Rough Justice (Sinner's Tribe Motorcycle Club #1)(10)
But she knew better than to ask. At least not right now. Her gaze slid down, over his washboard abs, following the dark silky shadow of hair leading below the belt.…
Jagger’s hand dropped to his buckle, and her eyes widened. Did he know what she was thinking?
“Please.” Beads of perspiration formed on her forehead. “At least keep your jeans on.”
Seeming amused he unbuckled his belt and yanked it off with a loud crack. “If it’ll make you more comfortable.”
“It will.” But likely not in the way he was thinking.
*
Hell came in many different forms: from trying to survive enemy fire in a sweltering desert to the mind-numbing pain of shrapnel piercing flesh, and from the helplessness of being intubated in a hospital bed, to burying the bodies of his biker brothers during the feud.
Jagger threw a stick for Max as he walked off their morning run, irritated that not even fresh air and exercise could calm the fire raging through his blood.
Last night had been a different type of hell altogether.
What had he been thinking? Lying beside Arianne all night was a torture worse than he could ever have imagined. With her silky hair strewn across the pillow, her face soft with sleep, lips so invitingly pink and plump, it was all he could do to stay on his side of the bed. And when she kicked off the covers, revealing just how high her shirt had ridden up, he almost lost it right then. God, she was beautiful. From her exquisite oval face to her softly rounded breasts, and from her graceful curves to her toned, lean legs, she was perfection with a kick-ass attitude.
His body had hardened when she moaned in her sleep and licked her lips, and it took every ounce of his self-control not to lean over and take her mouth in a deep, lingering kiss. But nothing could stop the throbbing in his groin when she curled up, treating him to an unimpeded view of her beautiful rounded cheeks covered in frilly pink polka dots.
Pink polka dots. He’d first caught a glimpse of her panties when she’d been cuffed to the bed, but he hadn’t been in a mood to appreciate them. His prickly tough biker chick had a soft girly side. And seeing something he wasn’t meant to see—hell, that did things to a man. Dangerous things. He’d been forced to go out and find her clothes, then shake her awake and make her get dressed.
He’d never reacted this way with any other women. Not even Christel. Although not his old lady, they’d been together long enough for everyone to treat her with similar respect. But then the Wolverines MC had found her. The upstart MC, hell-bent on challenging Sinner dominance in Montana, had used Christel against him. And when Jagger gave them what they’d wanted, they left her broken body outside his clubhouse and she’d died in his arms.
Destroying the Wolverines hadn’t brought her back, nor had it eased the ache in his heart. Time was not the great healer so many claimed it to be. Instead, time had made him more set in his ways. Christel’s fate was the reason he allowed himself only casual relationships. His enemies would find no weakness. His lovers and his heart would suffer no risk.
Max returned with the stick and Jagger threw it again, watching it disappear into the cool morning mist. The air was fragrant with the scent of rich earth, and dew clung to every leaf and blade of grass. Mornings were his favorite time. Quiet. Peaceful. With all the promise of the day ahead.
He looked up at the window to the bedroom he had shared with Arianne, half expecting to see her sliding down the roof. But with two guards outside her door and two more outside the building’s entrance, she would be going nowhere fast. He chuckled as a memory tore through him: Arianne wearing only his T-shirt, shivering by the window, beguiled by the loquacious Wheels and the effervescent Sherry as they thwarted her attempt to escape.
He should have warned her that no one ever escaped from the Sinners.
Or from him.
The soft thud of footsteps on grass and the rustle of autumn leaves alerted him to Cade’s presence well before his former army buddy joined him on the front lawn. As the MC’s treasurer, Cade carried out his duties with ruthless efficiency, and like Zane, he always had Jagger’s back.
Cade gave him a quick update on the status of the old clubhouse and the local authorities’ investigation into the fire. Then he glanced up at Arianne’s window, smirking at the guards stationed below. “So, what are you going to do with her?”
“I’m waiting to see the surveillance tapes,” Jagger said. “Zane picked them up this morning from the off-site data-storage facility. If she’s not directly involved, I’ll let her go. I won’t hold a woman responsible for the actions of her club.”
Cade tunnelled his hand through his thick, blond hair, his brow creasing. “How do you know it was the Jacks?”
Jagger pulled out his phone and showed Cade a picture he’d received from his contact in the police department. Someone had spray painted a crude outline of the Black Jacks’ patch on the side of the weapons shed that had been robbed. “They left a calling card. Most of the brothers who weren’t drowning their sorrows in some sweet butt’s arms last night have already been told.”
Cade didn’t react to the silent admonition. No doubt he’d spent the night just as Jagger had said. Cade was known for his ability to charm women into his bed. Sherry claimed his chick magnet appeal had to do with his appearance, likening him to some movie star who’d played the part of the Norse god, Thor. Jagger didn’t have time for movies. Or movie stars. Or brothers who spent the night buried between some sweet butt’s thighs instead of worrying about the loss of their clubhouse, the end of the feud, and a little Black Jack who couldn’t be touched.