeper breath, and his fingers tighten.

Lips on my neck. “You’re awake.”

“Yeah.” My voice is scratchy and rough, and I feel like I’ve run a marathon. But at the same time I feel rested in a way I haven’t in…years. I turn over, and I’m face to face with him. Robert’s eyes are clear and sharp, and I don’t think he’s slept at all. “What time is it?”

“Late. I’m honestly not sure.”

“I’m sorry I fell asleep.”

He frowns. “Why are you sorry?”

I blink my eyes a few times, trying to clear the sleep from them. “I don’t know, I just—”

“Trust me, Anna,” he laughs, “no man is going to be upset that they made you come so hard that you had to go to sleep.” Even after everything, I blush. He chuckles, but his eyes are serious. “But I have a question.”

I swallow—I don’t think I’m going to like this. “Okay.”

“Tell me about the scar.”

I’m suddenly cold, and I have goosebumps. “Please,” I say, ducking my head into his chest, “not that.”

“It has something to do with why you’re working for my father, doesn’t it.” Again, it’s not a question. I nod. “How much money is he paying you?”

My voice is muffled against his chest, but it’s comfortable here. “Two hundred thousand dollars.”

Robert leans me back against the pillows, pinning me with his body. There’s no escape from his gaze here, and he puts a finger under my chin, lifting my gaze to his. “Why do you need that much money? What happened?”

I don’t hear any judgment in his voice, only curiosity and concern. Can I really trust him with this? The answer is deep in my gut: yes. But it’s still terrifying. I clear my throat. “I’m not really a P.I.,” I say. “I mean, I have my license, but it’s not what I’m good at. I was kind of forced into it. I was a lawyer.”

“What kind of lawyer?”

“A prosecutor,” I swallow against the pain welling up in my chest. “And I’m really good at it.”

He doesn’t say anything, just waits for me to tell my story, his hands tracing absent patterns on my shoulders.

“A long time ago—maybe seven years now—I was in a car accident. Drunk driver, ran me off the road into a guardrail, hit and run. It’s how I got the scar.” I shiver, shaking my head to clear the taste of memory and fear from my mouth. “Our cars were pinned together while we lost control, and I’ll never forget his face. But we never found him.

“Two years ago a case comes across my desk. Drunk driver, hit and run. A couple had been injured in the accident, one was paralyzed. No one was at the scene, but they arrested the man they’d thought had done it. We were charging him with it, but it was a hard case, and there was no hard evidence proving that this guy was at the scene. And when I got the file on the man we were charging, it was him. It was the man that hit me. His name is David Morris, and as soon as I saw that it was him, I knew that he was guilty. Because he’d done the same thing to me.” I swallow. “A couple of days before the trial starts, we get some new evidence. Paint color scraped from the victim’s car that matched Morris’s vehicle. It was the smoking gun that I needed to prove that he was guilty, and I went after him with everything I had.”

I look up at Robert, and he looks pissed. His jaw is clenched, body taut with tension against mine. “I hope you got the bastard.”

“Someone knew,” I said. “Someone knew I wanted this guy to go to jail. One of his friends, some connection that was trying to protect him. I don’t know who, but the paint sample was a fake. It came out in the middle of the trial, and everything fell apart. Morris got off on a mistrial, and I was accused of manipulating evidence.” I have to stop and blink the tears away from my eyes. “I lost everything. My whole career, all of my friends. No one talks to someone who’s corrupt like that. No law firm would touch me. It took a long time, but I managed to scrape by doing simple P.I. work. I was hoping I could find out who set me up, but I’m not good enough. I’m not. I need the money so I can hire a real P.I. and get my name cleared. I can have my life back.”