Arianne’s palms grew clammy. “You’re sleeping here?”
He licked his lips and smiled. “Not many of the bedrooms are furnished, and since you clearly can’t be trusted on your own, this is the only option. The bed is big enough for both of us, but I’m not planning to do anything more than sleep. It’s been a helluva day.”
“I’ll sleep on the floor, then,” she said. “Maybe Max can keep me company.”
“Unacceptable. You’re injured and a woman. You’ll sleep in the bed.”
Irritation chased the filaments of Arianne’s fear away. “Women can sleep on floors.”
“Not under my roof and not in my club.” Jagger removed his cut and then stripped off his T-shirt.
Arianne’s eyes widened and her jaw went slack. Oh God. Why did he have to do that? He had the kind of chest she’d seen only on billboards or in men’s underwear ads. Well, except for the Sinner’s Tribe tattoo that spanned his broad chest, the wings surrounding the skull reaching up and over his shoulders to join the intricate tat sleeves that covered his upper arms. But it was the scar down the center of his chest and not totally concealed by the tat that gave her pause. Not a knife scar—she was well acquainted with those—but something more precise. Surgical.
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.