Never letting go.
In the moments after she came down, reality hit her.
She was screwed.
She let him in. He only needed to lodge one little piece of himself into her life, into her heart, and she’d never be able to get him back out.
She trailed her fingers up his back, which rose and fell quickly as he tried to catch his breath, his face still pressed into her neck. Most of his weight crushed her, his cock still pulsed deep inside. Her inner thighs had become slick from their fluids intermingling, reminding her that it wouldn’t take much for her to get pregnant, to carry his baby. Only a little pill taken daily would keep that at bay.
But she could have that if she wanted.
She had a feeling if she asked for a house, he would bend over backwards to provide it for her. If she asked to become his ol’ lady, he would call an executive meeting tomorrow to bring it to the table. If she asked him to give himself to her completely... he would.
“Baby,” he mumbled against the damp skin of her neck.
“Yeah?” she asked softly, raking her fingers through his hair.
“Gonna try to stay like this as long as possible. You good?”
“Yeah, Jag, I’m good.”
“Mick.”
“What?”
“Mick.”
She smiled up at the ceiling, her gaze landing on where his drawings were hidden. “Yeah, I’m good, Mick.”
Ivy laid on her side, her head propped in her hand, just waiting... and waiting. It would be any second now, the shower had turned off, the toilet had flushed, the squeal of the pipes from the sink running had quieted.
Any second now...
The door flew open and Jag, wearing nothing but a towel around his waist, stepped out.
Oh hell yeah, it was worth the wait.
Damp skin, a few beads of water clinging here and there over his sinewy muscles and tattoos, his hair wet and combed back out of his face, which was freshly shaven. Baby smooth. Kissable. Lickable. In between her thighs doable...
He stopped, his steel-blue eyes landing on her, his gaze running over every curve and line of her body.
She fought the shiver, but her nipples peaked anyway.
“That’s a sight,” he said, his voice low and husky.
He should see what she was looking at. That was a sight.
“If I hadn’t knocked the bottom outta you little bit ago, I’d be ready to do it again.”
Always the romantic.
“Not sure I have time for that, anyway,” Ivy said, regretting that she didn’t. She had to get to the pawn shop at a reasonable hour. But she needed to hit her apartment first to clean up and get fresh clothes.
“Could make it quick,” he suggested.
“Going to take longer than that to get your motor started.”
“Yeah, ten years ago could’ve come an’ stayed hard ‘til I came again.”
Ivy didn’t want to let her mind wander to every woman he’s ever stuck his dick in. It was bad enough she knew he stuck it in Goldie.
She needed to wipe those thoughts clean. “What are you going to do today?”
“Gotta bead on an old Harley frame gonna go look at.”
“Already?”
“Baby,” was his answer.
Right.
A biker was nothing without a bike.
“Bad enough it’ll take me a couple years to do it right.”
“Are you going to find something temporary in the meantime?”
He shrugged and Ivy watched to see if the towel would hold. It did. Damn it.
“Keep lookin’ at me like that, ripping this towel off an’ you can blow me ‘til I’m hard again.”
Though that sounded like a plan... “It’s my Saturday to work.”
He lifted his chin, then jerked his head toward the bathroom behind him. “Gonna shower?”
“Here?”
“Yeah.”
“Hell no. I’ll head back to my place. Who knows when the last time your shower’s been cleaned.”
He shrugged again, the light reflecting off his damp shoulders. The ones she wanted to lick dry.
“When I get a house, I’ll get a house mouse.”
Ivy’s eyes bugged out, and she pushed herself to a seat. “You want to repeat that?”
“Said—”
She raised a hand, palm out. “I heard what you said.”
His brows dropped low as if he was confused on why she suddenly had attitude. “House mouse ain’t a sweet butt.”
She frowned. “Jag.”
“Baby.”
“Don’t ‘baby’ me.”
“You movin’ in an’ cleanin’ my house? Since I gotta keep my dick outta sweet butts, who’s gonna clean? Not me.”
Ah fuck, these men. “Jesus.”
“Jesus ain’t gonna clean, either.”
Ivy blew out a breath. A long, long, shaky one. “Jag.”
“Baby.” His eyes slid away from her and landed on the nightstand. She knew exactly what he looked at without even turning. She had placed it there on purpose. “Baby,” he repeated but this time it didn’t sound the same.
Not at all.
“Where’d that come from?” he growled.
She pushed herself up to a seated position, dragging the sheet with her. Not that a mismatched sheet would be much protection if he got angry enough.
She leaned over, grabbed the rolled up drawing and removed the hair band. She held it up and opened it toward him. “You draw this?”
He took a step closer to the bed, his shoulders stiff, his face a blank mask. “Where’d you get that?”
“Answer me.”
His gaze rose to hers and it burned through her. “Why does it matter?”
“Because it’s crazy good.”
Jag scrubbed his palms over his face and Ivy watched as his body softened and he visibly relaxed. Something switched inside of him. He was going to blow it off like it was no big deal. She just knew it.
And she was right.
“Just a sketch of my next bike.”
She raised a brow at him. “That’s not just a sketch, Jag.”
“Then what is it?” He reached for it and she moved it out of his range.
“Art.”
He snorted in disbelief.
“Honey... Art you could sell for big money.”
“Right.”
“I’m serious.”
“People would pay big for this kind of quality pencil drawings. Framed? You could make a name for yourself.”
“Got enough work doin’ customs.”
“Need to show this to some art dealers or something.”
“Or somethin’? Fuck that shit. I’m no artist. Don’t be callin’ me that in front of the brothers, Ivy.”
“You have talent, Jag.” She shook her head. “Real talent.”
“Yeah, with my tongue.” He grabbed his junk through the damp towel. “And my dick.”
She sighed, though she really wanted to roll her eyes at him instead. “Fair enough. But with a pencil, too. You got more of these?”
He hesitated, dropped his head and shook it. “Nope.”
Lie. And he couldn’t even look her in the eye when he did it. She took a deep breath. “You do this for all the bikes you customize?”
“Yep, just somethin’ to follow when buildin’ it.”
“What do you do with the sketches after? Give them to the bike owners?”
He hesitated again. “Sure.”
Again lying.
“You draw anything other than bikes?”
Something flashed behind his eyes. “Let it go, Ivy.”
That wasn’t going to happen. But at this moment, she could either call him out on it or let it go. However, she’d give him a reprieve for now since she really needed to get to work before Dex and Ace started blowing up her phone.
She rolled the drawing back up and held it out to him. He snagged it, grabbed the hair band from her fingers and secured the
sketch.
Slipping out of bed, she snagged her panties and tank top off the pile of clothes on the floor. “Can you do me one thing, honey?”
His gaze followed her every move as she yanked up her panties and slipped the tank over her head. He bent down and hooked her bra, then tossed it in her direction. She caught it. “Gotta put that on if you’re gonna walk outta here. Bra when you’re out. None when you’re home with me. Got me?”
Ivy opened her mouth to argue, but he cut her off. “Ain't gonna have words ‘bout it. Don’t’ wanna hear no shit ‘bout it, either. Got me, Ivy?”
Instead of answering, she ripped her tank back over her head and put on her bra, then finished getting dressed. As she tugged her ankle-high boots over her jeans, she said, “I do that for you, you show me that sketch when it’s done. Got me?”
A smile tugged at his lips. “Gotcha, baby. Can do.”
With a nod, she leaned in, gave him a quick kiss and turned to leave. Before she could open the door, she was pinned against it, his chest tight to her back. His mouth brushed her ear. “Lettin’ you go now, baby. But tonight, your apartment, gonna fuck you good. Dinner first, though.”
“Are you cooking?”
“Nope. You are.”
“Right. If you expect me to cook for you, you better do more than just fuck me.”
His low, warm chuckle made goosebumps break out all over her. “Deal.”
Suddenly, he smacked her ass hard, reached past her to yank the door open and shoved her out into the hall.
Before the door slammed shut, he said, “Gonna jerk off thinkin’ about smackin’ that ass some more.”
Ivy stared at the now shut door with her mouth open. She snapped it shut, smiled and rolled her eyes as she walked down the hallway, hoping she didn’t run into anyone this early on a Saturday morning.
Most of her day ended up being a blur since all she could do was picture Jag laying on his bed naked, stroking himself.
She might have short-changed a few customers.
Chapter Eleven
Jag wanted to growl and punch his fist through a wall. Instead, he snapped his response every time one of his brothers dared to say anything to him.
He was supposed to be over at Ivy’s, filling his belly with her surprisingly good cooking and draining his balls like he did last night. But he wasn’t.
Fuck no.
Diesel called in everyone for a late Sunday church meeting. And when he wanted everyone, he meant everyone. Even the fresh, wet-behind-the-ears prospects. Their Sergeant at Arms wasn’t fucking around.
Pierce pounded the gavel on the bar top and all heads turned toward their current president.
Though, Jag wanted to rip the man’s throat out for letting Ivy go into the Knights’ territory alone.
Rip it out and then shit down it.
He turned his head to where Zak stood, leaning against one of the walls, arms crossed over his chest, watching Pierce carefully. Jag caught his attention and Z did a chin lift his direction. In answer, Jag tilted his head toward the front of the clubhouse and his cousin just did a little shake of his head.
Now was not the time to take Pierce out as head brother.
But that day was coming.
It certainly was.
Zak needed to take his rightful place back at the head of the table. And Pierce wasn’t gaining any loyalty by making club decisions without bringing it to a vote.
Doing shit like that was anarchy.
Anarchy could implode a club. Destroy a brotherhood.
“Lookin’ a little edgy there, brother,” Ace murmured low as he sidled up to Jag.
Jag just grunted. Last thing he wanted to do was tell him the reason why.
“Just so you know, I sometimes leave the shop late. Know there’s some stray cats around, but damn, last night I heard some shit that certainly wasn’t anythin’ of the feline variety.”
Oh shit.
“Actually was a little disturbin’ since she’s my niece an’ I gotta look at her in the eyes almost every day.”
Jag stared at his boots, his jaw tight. “Gonna get my own place.”
“Yeah? When?”
“Soon as I get enough scratch.”
“Gotta bike to build first.”
That was true. “Yeah.”
“In the meantime, I’ll text you when Dex an’ I are clear of the shop. Don’t wanna hear that shit again. Got me?”
Jag finally looked Ivy’s uncle in the eye since he had a lot of respect for the older man and Ace deserved all his attention. “Got you.”
“Rather it be you than any of those others, but don’t wanna hear it, brother. An’ Dex don’t wanna hear his sister squealin’ like a stuck pig, either.”
“Got you,” Jag said more firmly, hoping Diesel would soon start talking so they could get off this subject.
With relief, Jag heard Diesel bark out, “Listen up. Been takin’ it in stride, but can’t do that anymore. Gonna look weak, vulnerable if we do. Gotta hit fast an’ hit hard. Leave a mark. Teach a lesson they won’t soon forget.”
Hoots and hollers rose up from the brothers and prospects standing in the common area and hanging up by the club bar.
Diesel continued, his words projecting through the large room, “Gotta keep vigilant. Two things your enforcer can’t stand... The Warriors touchin’ our bitches or our sleds. We let shit go for too long now.”
The sound of boots stomping on the concrete floor became deafening.
Diesel’s powerful deep voice rose above. “All right, fuckers, listen up. No matter what, gotta remember where we came from, where we’re goin’. Don’t want anyone else catchin’ a murder wrap an’ endin’ up in Greene. But gotta make a statement. One that’s gonna last.”
“Down and dirty ‘til dead!” Nash screamed their motto at the top of his lungs nearby. Hoots, piercing whistles, and “fuck yeahs” followed it.
Adrenaline flowed through the room and anger electrified the air around them. The excitement of getting vengeance on the Warriors was spreading.
“Gotta bead on a place in South Side where a few of ‘em’s been hangin’. A couple of us gonna go in colors flyin’, let ‘em know what an’ who hit ‘em. Some of you need to sit tight, sit watch on the businesses, on the families. Hawk will let you know your place. No lip, no shit. Do whatcha told.”
“Consequences for those who don’t,” Pierce added, standing on a chair next to Diesel, surveying the crowd. “Keep your shit tight.”
“Who’s goin’ to South Side?” Abe, one of the prospects, asked loudly. He looked ready for a challenge. But the guy was still young and green. He’d end up babysitting one of the businesses or have to head out to Ace’s farm to protect Ace’s family.
“None of you pencil dicks. You turds are a step above pussy. Short one prospect, so you all will get watch somewhere.”
“I’m goin’,” Jag muttered. It was his bike that was trashed, so there was no way Diesel was going without him. He was sure Zak would go since it was his ol’ lady that was almost snatched recently.
And he expected both of Ace’s sons, Diesel and Hawk, to head the ass kicking operation. They never backed away from a fight. Hell, Diesel started fist fights as early as kindergarten. He got tossed from school after giving some kid a black eye for breaking a little girl’s crayon. Luckily, the teacher stopped him before he shoved the broken crayon up the kid’s asshole.
The only person D was ever afraid of was Ace. And that changed when Diesel outgrew and outweighed him at sixteen. Ace had to start using his wits instead of a cuff upside the head to get his son in line.
Diesel had a good head on his shoulders, but he was also a hot head. And he enjoyed someone challenging him. Facing off with some Warriors would be pure pleasure for him.
“’Nuff talkin’. See Hawk for your task. Z, Jag, Dex, meet me an’ Pierce at the table.”
Zak cupped his mouth and yelled, “Down and dirty...”
A chorus rose up. “’Til dead!�
��
“Fuck yeah,” Jag murmured as he made his way to the club’s meeting room. If he wasn’t going to get to eat Ivy’s food or pussy tonight, at least he’d get the chance to bash some Warriors’ brains.
They did end up taking a prospect with them. They decided on Abe since he was good with his fists and smart to boot. They left him standing guard at the bikes around the corner from the Gypsy Rose, an Irish pub in the city where Diesel had gotten word that some of the Warriors had been hanging out.
Warming stools and wreaking havoc in a pub that wasn’t theirs. But that was typical Warrior mentality... wanting or even taking something that didn’t belong to them.
They had noticed a line of eight bikes with no prospect guarding them. Stupid fools.
As nomads they had no home territory, which was the reason they wanted Shadow Valley so badly. They thought since they were the Shadow Warriors, they belonged in the town whose name started with Shadow and where DAMC had planted roots back in the early seventies. The fledgling outlaw club didn’t ride through town until two years later. But founders Doc and Bear weren’t giving up their home base without a fight.
And here they were over forty years later—not to mention, numerous deaths—and the Warriors were still being a thorn in the Angels’ side. Tonight it was DAMC’s turn to stick them where it hurts. Draw first blood. Though, it probably wouldn’t be last blood.
Before going to prison, Zak fought hard to take the club all legit, and they were still headed in that direction, but shit like this kept dragging them backward.
Z had good reason to want vengeance, even though he was still on parole. Not only did a Warrior try to snatch Sophie right in front of him, during daylight on a public street, but they had set him up years ago. He had been charged with felony possession when they planted a chemical used to make meth in his apartment at the time. He did ten years for a crime he didn’t commit.
Ten fucking years. Parole or not, Jag would want to bash their heads in for that alone. He patted one of the back pockets in his jeans to check for his brass knuckles and the other to make sure his knife was still there after the ride over on a borrowed bike.
He had hated every second of being on a bike that wasn’t his. Didn’t feel natural. But every mile reminded him of who forced him onto that sled. Every time he pictured his baby in pieces he got a little hotter under the collar, his grip got tighter on the throttle, and his jaw turned to stone.
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