Rough Justice (Sinner's Tribe Motorcycle Club #1)(31)
“Sweetheart, you already did.”
*
He wanted to f*ck her.
Heart still thrumming from the adrenaline rush of the pursuit, Jagger gripped his handlebars so hard, his fingers almost went through his leather riding gloves. For a man who rigidly controlled every aspect of his world, the uncertainty involved in every encounter with Arianne both inflamed and exhausted him. She couldn’t be cajoled or enticed, controlled or dominated. She did what she wanted to do when she wanted to do it, and he had never been so damned aroused in his entire life.
Vexy. Vixen. He’d been wrong before. Her road name suited her to a T.
And yet, here she was. Tucked up against him as they raced through the night. Masculine pride suffused his body as if he had just single-handedly conquered an army. Her acceptance of his protection roused an almost primal sense of satisfaction in him, and a desire so fierce and sharp, it took his breath away.
Worthy.
He grunted his approval when she locked her arms around him in anticipation of a sharp curve, and not just because she fit so perfectly against him. She knew how to ride pillion. Hell, if he hadn’t been so attuned to her body—the soft swell of her breasts pressed against his back, firm hips tucked against his ass, her sweet thighs parted around him—he would barely have known she was there.
As if that were a possibility.
He glanced quickly over his shoulder, catching her gaze to make sure she could handle the speed. He would have preferred her to wear a helmet for safety, but since Montana was one of the few states without a helmet law, he didn’t carry one. Damn, she was beautiful. Her hair, tousled by the wind, framed the perfect oval of her face, and her eyes, green and liquid, sparkled with the thrill of the ride. Speed demon. Just like him. And yet when he saw the scar on her cheek, his body tensed. No wonder she found it hard to trust anyone.
She licked her plump lips, and he felt an almost overwhelming urge to pull over and savor her mouth, drink until he was drunk with her pleasure. But he’d only just saved himself from making that mistake at the roadside, pulling away before he had really sampled the sweet promise of those lips. He had no doubt, one taste of Arianne wouldn’t be enough.
One taste.
One. Fucking. Taste.
Unable to stop himself, he turned onto a side road and drove until he found a secluded copse of trees. Then he killed the engine.
“Something wrong with your bike?”
Arianne slid off the seat. Her hair fanned over her shoulders in a silken wave, and Jagger’s blood pulsed through his veins. Even in the thin light of the moon, he imagined he could see the flush on her cheeks, her lips plump and glistening, and the glow that came only with the exhilaration of speed.
Every muscle in his body tensed as she squatted down beside the bike, her head level with the part of his body that had led him here.
“I spent a lot of time with our road captain fixing bikes in the Jacks’ shop, and after I left, I apprenticed as a mechanic at Liam’s Garage.” She looked up at him, green eyes sparkling under the light of the moon. “If you want to get off, I can take a look.”
Hell, yeah, he wanted to get off. But as she stood, arms folded, waiting for him to dismount, instinct told him he’d made a mistake bringing her here. A full frontal assault would likely be met with an equally forceful rejection. If he had to put a finger on the quality that distinguished her from the women who frequented the clubhouse—old ladies excepted, of course—it was class. Ironic, given who her father was.
With a heavy sigh, he swung his leg over the seat and stepped onto the ground, leaves crunching under his boots. He would have to gain her trust for a true taste of those lush lips. She wasn’t a woman for a quick fix, but a slow, sensuous seduction, and when he finally breached her walls, he knew it would be worth the wait.
“Turn it on.” She gestured to the engine, and Jagger lifted an eyebrow. He strictly enforced the hierarchy in the club, and the concomitant levels of respect. And that meant no one told Jagger what to do.
Except, apparently, Viper’s daughter.
But only in private. Her political savvy, both in the clubhouse and in the bar, had impressed him. She had an innate understanding of the nuances of biker culture. Although she had disagreed with him, she never directly challenged him in public. And when he’d reprimanded the Devil Dog, her reaction made it clear she’d understood the power play, and the fact he had claimed her for the night.
“We’ll take it to Sparky. He’s my road captain.” Heart heavy with regret, Jagger took his seat and gestured for her to join him.
“You don’t think I can fix your bike?”
“Pretty hard to do in the dark without tools.” He patted the leather pillion seat behind him.
“Then why did you stop here?”
Jagger gritted his teeth. For the first time, he wished he were more adept at lying, but military families prided themselves on bringing up children steeped in honor, discipline, loyalty and honesty, and his family was military three generations back. Evasion, on the other hand, was part and parcel of being an outlaw. “On the bike, Arianne.”
If he were a man with even an ounce less self-control, her amused smile would have been enough to have him twining that shimmering hair around his fist and hauling her to his lips for a sweet taste of her honey. And when she brushed a kiss over his cheek before settling on the seat behind him, he almost did.