Rough Justice (Sinner's Tribe Motorcycle Club #1)(15)
“Don’t judge me, Arianne.” His voice sharpened with warning. “If what you told me is true, and you grew up in this world, then you, of all people, should understand it. Maybe even better than me. Most of the Sinners are ex-military. They are violent men used to being led with a heavy hand. If I let one step out of line, I’ll have a situation out of control. No law. No order. And that would put civilians at risk. I can’t let that happen. Hell, it was the reason I became president in the first place.”
“Not ambition and a burning need for power?” She gave him an incredulous look and Jagger laughed, defusing the tension.
“That, too.” He opened a disinfectant wipe and gently patted the tiny cut on her throat. Disconcerted by the sudden change in his demeanor, she allowed him to minister to her, wincing at the sting when the disinfectant touched her open wound.
Jagger froze. “I’m hurting you.”
“I find it hard to believe you’d be concerned about something like that after what you just did to Axle.” She also found it hard to believe he would care enough to treat her wound personally. And how many MC presidents claimed they’d taken the throne to protect civilians?
He finished tending to her cut in silence. Arianne waved away the little bandage he produced from the kit. “It’s just a scratch. I’ll have a little scar to add to my collection as a memento of my visit.”
Without a word, he cupped the back of her neck with one hand, holding her still, then carefully placed the bandage over the cut, overruling her objections. His breath was warm on her cheek, his lips so close, she had only to lean forward an inch to take a little lick.
He looked up from the dressing, caught her with his gaze, and the world faded away … She’d never been so utterly at a man’s mercy, yet it wasn’t fear that made her heart pound, but a primal, gut-wrenching desire for the one man she could never have.
“Jagger.” She whispered his name. A plea. A request.
Spell broken, he released her, turning away too quickly for her to see his face. “Gotta get you outta here.” He gestured to his bike and then packed the first aid kit in his saddlebag again. “Hop on.”
“CVO Ultra Classic Electra Glide.” Her voice came out in an awed gasp of appreciation as she tried not to drool over one of the most expensive Harley-Davidson motorcycles in production. “Nice bike, although I didn’t take you for a touring man.”
“I’m a collecting man.” Jagger lifted an eyebrow as he pulled a bandanna from his jeans pocket—black with white skulls, of course, just like his patch—and tied it over his head. “You know your bikes.”
God, the bandanna made him look even more handsome, the strong planes and angles of his jaw coming into sharp relief. She tore her gaze away and swung her leg over the seat. “I’m a journeyman mechanic. Bikes are my specialty.” Even if she did manage to escape her father’s stranglehold one day, she would never lose her fascination for the sleek design and powerful engines of the Harley-Davidson brand, or her need to make each one she touched run to smooth perfection.
Not that she had a bike to tinker with anymore. She briefly considered asking Jagger if his boys had retrieved her Ninja, but just as quickly dismissed the thought. Why would they bother, especially when they’d initially suspected she started the fire?
He shook his head and muttered, half to himself. “Of course you are.”
“No passenger pegs or sissy bar on the back?” she said, as he settled on the bike in front of her. “You like your passengers holding on to you?”
“Never packed a passenger before.”
“What? No old lady? No rides home for the sweet butts after a wild night on the town?” She cringed inwardly after she spoke. How juvenile. And yet, although she would never see this man again, some part of her still wanted to know if he was taken.
“No time to look after anyone else. Running the club and keeping the brothers in line are more than enough work.” He looked back over his shoulder. “Where am I taking you?”
“Gas station on the corner of Eleventh and Main. I’ll call a friend to pick me up. Don’t want you to know where I live, in case you regret not killing me when you had the chance.”
Jagger laughed, a warm deep chuckle that made her toes curl. “Never gonna happen. I make a decision, I stick to it.”
She slid her arms around his waist, tucking her body against his, soothed by the familiar scent of leather and the less familiar scent of warm, musky male. “So, who looks after you while you’re watching over everyone else?”
“I look after myself.”
The motorcycle roared to life and Jagger peeled away from the sea of bikes. Arianne pressed her cheek against the cool leather of his cut and increased her grip around his waist.
“Me, too,” she whispered.
He couldn’t possibly have heard her over the roar of his engine, but when he reached back and gave her thigh a squeeze, tears prickled the backs of her eyes. Everything about Jagger confused her, from his gestures of respect to his unexpected kindness to his noticeable turmoil when she’d been in danger. Someone had forgotten to tell him this wasn’t how outlaw MC presidents were supposed to behave.
Her body flamed as he slid his hand down her leg to rest it on her knee, his touch at once soothing and protective. When had any biker ever made her heart pound? Sure, she was comfortable in their world—she could talk the talk, joke with them, and even hold her own in the occasional fistfight. But regardless of such camaraderie, she was live to the underlying truth: In her world—this world—women were property or playthings, definitely not equals worthy of the respect she craved. Not once had she ever sought or wanted a biker’s attention.