“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.
Until now.
He lifted his hand to grip the handlebars as they took a sharp turn. Arianne bemoaned the small loss of his warmth, the comfort of his strength, and the curious tingles that sizzled through her body from their brief contact.
After he dropped her off, she’d probably never see him again. She didn’t frequent biker bars or hangouts, never even went to the Black Jack clubhouse unless her father specifically demanded her presence. She liked her quiet life, working at Banks’s Bar, hanging with her best friend, Dawn, and occasionally helping out friends with their motorcycle troubles or working part-time at any garage with an opening for a journeyman mechanic. There were no crises. No wild parties. No crazy bikers doing crazy-biker things. No bloodshed. If not for her father dragging her out of bed in the middle of the night to help with club business from time to time, an outsider might’ve thought she led a normal life.
Jagger kicked up the accelerator. He had to be doing at least one hundred miles per hour, but no cop in Montana would dare stop a member of the Sinner’s Tribe. A reluctant smile spread across Arianne’s face. Fast as Jagger was, if she were on her Ninja right now, he would be eating her dust.
As they neared downtown, Arianne closed her eyes and took a mental snapshot of the ride: the cool wind in her clothes, the scent of Jagger’s leather jacket, the sharp edge of his belt buckle digging into her palms, the warmth of his body, and the flutter in her belly whenever he reached back and patted her thigh to make sure she was okay. She couldn’t remember the last time a man had cared enough to check up on her. But, to be fair, she never gave them that chance.
By the time they’d arrived at the gas station a few blocks from her apartment building on the west side of Conundrum, her heart was racing and a warm glow had settled in her body. Although she was glad to be away from the Sinner’s Tribe clubhouse, she couldn’t help feeling disappointed that the ride was over already.
The giant poplars lining the street cast long shadows in the afternoon sun. Jagger parked his bike at the side of the road and for a long moment, maybe too long, she stayed in her seat, arms around him, cheek pressed against his back, soaking up every last sensation.
“You okay?” He turned in his seat and she nodded, then quickly dismounted the bike, looking away from him to hide her burning cheeks.
What should she say? Thanks for capturing me and leaving me at the mercy of your psychotic biker gang? Thanks for rescuing me? Thanks for taking off your shirt last night and giving me a year’s worth of fantasies?
“Well … good-bye. I’d say it’s been fun, but except for the ride, it wasn’t.”
Jagger laughed. “You’re a speed demon?”
“I have, on occasion, been known to go over the speed limit.”
“I should have guessed.” He slid off his bike. “It’s a good thing, then, we’ve got to say good-bye. I happen to like speed demons.”
A firestorm of desire swept through her, sending her pulse into overdrive. “I have many unlikable traits. Consider yourself lucky you won’t have a chance to discover what they are.”
Jagger gave her a crooked smile and closed the distance between them. So close, she could feel his warmth through her cut. “Depends on how you define ‘unlikable.’ I also happen to enjoy the occasional challenge, being told off by a woman half my size, and discovering pink polka-dot panties under worn street leathers.”
Was he flirting with her? Did she want him to stop?
“I knew you had a naughty streak,” she brushed back the hair that had fallen over her face.