Jack (The Kings of Mayhem MC TENNESSEE series, book 1)

by Penny Dee

  “You look like shit,” she says with a big grin on her beautiful face.

  “And you’re a sight for sore eyes.”

  She raises an eyebrow. “Clearly, you’re high. I haven’t slept in days, and I don’t know when I showered last.” She sits beside me. “Are you going to die?”

  “Not today.”

  She takes my hand, and her face grows serious. When our eyes meet, I can see the concern pooled in hers. “You about done being shot at?”

  Her calm demeanor barely conceals the unease on her face. She doesn’t want me to risk it happening again.

  “You know I have to find out who did this, wildflower. I need to find out what this is all about.”

  She looks at our fingers entwined, her throat swallowing hard as she looks for the right words. “I could’ve lost you,” she whispers.

  I squeeze her hand. “But you didn’t, and you won’t.”

  She lifts her eyes, and they’re filled with so much affection. It makes me ache to hold her in my arms.

  “Come here.” I pull her to me, and she climbs onto the bed, snuggling into me as I wrap my arms around her. The movement sends needles of pain splintering through every nerve ending in my body, but it’s worth it just to have her in my arms. “Now tell me, why you haven’t slept in days?”

  “Because I was so damn worried about you,” she murmurs against the bare skin of my throat. “I couldn’t bear the thought of something else happening to you.”

  “Nothing’s going to happen to me.”

  “Other than being shot.”

  “Yeah, well, that happened. But I think I’m done.”

  “Good, because I don’t think I could bear it if I lost you.”

  Just like he said he would, later that afternoon, Doc gets me out of bed and up walking. He also removes the catheter—which doesn’t fucking tickle—forces food into my belly, despite my complaining that I’m not hungry, and makes me take a shower while he waits outside the door.

  In the bathroom, I check my reflection in the mirror.

  Despite feeling better, I look like shit and smell even worse.

  My hair is a tangled mess, and my face is barely recognizable under a week’s worth of scruff. I’ve lost weight, not a lot, but the lack of solid food over the last week has me looking gaunt as fuck.

  I press a finger to my cheekbone and study the new lines on my face. I don’t even look like me.

  Okay, I’m still high.

  My fingers drift down to the gauze pad stuck to my chest with medical tape. I peel it back to inspect the bullet wound and am surprised to see how well it’s healing already. My gaze shifts to the scar directly diagonal to it on the other side of my chest where the bullet from Ghost’s gun almost ended my life right alongside Cooper’s.

  I drop my head.

  I need a fucking drink.

  “You doing okay in there?” Doc’s voice floats through the door.

  Am I doing okay?

  I think about Bronte, and a wave of something that feels like strength flows through me.

  I lift my head. “I don’t need a hand, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “Hey, I ain’t offering. Just making sure you ain’t dead on the floor, is all.”

  A faint smile tugs at my lips. “I’m fine.”

  “Okay, just take it easy.” He pauses and then adds, “Don’t worry about getting those dressings wet, I’ll change them after your shower.”

  Because I’m so weak, I go through the motions like I’m in slow motion.

  Shower.

  Soap.

  Dry off.

  Brush teeth.

  Done.

  Bronte brought me fresh clothes from home, so I slip on a clean pair of sweatpants but don’t bother with a shirt.

  After dressing, I’m fucking exhausted.

  I should shave so I don’t look like a Neanderthal, but I stall at the basin when a wave of fatigue washes over me.

  There’s a small knock at the door.

  “Still ain’t dead on the floor, Doc,” I call out.

  But it isn’t Doc, it’s Bronte.

  “Can I come in?”

  My little wildflower.

  “It’s unlocked.”

  The door opens, and Bronte steps in, and a familiar warm feeling wraps itself tight around my heart.

  “Doc send you in to babysit?”

  “I offered.” She gives me a dimpled smile. “He said he’ll come back later to change those dressings.”

  “You got him to leave? I’m impressed.”

  Her smile is mischievous. “He probably thinks I’m going to come in here and ravage you.”

  The thought is appealing, but I don’t say anything.

  I should pull things back a notch.

  Someone shot me in the fucking chest, and until I find out what happened, I need all my focus on healing and getting my head right.

  Despite that, this close, she’s a temptation I want to keep around. She makes me feel stronger. Loved.

  She notices the razor in my hand and the bottle of shaving cream by the sink. “Need help?” she asks.

  I nod. Not because I need it—because I’m feeling stronger by the minute. No, I agree because having her touch me right now is exactly what I want her to do, and I’m too damn tired to fight it.

  I lean against the basin while she coats my face in shaving cream and begins to gently scrape the razor over my skin.

  “You ever done this before?” I ask.

  “No, but how hard can it be, right?” She leans closer. “Besides, I have to shave a vagina, and they’re a lot more sensitive than a face, let me tell you.” She gives me a wink, but her words have already gone straight to my dick, and now I have to repeat the multiplication tables in my head so I don’t tent the front of my sweatpants.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle,” she says as she glides the razor further down my jaw.

  This close I can smell her breath, it’s sweet like honey, and I can see every perfect inch of her beautiful face. The light scattering of freckles across her nose. The bright blue irises and thick black lashes of her eyes. The delicate skin of her luscious pink lips I’m dying to kiss even though I’m supposed to be pulling back.

  “How am I doing?” she asks.

  “Gr… great.” My voice breaks because with every stroke of the razor, I feel myself falling closer to her.

  She can feel it too because she keeps licking her lips, and I can see her pulse racing in her throat. Being this close to me is affecting her, just as much as it’s affecting me.

  I’m desperate to kiss her, but I hold back.

  When she leans over to pick up the face towel resting on the sink, her breasts brush against me, and I almost come undone.

  I swallow back the lust.

  When she’s finished, she pats my face dry and then stands back and smiles. But when our eyes meet, her smile fades. The air snaps with heat. There is no denying how I feel. The pressure is too much. I need to release some of the steam before I burst like a goddamn balloon.

  My resolve vanishes.

  Fuck holding back.

  Right or wrong, I don’t have the strength left in me to fight the attraction.

  I need to touch her.

  Kiss her.

  Make her fucking scream my name as she comes beneath me.

  To hell with the consequences.

  I’ll face them tomorrow.

  I take her face in my hands and crush my lips to hers.

  I kiss her.

  I kiss her so damn hard.

  When she sighs softly into my mouth, I moan and take the kiss deeper.

  She tastes so damn good.

  Feels so damn good.

  Suddenly, my body isn’t so tired anymore. After a week of rest, it wakes up like a bomb has gone off inside me. Kissing her, I walk her backward into the bedroom, and I don’t stop until we reach the bed.

  “Please don’t stop,” she begs against my lips.

  I hold her f
ace to mine. “I have no intention of stopping.”

  My tongue sweeps deeply into her mouth, and she whimpers her appreciation. When she breaks the kiss and steps back, I watch with my eyes riveted to hers as the thin sheath of satiny fabric she’s wearing falls to the floor.

  The last of my breath leaves me, right along with my restraint.

  Seeing her naked, I go weak in the fucking knees.

  She’s fucking perfect. So smooth and tight, her skin flawless and golden, her breasts ample and firm with pert, dusky nipples.

  The last morsel of my exhaustion dissipates. Vanquished by an all-consuming lust.

  I yank her to me and ravage her mouth, my kiss fierce, the frustration of the past few weeks pouring out of me as I finally give the fuck in.

  God, I’m going to fucking die from how good this feels.

  I guide her onto the bed and crawl over her. My hand slips between her thighs, and I jerk when I feel the slick velvetiness of her wet pussy.

  Fuck, this is going to kill me.

  I kiss her harder.

  Rub her pussy faster.

  “I want you inside me,” she pants.

  My cock wants inside her so bad. It’s punching against my sweats aching to be touched and desperately wanting to slide in and out of all that warm, slick flesh.

  But I’m not going to make love to her here.

  I’ve fucked other women in this room.

  Had threesomes in this bed.

  Had foursomes amongst these sheets.

  And Bronte deserves more than me claiming her in a clubhouse fuck room.

  When I take her, she’s going to see stars and smell roses. Not grease and sweat and stale air. But just because I’m not going to be inside her tonight, doesn’t mean I’m not going to do other things to show her how much she means to me. At the very least, I’m going to make her come.

  Lots.

  “Jack… please…” she begs, but I kiss her plea from her quivering lips as my thumb continues its torturous tease of her clit.

  I’m hard as fuck, and it’s taking every ounce of discipline not to give in and give her what she’s asking for.

  In fact, it’s fucking torture.

  I rise on my knees, and her eyes drop to the tented front of my sweatpants.

  Yeah, there’s no hiding what touching her pussy is doing to me.

  But this isn’t about me.

  I’m going to satisfy my little flower’s throbbing need and then some.

  I thrust open her thighs, and my lips fall apart with a tortured, ragged breath when I see how smooth and pink she is.

  Holding back is going to be much harder than I thought.

  “Fuck, wildflower…” I groan drinking in the view. “You’re goddamn perfect.”

  Lust is a tight coil in my pelvis as I drop between her legs and lead a trail of kisses along her inner thigh, my tongue sliding across her flesh until I reach her wetness. She gasps when my tongue slides beneath the smooth warm flesh and penetrates her with deep, purposeful licks.

  “Oh, Jack…” My name falls from her lips in a strangled whisper.

  When my mouth closes over her clit and grazes the swollen bud of nerves, she anchors her toes to the bed and arches her back. Her moan comes from the very core of her. It’s deep and drawn out and brings me to the brink of my own climax.

  “I’m going to come,” she cries. “Jack…” She reaches for the bedhead behind her, and her knees cage me as her body succumbs to the pleasure I’m conjuring at the altar of her pussy.

  BRONTE

  He makes me come three times.

  And by the end of it, I’m nothing but a rag doll.

  I can barely move.

  I’m so supple, I am as pliable as playdough, so I lie on my side so I can look at him.

  My big strong biker king.

  He lies on his back with one arm tucked behind his head, the other stroking my arm as he stares at the ceiling. He seems content, but making me come has left him hard and his cock is a missile behind his sweatpants.

  “It doesn’t seem very fair me lying here content while you’re so…”

  His beautiful eyes question mine. “So?”

  My gaze sweeps down to the rigid outline of his massive erection.

  “Big?” he suggests with a tug of amusement on his lips. “Massive?”

  I grin at his confidence. “I was going to say… ready.” With my eyes riveted to his, I slide my hand down his chest and across his abs.

  He said he wouldn’t make love to me here, and for whatever his reasons are, I respect them. But he said nothing about denying himself the release.

  “Wildflower…” he growls when my hand slides beneath the waistband of his sweatpants.

  “Shut up,” I say. “Let me do this.”

  He shivers when I grasp him, and his lips part with a breathless groan as I start to stroke him, slowly, root to tip. His cock is big. Thick. And it feels deliciously heavy and hard against my palm.

  “God, I feel like I’m going to combust.” He groans.

  My grip tightens beneath his sweatpants, and I feel him swell against my palm. The pad of my thumb grazes the tip of his head, and he growls, “Fuck.”

  His breathing quickens, and his hands fist the sheets beside him. “This isn’t going to take long,” he pants out as my pace picks up speed.

  His chest rises and falls, but he shifts restlessly.

  My skin tingles with anticipation—he’s going to come.

  “Baby, squeeze my cock,” he begs. I do, and when he growls with appreciation, a new throb of arousal takes up in me as I watch his approaching orgasm ravage his handsome face.

  I’m doing this to him.

  I’m putting that look on his face.

  His eyes glaze over, and his mouth slackens as ecstasy sweeps through his expression.

  “Bronte…” He gasps my name and thrusts his head into the pillow. “Oh, God…”

  With greedy eyes, I watch him come apart while I milk him. His cock jerks in my hand in time with the ragged, primal cry erupting from him. Wet warmth hits my skin with a pulse, one, two, three times, and a violent shudder quakes through him with the release.

  Drunk on a post-orgasm high, he sinks into the mattress and draws in a deep, contented breath. “I needed that,” he whispers, pulling my face to his and kissing me.

  “I could tell,” I reply against his lips.

  His lips graze my forehead as he falls back into the pillows and nestles me into his warm embrace with a sigh.

  An hour later, I’m putting on one of Jack’s flannel shirts when someone knocks on the door. After Jack tells them to enter, it opens, and Shooter walks in with Ares close behind.

  By the look on their faces, something’s up.

  “This looks serious,” Jack says, his face a blank expression.

  “We need to talk.” Shooter’s eyes slide to mine, then back to Jack. “We’ve had some developments we need to discuss.”

  “What are they?”

  Shooter looks at me again. “We should probably talk alone.”

  Club business.

  I get it.

  I shove my feet into my boots. “Sure thing, I was about to get coffee, anyway.”

  “No, she stays,” Jack says.

  We all look at him.

  Shooter knows better than to argue, but that doesn’t stop him from looking unimpressed. I have a feeling he doesn’t like what is unfolding between Jack and me. That perhaps I’m a distraction, or some kind of threat to Jack’s healing.

  Both body and soul.

  Regardless, he forges ahead and places three large photographs on the bed.

  “Ares, Paw, and I spent the last week inspecting the stretch of road where you were shot.” He fans the photographs out like a hand of cards. One is of a road sign full of buckshot. The other is a row of broken bottles and jars lined up on a weather-beaten fence. The final one, is an aerial view of the area.

  Shooter uses a pen to point at the different locat
ions on the aerial shot.

  “The road sign is here, the fence is here, and you were shot here.” The different locations form an invisible triangle. Shooter points to another area on the map, only a few inches from where Jack was shot. “This is the Creekmore Farm.”

  “Jimmy Creekmore…” Jack says. “Has a bunch of kids.”

  “Yeah, a bunch of kids who like using this stretch of road for target practice.”

  The connotation in his voice is unmistakable.

  Jack’s brows draw in. “Kids did this?”

  “I’m afraid so, Jack. I spoke to Jimmy Creekmore myself. When he learned how sick you were, he wanted to make sure it wasn’t his kids who were involved. Said you helped save his farm a few years back when the floods hit. Gave me his kids’ guns to be sure it wasn’t them. Paw spoke to his friend over in the Federal lab in Nashville, and they ran the ballistics as a favor. The bullet Doc pulled out of you came from one of the Creekmore’s Remingtons.”

  “You mean, this was an accident?” I ask.

  Shooter nods. “A one in a ten million chance shot, according to Banks.”

  Banks is a master mathematician.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” I whisper.

  I don’t know if I should be relieved because it isn’t anything sinister, or cry because Jack almost died due to a bunch of careless kids letting off a stray shot.

  “You’re absolutely certain?” Jack asks.

  “We’ve been working on this since it happened.” Shooter gathers up the pictures. “I’d bet my life on it.”

  “As would I,” Ares adds, speaking for the first time since entering the room. Not unusual for Ares. He doesn’t speak a lot. His towering height and commanding presence usually speak enough for him.

  “Does Jimmy know?” Jack asks Shooter.

  “Not yet. We only got word from Paw’s contact in the last hour. How do you want this to play out?”

  He’s asking about payback.

  “They’re kids,” Jack says.

  If they weren’t, it would be a different story.

  “A better outcome than we thought,” Shooter replies.

  He’s right. At least this wasn’t the Appalachian Inferno, or worse, Ghost.