Rough Justice (Sinner's Tribe Motorcycle Club #1)(34)
“I was a perfect gentleman.”
Arianne scoffed. “Perfect gentlemen don’t stop their bikes in a copse of trees, pretending to have bike trouble, and then try to seduce a journeyman mechanic who knows a smooth running bike when she hears it.”
“Who seduced whom?” He rolled to his side, propping his head up with his elbow, and twirled a strand of her hair around his finger. “I heard you say ‘or not’ after you kissed me.”
Mimicking his position, her body only inches away from his, she placed a tentative hand on his chest, enjoying the ripple of powerful muscle beneath the pads of her fingers. “I was referring to fixing your bike. And I didn’t kiss you. My lips were near your ear so you could hear me over the roar of your perfectly-tuned engine.”
With a low growl, he released her hair and tucked it behind her shoulder, his fingers lingering on her skin. Arianne’s body flamed in an instant. Caught by the dark intensity of his sensual gaze, she couldn’t tear her eyes away.
“You kissed me.” His hand slid to the back of her neck, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw, sending sizzles of white lightning through her veins. His deep gaze, his gentle touch, his body, hard against hers, electrified her senses, and desire gripped her so hard, her knees trembled.
“So arrogant.” Bolder now, she caressed his chest, tracing the planes and angles of his pecs, and then ever so lightly she stroked a finger along his scar. But if he understood her silent question, he wasn’t about to answer it, so she continued her downward journey, following the soft trail of hair to his belt. “You probably think all women want to kiss you.”
“They do.” He rasped his breaths, his body burning beneath her touch.
Intoxicated by the feel of taut skin over rock-hard muscle, his scent of leather and body wash, and the crisp autumn breeze, she tried to ignore the warning niggle at the back of her mind—the feeling that started when she’d first walked into the clubhouse, and everyone turned and stared. Whispers had followed her through the living room to the kitchen. Jagger must have taken her hostage. Why else would he bring the Black Jack back onto Sinner turf?
Although Jagger had given his word she wouldn’t be harmed, she would be a fool to ignore the possibility he might succumb to the temptation to use her as a weapon against Viper, and more of a fool to forget that her goal was and always had been escaping Conundrum. Her energy should be directed at finding Jeff, not indulging her torrid fantasies with her father’s greatest enemy. Even for one night.
Heart racing, she tried to pull away, only to have him draw her so close, she could feel his breath on her cheek.
“You like my arrogance,” he whispered. “Or you wouldn’t have kissed me.”
“If it was a kiss—” She struggled to resist the fever of desire raging through her blood. “—and I’m not admitting it was, then it was a lapse in judgment brought on by your ill-conceived and transparent attempt to seduce me in the moonlight. And the fact you kissed me first.”
Jagger threw back his head and laughed. “I’m a man, sweetheart. And I don’t know many men who could resist a beautiful, sexy biker chick tucked up against them, her eyes glittering with excitement when my bike hit a speed that would make other women scream.”
Her pulse leaped when he tightened his grip, sending an erotic shiver down her spine. God, when had she ever been so fiercely attracted to a man? So deeply aroused, she almost didn’t care if he decided to hold her for ransom. “I don’t scream.”
His low guttural groan inflamed her, but not as much as his impassioned promise. “You would scream for me.”
She almost came right then.
With a low groan, he pulled her against him, crushing her breasts against his chest as he threaded one hand through her hair. His lips were so close, full and sensuous. Maybe she should take that kiss, after all.
Without warning, her mind slid back to her first kiss, her first love. At fifteen years old, she’d fallen hard for the bad boy of her high school, an eighteen-year-old wannabe rock star named Slick. On a grassy field under the beauty of Fourth of July fireworks, when he’d leaned over and pressed his lips against hers, she discovered Slick wasn’t a bad boy after all. He had a soft side, a tenderness he hid from the world, a misguided chivalry that had cost him his fingers and nearly his life courtesy of Leo’s blade.
Arianne’s blood chilled. This was wrong for so many reasons, not the least of which was the fact she was putting them both at risk. And for what? A night of passion? They had no possible future together, and she couldn’t afford to get emotionally involved.
She pulled away, then slowly peeled his hand off her hip. “I can’t do this. You were right when you said it shouldn’t have happened and won’t happen again.” After slipping on her shoes, she headed for the door. Surely there was some-where she would sleep downstairs. If not, she could crash on the couch and watch TV.
“Arianne.”
She looked back when her name dropped softly from his lips. His face held neither censure nor derision. Disappointment, maybe. Curiosity, certainly. And possibly … understanding? “Once I lay down the law, you’ll be as safe with the brothers as you are with me, but until that happens, it’s better if you stay here and I go.”
A sliver of guilt speared through her chest. “I don’t want to kick you out of your room.”