Down & Dirty: Books 1-3: Dirty Angels MC Series Box Set

by St. James, Jeanne

  She groaned in frustration as her gaze swept the room again. Hands on her hips, she blew a chunk of hair out of her face. When it landed over her eye again, she swiped at it and looked up at the annoying red strand.

  Then it hit her. The drop ceiling.

  She detested them, but they made excellent hiding spots.

  Her heart began to thump hard in her chest. They were up there. She just knew it. No other place they could be unless he hid them at another location completely.

  But they couldn’t be far from his pencils.

  She grabbed the rickety wooden chair in the corner of his room and dragged it next to the bed. The chair shook and shimmied when she climbed up and reached her arms up. She could barely touch the ceiling tile above her with the tips of her fingers.

  Shit.

  She did a little jump, knocking it to the side and... nothing.

  Damn it.

  She wanted to scream. Instead, she bit her bottom lip, knocked the tile back in place into its metal frame and climbed off the chair. She shifted it farther from his bed. Climbing back on the wiggling chair, she knocked the next tile to the side, hoping the piece of shit chair wouldn’t collapse underneath her.

  Suddenly, she was pelted with loose papers, rolled up drawings, and last but not least, a drawing pad bounced off her noggin.

  “Ouch!” She rubbed the top of her head and glanced down around her.

  Holy shit.

  There were more than she expected. They had spilled onto his bed and the floor.

  The ones that landed right side up were in black and white, some in color. They seemed endless.

  Endless.

  She scooted to the floor, watching where she stepped, gathering as many into her arms as she could without crushing or wrinkling them. She piled them on his bed and when she finally collected them all, sat next to the large pile, looking at each one, her jaw hanging, her eyes wide.

  Her mind spinning.

  Custom bikes, Harleys and more, old muscle cars, new sports cars. All customized. Some of them looked like concept cars.

  But all of them, all of them, were as detailed as the one found under the bar.

  When did he have time to do these? It must be years of work.

  Years.

  Once she finished looking through the pile, her gaze landed on the rolled drawings. The ones secured by wide rubber bands. She grabbed the nearest one, slipped off the rubber band and unrolled it.

  Holy shit.

  Holy shit.

  Holy shit.

  Her own portrait stared back at her. She quickly grabbed the next one, opened it. The next one. The next. There had to be at least twenty.

  Twenty fucking pictures of her. Not one other woman. Not one other portrait. Only her.

  Again, some black and grey, some in color with her hair a fiery red, her eyes a bright green.

  She pressed her fingers to her mouth as she laid them out over the bed, her eyes bouncing from one to the next.

  She was naked in almost all of them. But they were tastefully done. The realism and details incredible. She looked flirty, sexy, smoldering in almost every one of them. The way he had her posed, none seemed obscene at all. They were artistic, tasteful.

  Then one caught her attention, and she pulled it closer, her fingers trembling. She was sitting, maybe on a bed or something similar, and she peered over her shoulder, like a model would gaze at the artist, smiling softly, her hair like a soft cloud falling around her shoulders.

  She wasn’t completely naked in this one. Oh no. She was wearing only his cut. His cut. A vest with the patches clearly stating, “Property of Jag.”

  One like the ol’ ladies wore.

  Her heart stopped for a second then slammed against the front of her chest.

  Most of the drawings were signed and dated. The signature just a squiggle, but the dates clearly marked.

  She inspected the date of this one. Over a year ago. A couple months before she dragged him upstairs that first time.

  Holy shit.

  She swept her hand through the sketches, peering at the dates. A few were recent, in the last few months.

  Most were from years ago.

  Years.

  Like the cars and bikes, he’d been sketching her for years.

  She shivered as both a warmth and a coldness ran through her. Warmth because she could sense the intensity of his feelings for her in each one of his sketches. Cold because she had pushed him away, fought him at every turn. Denied both of them, denied what they could be for one another.

  Before she could stop it, a tear ran down her cheek and dropped to the rumpled sheet, barely missing one of the drawings.

  She swiped at her face so she wouldn’t get them wet. She needed to protect them, put them back in their hiding spot. But she didn’t want to. She wanted to take them with her. Show the world his talent. It shouldn’t be hidden. Not like this. Talent like this shouldn’t be tucked away in a ceiling.

  She needed to confront him, but she didn’t know how. How did she explain her breaking into his room and finding years’ and years’ worth of his drawings, something he clearly poured his heart and soul into?

  She needed to grab that original sketch she found, the one she had tucked back under the bar yesterday morning after showing it to the girls.

  That’s the one she had to confront him with. Tonight. Maybe after the party.

  Grabbing her cell phone, she snapped pictures of some of the drawings as she neatly put them back into a pile. Then she photographed every one of her before rolling them back up and securing them again.

  She hated putting them back in that black hole in the ceiling. That’s not where they belonged.

  He also didn’t belong in this clubhouse, in this club. He could be something way bigger than he was.

  By being DAMC, he was holding himself back.

  And that hurt her heart.

  Chapter Ten

  Jag flipped his pillow over and punched it, trying to get it adjusted just right. He sighed. He wasn’t going to be able to sleep. The music was still way too loud, and he wasn’t drunk enough to pass out.

  Hell, he wasn’t drunk at all.

  Nope, he was stone cold sober. He’d made sure to remain that way as he watched Ivy flit around the party in the courtyard, laughing and joking with some of the brothers, talking to her girls, but giving Dawg’s strippers and the sweet butts a wide berth.

  He’d finally went upstairs when he couldn’t take anymore. He couldn’t watch her and not touch her. He couldn’t hear her laughter and not want to kiss her, then drag her upstairs to his bed. He couldn’t bear her laughing and joking with one of the brothers and not want to slide his dick deep inside her.

  Jag flipped over, shoved his face into his pillow and bellowed. Not that anyone would hear him, the music was way too loud. Strains of a Bob Seger song seeped through the floor and walls into his room indicating the party was still in full swing.

  Typical Friday night.

  He needed to move out of church and get his own place where he had privacy. A place he could escape to when Ivy showed up for club gatherings.

  He needed to avoid her as much as possible. At least until the pain dulled to a point where he could bear it.

  He shot straight up when his door rattled. The lock clicked, and the door opened, a dim strip of light sliding across his bed. His hand automatically reached between his mattress and box spring, but he froze and curled his fingers into fists.

  No mistaking the curves silhouetted in the doorway. He cursed under his breath as the door closed and the room became dark again.

  Jag listened to the rustling as she moved about his room. Then he heard a gasp and a searing curse as she knocked what he could only imagine was a knee into the bed frame. He pinned his lips together. He didn’t want to get stabbed in the dark for laughing.

  “Should I get you a key?” he asked, pulling himself up to lean back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest.

 
; The shadowed figure halted in place and after a heartbeat or two, she said, “What fun would that be?”

  “I’d say it’d be faster, but you’re pretty damn skilled with pickin’ a lock.”

  There was another curse as she stumbled over his boots.

  With a sigh, he rolled out of bed, pressed past her and hit the light switch. The room lit up and so did all that fucking red hair of hers.

  His heart stopped and his breath left him in a rush. She stood in the middle of his room naked, holding a bottle of whiskey. He pushed past the urge to throw her onto the bed and pump into her until his nuts were dried up raisins.

  Instead he grumbled, “Told you I was done with you.”

  Her gaze dropped from his face—after pausing on his lips—then slowly ran down his chest and stomach. By the time she hit his dick, there was no hiding the fact he wanted her.

  “I’m not done with you,” she whispered, then bit her lip.

  Watching her teeth dig into her plump bottom lip made his balls tighten. He was proud of himself for not immediately grabbing his dick and stroking it.

  She lifted the whiskey in her hand. “Brought Jack for a threesome.”

  His gaze flicked to the half-empty bottle. “You drunk?”

  She tilted her head, her green eyes spearing his soul. “No. You?”

  “Hell no.” He stepped closer, so she was now within arm’s reach but refrained from touching her.

  His willpower was being sorely tested, though. His fingertips itched, his cock flexed, his balls were crying for relief. “You only end up in my bed willingly when you’re drunk, Ivy. Gotta be drunk to be with me?”

  She glanced at the bottle in her hand, then stepped behind him to place it on his old, scarred dresser.

  He didn’t have to turn to know she was directly behind him. His nostrils flared as he inhaled her scent, and her heat warmed the skin of his back. He steeled himself against the shiver that wanted to race down his spine.

  When her hands cupped his shoulders from behind, and her lips pressed to the top of his spine, he bit back a groan.

  He wasn’t going to let her do this to him. He wasn’t going to let her pull him back in.

  He had given her a choice: in or out. And she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t be all in. She couldn’t be with him.

  So why was she here now torturing him like this?

  Because her touching him, kissing him, wearing nothing but that hair that drove him fucking nuts, was nothing but torture.

  “Sorry about your bike,” she murmured against his skin. She leaned slightly away as her fingertips outlined the rockers and large DAMC logo tattooed onto his back.

  His fingers clenched into fists and he dropped his head, closing his eyes. He needed to keep his shit together.

  He struggled to suck in air as she finished tracing every line of that tattoo. The tattoo that mirrored the patches on his cut, that tattoo that covered his whole back and signified his club, his family, his brotherhood, his loyalty, and represented every aspect of his life.

  He was DAMC.

  Never once in his life had he wanted anything different.

  And never once in his life had he wanted anyone but Ivy.

  Any other woman had been a temporary fix, only a balm to soothe his needs.

  “You showin’ up here mean you’re all in?”

  His stomach felt empty and hollow when she wrapped her arms around his waist, pressing her cheek to his back, but not answering him.

  He opened his eyes and circled her wrists with his hands. “You all in, Ivy?” Her answer would determine if he pulled those arms tighter around him or pulled them away.

  “I—” she started.

  Disappointment bubbled up, making him squeeze his eyes shut once again. He shook his head.

  “I have a favor to ask,” she finished.

  He glanced over his shoulder, though he couldn’t see her since she was still pressed to his back and she was much smaller than him. “What’s that, baby?”

  “Can I— Can we take it one day at a time? Can you give me that?”

  He’d already waited too long. His patience had hit its limit a long time ago. If she didn’t understand that... “Ivy—”

  “Mick...”

  He stiffened and tightening his grip on her wrists, he removed her arms from around him, stepping away. He turned to face her, shaking his head. He tamped down his temper. “No.”

  “Just listen—”

  “No.”

  She moved forward, her eyes pleading, her hand outstretched like she was going to cup his cheek. Against his better judgment, he met her halfway and stepped into her touch. Her fingers gripped his jaw as he stared down into her breathtakingly beautiful face causing the ache in his chest to turn into a sharp pain.

  Her little pink tongue slipped out as she licked her lips. She began again, “Listen, give me that. Give me time. Give me Mick. Let Mick be mine and mine alone. Let everyone else have Jag. The club, the brothers, your customers, everyone... But, please... let Mick be mine.”

  It was hard not to give her anything and everything she asked for when she looked at him like that.

  “Just a name,” he grumbled.

  Her hand trailed down his chest. “Not to me.”

  And that’s why it bothered him so much when she used it. “Can’t deny who I am. Not only that, who you are.”

  “I’ve lived it my whole life,” she answered softly. “So, you’re right, I can’t deny it. But sometimes I need a change.”

  “Not going to change.” He captured her hand under his when it reached his lower stomach and pressed it to his erection. “Right now, don’t care what you call me. Call me Mick, call me Jag, call me asshole. Just call me yours.”

  Her fingers encircled him, squeezing him tight at the root. Fuck, he wanted to do nothing but thrust into her fist.

  “Promise me you won’t take it to the table, you won’t claim me. Not yet. I’m asking for you to give me the time I need.”

  “How much time?” And what if at the end of that time, she decided that being his ol’ lady wasn’t for her and she walked away? Then what? He’d be worse off than he was now. Seeing his Harley as a metal scrap pile would be nothing compared to losing Ivy forever. To finally have her and then watch her slip through his fingers...

  That couldn’t happen.

  But was it better to have her for a little while than not at all?

  Hell yeah, it was.

  “Don’t answer that. Give you all the time you need.” It went against every fiber of his being to say that, but he knew it was for the best. For him. For her. For both of them.

  She melted against him, his arm automatically circling her shoulders as he tipped her face up to his and dropped his head, taking her lips.

  She tasted like Ivy, his Ivy, as his tongue swept through her mouth. He deepened the kiss, and a groan bubbled up from the back of her throat. He swallowed it but quickly gave it back to her as one of his own.

  He dug fingers into her hair when her tongue tangled with his, encouraging him to kiss her harder, deeper. He complied but managed to shift her around without breaking their kiss. Or her grip on his throbbing cock.

  And if she didn’t stop stroking it, he was going to shoot a load all over the both of them.

  Finally, he pulled away enough to say, “Gotta stop, baby. Wanna come in you, not on you.”

  She gave him a wicked smile that he felt all the way to his dick. “On me isn’t bad, either.”

  “Not this time.” With that, he picked her up and tossed her onto the bed. He climbed on after her, crawling up the bed, like a jaguar stalking his prey.

  Her laugh was low and throaty as she swept her hair out of her face and met his eyes. “Whatcha gonna do to me, Mick?”

  “Probably not much this first time, baby. Make up for it during the second.”

  “Promise?” she asked breathlessly, her eyes hooded, her nipples peaked and begging for his mouth.

  “Fuck yea
h. Also promise to make sure I lick an’ kiss every one of those fuckin’ freckles on your body before that time I’m givin’ you runs out.”

  “Mmm.” Her smile widened. “That’s a lot of freckles.”

  “Damn right.”

  “Might take you awhile. You better get started.”

  He grunted and sucked one of her nipples deep into his mouth.

  “I see you’re starting with one of the bigger ones.”

  He couldn’t help but smile against the fullness of her luscious tit. He rolled the other nipple between his fingers and tweaked it hard, making her back arch and her head roll back, giving him access to that long, delicate neck of hers. He took advantage by nipping her from the hollow of her throat up, then kissing along her smooth ivory skin on the way back down.

  He pulled himself forward on his elbows until he was face to face with her. “Hope you’re wet. Gonna test it in a sec. Just want you to know, if you’re not, might not have the strength to hold off until you are.”

  And, fuck if that wasn’t the truth. If he didn’t sink into her pink, tight cunt soon he would explode. And it wouldn’t be pretty.

  He reached between them, not breaking eye contact, and watched her face change and mouth part when he brushed her clit on his way down to dipping a finger inside her.

  She was soaked.

  Thank. Fuck.

  He guided the head of his dick between her wet folds and pressed slowly inside, feeling her take him all, her inner muscles squeezing him tight. He stilled and pinned his forehead to hers, once again trying to keep his shit together.

  He needed to take a moment.

  Just a moment.

  “Fuck me, Mick,” she whispered, her green eyes hazy, unfocused.

  He grunted as he ground his hips against her. The hot silk that surrounded him made him just about lose his mind. And when she grabbed his ass and dug her nails in while pulling her knees back, he began to move.

  He wanted to let loose, slam her hard, spill into her as quickly as possible, but he forced himself to keep a steady rhythm that would make it last more than seconds. Not that it was going to last much longer than that.

  He needed a distraction, something to keep him from falling completely into her wet heat and never being able to escape.