JETT (Savage Saints MC Book 3)

by Carmen Jenner

  “I know,” I pant. “Make love to me, Jett.”

  “I don’t know the first thing about makin’ love, babe. I only know how to make you feel alive again.”

  “Just make me feel something. Please, please?”

  He grinds his pelvis into mine, his hard cock pushing at my entrance. He slides a hand between us and shoves inside. I’m wet just from looking at him, but not enough that it doesn’t hurt. I cry out, but he doesn’t stop. He just pulls out a little of the way and slams right back in, hard enough that my back arches off the mattress. My nipples bead as his chest brushes them and I moan and hook my arms around his neck. I wrap my legs around his hips and dig my heels into his arse with each thrust, pushing him deeper.

  “Jett,” I moan.

  “Jesus, Angel. I could get used to your pussy milking my dick. Come on my cock, baby. I wanna see your face when you come, and know that I was responsible for it.”

  I fall into the sensations of his body on top of mine, his cock inside me and the way my heart suddenly feels lighter, beats harder, and can finally be free to love him.

  “Christ. You’re so fucking hot. How did I get so goddamn lucky?”

  Tears slip from the corners of my eyes and I let go, of Joshua, of the guilt and shame, of everything. I come as I unravel. I cry his name, and I smile when he finally reaches his climax and empties inside me.

  I’m limp as a wet noodle, pliable, and all his. Every nerve ending in my body exploded in bliss and longing, satiation, and hunger for him. More of him. I’ll never get enough of him, of this feeling, or of having him inside me.

  When we’re both physically spent, I curl into the crook of Jett’s arm, and he touches my back with idle strokes. Neither of us says a thing. We don’t have to. My guilt slams into me—it just about eats me alive, and I wonder if it’s the same for him. Did he think of his wife? Does he wish she was here with him instead of me, so he could hold her one more time?

  I attempt to sit up, but Jett pulls me closer. “Where are you goin’, darlin’?”

  “I just ... I don’t know. I can’t be here.”

  “Well, shit. Never picked you for the wham-bam-thank-you-man type. You really gonna run out on me in your own apartment?”

  “I can’t breathe. We just ... my husband’s body is barely even covered and already I’ve jumped into bed with another man.”

  “Not another man. With me.” He levels his gaze on me, as if that makes a difference. As if the fact that it’s Jett, a man I love, makes me any less of a whore. “You and I have been dancin’ around this shit for well over a year now, and I’d be willing to bet it’s not your husband that’s got you spooked. Because if you’re really honest with yourself, he was dead to you a lot longer than a few days ago.”

  “Get out!”

  “Raine.”

  “How dare you say that to me!”

  “Say what to you—the truth?” He stands, pulls on his leathers, and tosses his shirt over his head. “Like it or not, babe, we both know it. You haven’t had sex with that man for six years, and you never forgave him for trying to leave you, did you? You might still love him. Hell, you’ll probably always love him. Maybe more than the next schmuck who comes along and falls in love with you. That bastard who’s lucky enough to gain a glimpse into your world, your heart, your bed.”

  “You need to leave.”

  “More fool me, huh? For wantin’ to be that man.”

  I bury my head in my hands. “I can’t deal with this right now.”

  “But you can deal with my cock? Is that it? You ain’t got time for me unless I’m shoving my dick inside you? I thought you were different, darlin’. Turns out, I don’t know shit.” He grabs his cut from the floor and stalks out of the room.

  The front door slams, and I slide down the wall and wallow in my own self-destruction.

  RAINE

  Two weeks later

  JETT IS AVOIDING ME. Not that I can really blame him. I did sleep with him and kick him out before the sweat had even dried on our bodies. This past two weeks without him have been hell—an endless cycle of tears, Netflix, and chill from the cold shoulder he’s giving me, not the actual fucking, because there’s none of that going on in this apartment.

  The club were on a run to some small town on the far north coast of New South Wales where they hold a hemp festival every year. Jett hadn’t answered any of my calls, and I’m trying not to take it personally, but even Indie and Ivy had heard from their men before they returned. Maybe that’s my problem—I need to stop thinking of Jett as mine.

  I can’t stand to mope around this apartment any longer. I’ve already cleaned it from top to bottom and there is only so many times I can scrub the bath with a broken wrist. Especially when it’s spotless anyway. I’d thought of visiting the clubhouse to take a little of my OCD tendencies out on the filth the Saints have likely left since I moved out, but I’m not supposed to be driving yet with my cast.

  Instead, I shoot a quick text to Indie, who tells me she’s no longer on the late shift at Death Before Decaf—the café where she works. I tell her to come over in twenty minutes for tacos and tequila. I head into the bathroom to fix my face and brush my hair. Being around other people right now is the best thing for me. I would have extended the invite to Ivy too, but she’s in the Blue Mountains, and she’s not supposed to drive on account of never officially getting her licence. I make a mental note to organise drinks with the both of them at some point, now that they’re finally getting along. Maybe it was putting the two of them together in a room at lockdown that made them realise they weren’t so different. They’d been through atrocities at the hands of men, and through even more once they fell in love with men from the Savage Saints MC.

  I guess we all have that in common.

  I apply a little powder and mascara, and open the cabinet for a ponytail holder when a dilapidated box at the back of the shelf catches my eye. With trembling hands, I pull it from the cupboard, and drop it just as quickly. My stomach roils as I stare at the brightly coloured foil-wrapped squares resting in the pristine sink. Chills break out all along my body and a shiver runs the length of my spine.

  It’s ironic that the second I see the tattered condoms that belonged to my dead husband, my heart pangs, and I’m painfully aware of my bodily functions over the last few weeks. We didn’t use protection, we didn’t use ... oh, God. We didn’t use protection either time. Two weeks ago, I was half-mad, out of my mind with grief, and Jett felt so good. I didn’t even think to stop. And in the clubhouse, before Mia and Josh, before we were both widowed, I didn’t ... we didn’t. My gut churns and I run the few paces to the toilet and throw up.

  No, no, no, no, no.

  I can’t be pregnant. I’ve had periods. I haven’t been puking up my guts. My breasts have been a little tender, and I’ve been nauseous and unable to sleep, but that was just fear and grief. Wasn’t it? I can’t be pregnant. I’m a fucking widow, for God’s sake. I ... slept with my boss and then kicked him out after he’d been so good to me.

  Oh, God.

  I stand on shaking legs and brush my teeth, fighting the urge to throw up again. I splash my face, not caring that my makeup is running down my cheeks, and grab my phone and wallet from the hall table.

  I don’t feel as if I’ve taken a breath since I left my apartment, and I stare out at the rain through my windshield. I shoot off a quick text to Indie saying something has come up and I’m so sorry to have to cancel. She doesn’t reply. I slide the keys into the ignition and start the car. Once I reach the discount chemist, I head inside and take several boxes off the shelf, tossing them all into my cart. I grab a packet of plain chips and a lemonade because I can’t remember the last time I had either.

  Once inside the car, I bust into the chips and scoff them down as I drive. I uncap the lemonade and guzzle it as if I’m alcoholic, fresh out of rehab and getting my first taste of hard liquor in twenty-eight days.

  Oh, God. I drank. The night of Josh’s fu
neral, I drank an entire bottle of wine. The urge to puke up my guts overwhelms me, and I have to pull off onto the shoulder and scramble over the passenger side to open the door so I don’t get hit on a major highway. I retch for what feels like an hour. Cars pass at breakneck speed and my head swims. I can’t be pregnant. I can’t be.

  When I come up for air, I’m woozy and light-headed and I stagger back inside the car and drive home. I get inside the elevator and hastily push the buttons, but Mrs Robinson enters behind me with her very vocal English Bulldog, Winston.

  “Hello, dear,” she says, appraising my outfit with her critical gaze.

  “Hi,” I say, hoping she can’t make out the sheer panic on my face.

  “Are you alright, Raine? You’re looking a little green?”

  “Oh, I um ... I have a ...” A tiny human growing inside me. “A stomach bug.” Not technically a lie. I could just have a twenty-four-hour flu. “Best not get too close.” I shift away, and slide my shopping bag to my side, between the wall and me, but her shrewd gaze catches it, and she stares at the pregnancy tests through the flimsy plastic bag.

  “That’s certainly an interesting way of looking at it.”

  My face falls and I’m certain I turn beet red.

  Finally, the elevator comes to a stop and I exit, but Mrs Robinson grabs my arm before I can get away. “This is what happens when you lower yourself to the level of bikers and deadbeats.”

  “Get your fucking hands off me.” I shove her away. Her dog growls. “Those deadbeats are some of the best men I know.”

  She shakes her head. “What would your husband say?”

  “I don’t know. He’s not here on account of trying to kill himself. He left me long before he ever left this earth.” Even as I say the words, I’m both shocked and elated. The truth of that fact sinks in bone-deep, and my gut clenches. “If you ever attack me like that again, it will be the last thing you ever do.”

  Mrs Robinson’s face registers only shock. I’m a little stunned too and so I hurry away to my apartment and open the door. Once inside, I lean against the wood. What the hell was that? Did I really just threaten an old woman? What in God’s name has happened to me? Is she right? Are the Saints rubbing off on me?

  I stare at the package in my hands and turn and lock the door, then I take my supplies into the bathroom so I can know for sure.

  AN HOUR LATER, I’M showered, my bathroom floor is covered in used pregnancy tests, and I feel like hell warmed up. My phone rings and I glance at it and contemplate letting it go to voicemail, but I need to take this, because I don’t know how to deal with my mess of a life right now.

  “Hey, I only just got your message, but I’m outside your building with food and tequila so ... buzz me up?”

  “Okay.”

  “Are you okay? You don’t sound so hot.”

  The question rattles around in my head. Am I okay? No. I’m the farthest thing from okay.

  “Oh my God. Raine, baby, what’s the matter?”

  “I ... I’ll tell you when you get here.”

  I wrap the towel around my body, get up from the floor, and head into the living room. After pushing the buzzer to open the door, I hurry back to my room and throw on a pair of sweats and a T-shirt firm enough to give my tender breasts some support without wearing a bra. I can’t handle underwire now.

  A few minutes later, Indie is knocking on my apartment door and I pull it back and burst into tears.

  “Raine, what’s wrong?”

  Her arms are full of takeaway and tequila and she still manages to wrap them around me, and I can’t stop crying. I know her bags are probably heavy, and I’m being awkward, but I can’t help it.

  “Baby, what’s wrong? You gotta talk to me.”

  “I’m pregnant,” I wail.

  “Oh, shit.” Indie’s eyes are round as saucers. “We need alcohol for this conversation.”

  “I can’t have alcohol. I’m pregnant.”

  “God, as if the idea of pushing a tiny human out of your vagina isn’t bad enough, you’ve now got to go without hard liquor. For how long?”

  “Um ... I think forever. Or at least until I stop breastfeeding. Oh my God ... I can’t deal with this.” I release her and let her come inside the apartment. “Sorry. I kind of ruined your jacket there.”

  “The jacket is the least of our worries. Where the hell do you keep your shot glasses?” She moves into my kitchen.

  “I told you I can’t drink.”

  “Oh, honey, this isn’t for you. It’s for me.”

  “Why does the idea of kids scare you so much?”

  “Why doesn’t it scare you?”

  “Are you kidding? I’m terrified. I’m a widow who is pregnant to a man who isn’t my husband.”

  “Do I need to ask who—”

  “It’s Jett’s.”

  She exhales. “Okay, thank God, he’s not going to have to murder Grim.”

  “Grim?”

  Indie laughs and throws back another shot. “You do realise Grim’s in love with you, right?”

  “He’s—”

  “In love with you.”

  I shake my head. “He’s my friend.”

  “Well, yeah, but only because you friend-zoned the poor bastard, and Jett warned him away the first day you came to work for him.”

  “What?” An incredulous laugh bubbles out of my throat.

  “Oh my God, Raine. Are you completely clueless?”

  “Yeah, I’m thinking I might be just that.” What kind of nerve does Jett have? Warning men away from me before he even knew my circumstances? Maybe it’s completely irrational, or my special new friends—pregnancy hormones—but I’m suddenly furious with Jett. “What the hell kind of right does Jett have saying who I can and can’t date?”

  “Well, right now? I’m guessing he has every right. You are carrying his offspring.”

  “So what? My uterus and my body are not his property.”

  “While I agree one hundred per cent, one thing I’ve learned in the past year dating Kick is that bikers don’t really possess the same kind of mental capacity for what’s right and wrong as everyone else. You know men—they’re all alpha BS. You’re mine, your pussy is mine, and I’m the only man you’ll ever need. Yadda, yadda, yadda. Bikers are complete cavemen. They’re the worst.”

  “I thought you were here to make me feel better?”

  “Hey, I’m just stating the facts. The way Kick tells it, Jett laid down the law to his boys the first day you began working for him. He did it to protect you.”

  Indie pours another shot and downs it, pressing her hand to her chest and wrinkling her nose. If the scent wasn’t making me nauseous, I might’ve been jealous.

  “He wanted to be clear you weren’t another club whore, you weren’t to be used, grabbed, or touched in any way. He actually threatened to kill anyone who defied him. You have to admit, that’s kind of sweet.”

  I stare at my friend in shock. “Who are you?”

  She rolls her eyes. “I get it. It was an arsehole thing to do, but it’s kind of nice having someone to watch your back. Sworn oath or not, if anyone tried to touch me, Kick would gut them like a fish. That’s kind of hot.”

  I’m so troubled by this conversation, I have half a mind to take the bottle of tequila from her and drain it dry.

  “Jett may have just been putting that rule in place so no one messed with you, but it’s obvious to everyone that he also did it because he wanted you for himself.”

  “But he was married.”

  “Yeah, to a bloodsucking, gold-digging whore.”

  “You shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.”

  “Why not? It’s nothing I wouldn’t have said to her face. She was an evil harpy wench, and he deserved better. He deserves someone like you.”

  “A woman who sleeps with her boss just hours after her husband’s body was laid to rest?”

  “Okay, I’m only going to say this once. You need to stop beating yourself up for the
things you can’t change. You had sex with a man who adores you, a man who’s been there for you, a man who bought this damn apartment for you to live in.”

  I blanch. I didn’t know it was possible to be thrown so many curveballs in one night, but here we are. “What?”

  “You didn’t know?”

  “No. He told me he’d had it sitting there for years and he was going to rent it out anyway.”

  “Oh, Raine, it really is cute how clueless you are when it comes to this man. Jett bought this apartment when we were in lockdown. He and Kick came to the viewing and he outbid everyone. Mia was pissed when she found out. Her and Jett had a huge fight over it at the clubhouse.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “The whole clubhouse knew. Why do you think Mia was so damn mean to you? She knew her husband was in love with a woman she could never live up to.”

  “Oh my God, she probably died thinking we were having an affair and that it wasn’t just a one-time thing.”

  “No, honey.” Indie’s face turns ashen and her grip on the bottle is white-knuckled. Her eyes have that faraway look, and with everything she went through when she was abducted and tortured by those animals who brutalised her, it’s a wonder she can function at all as a human being. “She died wishing they’d just kill her already.”

  “Indie?”

  Her gaze snaps back to mine, those blue eyes so vulnerable. She licks her lips, and draws a long pull from the bottle. Wincing, she smacks her chest with her open palm and sets the tequila on the counter. “The point is, it doesn’t matter what Mia or Joshua, or Grim, or anyone else thinks. You know the truth—that’s all that matters.”

  “She walked in on us.”

  “Um ... I’m gonna need you to repeat that because I’m pretty sure you just said that you’ve been holding out on me. Again.”

  “In the clubhouse kitchen. I couldn’t sleep and I went to get a drink. Jett was drunk. We kissed, he ... he kissed me, and I didn’t stop him.” I shake my head. “We had sex, and now I’m pregnant with his illegitimate child. Anyway, Mia found us in that compromising position, and she stormed out.”