Bounty: Fury Riders MC (31 page)

Chapter 7

Jax

This is fucking ridiculous. Any other woman would be in my bed right now, either fucking me or recovering from being fucked.

So what’s stopping me from taking this one, just like I take any woman I want? It’s not like I’ll ever see her again. Sleeping with her wouldn’t be a big deal. I’ve done it before—many times, more than I can count. My only rule has always been “one time only.” No attachments. No commitments. The last thing I need is to catch feelings, or have a woman catch feelings for me.

I won’t go through that again. Not after Marissa.

So what is it about this girl that’s stopping me from picking her up and carrying her to my bed? I don’t know her, and once the storm’s over she’ll be gone forever. It’s the perfect setup.

Why am I alone in bed, then?

I turn to the side, punching my pillow, desperate to get comfortable and fall asleep. Once I’m asleep I won’t have to think about her anymore. Why am I thinking about her anyway?

Because she makes me think. The whole time I shoveled that snow, I thought about her. The entire reason I went outside in the first place was to get away from her for a minute and tire myself out. I thought that once I was physically tired out I wouldn’t be tempted by her anymore.

I was wrong. I got inside the house and made that crack about the cookies, she got pissed off. And I was more turned on than ever. Something about her reached something in me I’d thought was dead. All I’d felt for women in the years since Marissa was physical want. I’d meet a sexy woman and want to sleep with her. It was never really hard for me to get one into bed once I set my mind to it. But once I got off, that was it. I didn’t want anything to do with her anymore.

I’d probably feel that way about Christina, too. I’d fuck her and get tired of her as soon as I got off. The end.

Why aren’t I convinced? Maybe it is the way she is so quick to challenge me and call me a dick when I am being one. Maybe it has to do with the way she took the trouble to bake cookies while I was outside. Who does that? Who bakes cookies just because? So what did I do? Did I thank her? No, I made that stupid housewife joke. No wonder she was pissed.

What was I supposed to say? That something as simple as homemade cookies blew me away? That I felt something for the first time in forever? That I’ve never known a woman like her?

Maybe it’s because she’s a challenge. Women have never been a challenge before. Back in the day, it had a lot to do with the sort of life I lived. It was exciting; people wanted to be part of it, women included, or at least a certain type of woman. And that was fine with me as long as they were willing.

Now, even when things aren’t as exciting as they were back then, it’s still not hard to get a woman into bed. They see my face, my body, my ink, and they’re sold. They sure as hell don’t tell me off, hands on hips, eyes blazing. And they don’t make cookies and put on the tea kettle.

What’s making this even harder is the way she was looking at me. I didn’t give her a hard time about it because I didn’t want to embarrass her, but I saw it. I’ve seen it before. Normally, I take advantage of it. It’s instinctive. What man wouldn’t? Knowing that she wants me—at least in weaker moments, maybe fueled by whiskey—means I have to go against every instinct and habit to avoid her.

Damn it. Why couldn’t I have found a little old lady in the snow, or a guy? No, it had to be her.

I turn over, punching my pillow again, wondering if I’ll ever be comfortable. I was sure that after all the exertion outside I’d be exhausted. Instead, I’m horny. Maybe I should take care of things myself. At least that would help me fall asleep.

I think about her now and wonder what she’s doing. Is she asleep? I imagine how beautiful she must look when she’s sleeping. For once, she’d be peaceful, I’m guessing, and not constantly on the defensive. I remember how insulted she got when I made that crack about blowjobs. What was that all about? Had she been hurt somehow? Maybe she was just a prude.

If she was a prude, that was a damn waste. She had a body made for sin. Big tits, tiny waist, firm ass. Her legs were long and slim and would fit perfectly around my waist while I fucked her. My dick is starting to get hard just thinking about it.

I can’t stop this train of thought…and I don’t want to. Now that I’m turned on, I wanna see it through. It’s been at least a week since I’ve had sex, I realize. I lean over to take the bottle of lotion out of the nightstand drawer, along with a handful of tissues. Then my lubed-up hand reaches under the blankets to find my hard dick and starts stroking.

I imagine her. The way she smells and tastes. The sounds she makes when I suck those huge tits, playing with them, pressing them together to slide my dick between them. In and out. She licks the head every time it comes into contact with her mouth, and I groan softly as my hand moves faster along my length.

Then I take her, forcing her thighs apart with my knee. She gives in easily, begging me for it, rolling over onto her hands and knees so I can take her from behind. She moans when I slide into her, then starts panting the harder and faster I go. I ride her, making her mine. She whimpers and says my name over and over, her head swinging from side to side as she screams. I unlock all the passion in her and she tightens around me. My hand tightens as I imagine her coming all over me.

I’m close, but not there yet. I imagine her riding me now, my body stretched out across the bed with her straddling my hips. Bouncing up and down with her tits moving in time. I hold onto her waist, slamming her onto me. She begs me for more, her voice pleading and desperate. I start thrusting up into her, meeting her with each stroke faster and faster until we’re both grunting and moaning and sweating. I’m so close…so ready…

The crash against the roof makes my eyes fly open, my hand instantly leaving my cock.
Fuck!
Perfect timing. I’m already softening, the surprise ripping me out of the moment. I’m also scared shitless, truth be told, wondering what the hell just hit the roof.

I jump out of bed and rush to the hall. It’s dark out there, and I don’t see her coming in time to stop us from crashing into each other.

“Shit!” I reach along the wall until my fingers make contact with the light switch. She’s leaning against the wall, rubbing the elbow that just jammed into my ribs.

“You okay?” I’m looking around, seeing if there’s any damage to the ceiling.

“I’m fine. What the hell was that noise?”

I struggle to hold back the frustration I’m feeling. “If I knew, would I have come running out into the hall like I did? It sounds like a tree limb fell onto the roof. I guess it makes sense. The snow’s probably pretty heavy.”

“It sounded so loud. I was just about to fall asleep.”

“I guess it was even scarier, then,” I admit. “Honestly, I’m not getting my clothes back on just to go out there in the dark. If nothing came through the roof, it’ll wait ’til morning.”

“Okay,” she says, biting her lip. She crosses her arms over herself, looking fretful.

“Are you gonna be all right?” I ask, now extremely aware of her and the fact that she looks cute as hell in my t-shirt and boxers. They’re several sizes too big, and she’s swimming in them. She’s not wearing a bra either. Her nipples are standing out against the cotton tee, hard as bullets from the cold.

“Sure,” she mutters, looking away from me. She won’t make eye contact. I glance down to make sure I got myself back into my boxers all the way before running out here and realize that it might have something to do with the way I’m dressed, in just the boxers and nothing else. It’s obvious that she’s avoiding looking at my chest and shoulders. Not just because they’re inked either.

“Well, um, I guess I’d better let you get back to bed,” I say, wanting to let her off the hook. Her cheeks are getting red now and it’s obvious she’s embarrassed.

“Yeah, okay. Thanks. Sorry if I hurt your ribs.” She takes a few backward steps and slips into the bedroom, closing the door behind her.

Damn it. Why does she have to be so…her? Could she possibly make it any harder for me to leave her alone? Plus, now that I’ve seen her in that shirt, I can’t get the image of her hard nipples out of my head.

At least I have new material for my spank bank.

Chapter 8

Christina

Last night was a close one. It was only by the grace of God and the fact that Jax suggested we go back to bed, separately, that I didn’t wind up with my legs wrapped around his waist. I was almost lost, wanting him. He would have needed only to make a move, one single move, and I’d have been in his bed. Or on the floor, right there in the hallway.

I can’t remember ever feeling something so powerful. I have no idea what to do with it now, now that it’s morning and the storm has blown over. The storm inside me hasn’t blown over. It’s only hit a lull.

Can I leave and never see him again? Sure. In fact, I know that’s the best course of action. I’m not a stupid person. I’ve just made bad decisions when it comes to the people in my life. I can’t afford to make another decision I end up regretting.

But what if I only end up regretting leaving here without giving in to what’s obviously between us? What if I never see him again? What am I supposed to do, forget he’s out here all alone? Wait and hope to see him walk through the door of my shop again? Drive past the house late at night to see if he’s here, with my car radio playing songs that remind me of him? Ugh! This is all a mess.

I lay in bed for a long time, a lot longer than I need to, trying to get a hold of my brain—and, frankly, my body. I feel an actual physical ache when I think back to how he looked last night. Before that moment, when we met in the hall, I’d only gotten a brief glimpse of him. Over the jeans, under the tee, just a wide strip of skin and the muscles beneath.

When he flipped the lights, I got a view of the entire package, or at least eighty percent of it. My elbow had been hurting like hell until that moment, from where I jammed it into his ribs and then into the wall when I rebounded from him. Then I saw him and the pain was forgotten.

Broad shoulders, bulging biceps. Defined pecs and an eight-pack leading down to his slim waist. Those “fuck me” lines were there, the ones leading diagonally toward his groin, so clearly etched. His strong, thick legs were clearly the result of a lot of bending, squatting, carrying heavy bags of mulch and soil. He was every woman’s fantasy come to life, plain and simple.

I even caught a glimpse of what looked like a fairly substantial bulge in his shorts. I’d half-hoped the fly would be open so I could get a peek at it before I forced myself to avert my eyes. The more I looked at him, the more certain I was that I needed him. I had never, ever felt such a strong physical need for another person. I never had to tuck my own hands under my crossed arms to keep myself from touching someone or something. It was lust, straight-up, and I was completely lost in it

I realized, at that time, that I was pretty much undressed. I felt my nipples harden from arousal and the cold and knew he could see them. Instead of being embarrassed, though, I was glad. I was desperately, wildly praying that Jax would make a move on me so I could give in to everything I was experiencing without feeling like a slut later on.

He didn’t, of course. He sent me to my room, like a child. That’s probably how he thinks of me.

But wasn’t he maybe, just maybe, staring at my chest? I thought he might have been, just before I turned back toward the bedroom.

Now, with the bright morning light streaming through the window, I’m a little cooler. A little calmer. More in control of myself. For now.

It’s almost painfully bright, actually, the sun reflecting off the fresh snow. This is a cheerful bedroom, very country style. Again, nothing like I would expect a man like him to own. Especially now that I’d seen the extent of the ink on his body.

There was a lot of it. That was one more aspect of him I found puzzling, especially since I’d never particularly been attracted to men with tattoos before. I always thought they were a little low class, a little common. Sometimes I’m a snob; I can admit it. On Jax, though, they looked natural. Defiant. Sexy. Not the sort of thing a guy would do after getting drunk and dared to by his friends. Not some stupid fake tribal symbol. Not a collection of Chinese characters the tattoo artist swears means “strength and honor” but which really translate to “chicken chow mein.” This was the sort of ink a man wears.

The biggest piece of all, covering much of his chest, depicted an angel surrounded by flames. There was no color, yet the vividness with which it was drawn spoke volumes anyway. She looked afraid, in pain or defiant—I couldn’t decide which. It was around that time I forced myself to stop looking for fear of leaving a drool puddle on the floor.

I roll over onto my side, away from the glare of the outside, holding a pillow close to me. A man like Jax probably has a lot of demons. I remember how pensive he looked when I pointed out the way he lives here alone. There might even have been sadness in him as he stared into the fire. There has to be a backstory to this man. He’s young and gorgeous, and I can’t help admitting that he’s pretty smart when he’s not acting like a prick. So why is he closed off from the world? Why shut down the way he has? Living with just a hound dog.

I can’t have anything to do with a man like this. Why does it seem like I’m always attracted to the guys with the shitty demons? I punch the pillow, frustrated with myself and the way life always tends to go. I keep getting led down the path toward guys like Jax…and my ex.

Tommy.
Just the thought of his name sends a chill down my spine and leaves me feeling nauseated. At first, things with him had been great, wonderful, the way so many relationships start out. We were in the “puppy love” phase for a while, where nothing could convince me love was anything less than magical and beautiful.

Hindsight is twenty-twenty, though. Looking back, I see now the little things I missed then. The way he’d pout when I’d suggest spending time with people other than him. Back then, I told myself he loved me so much that he couldn’t stand being away from me. Then there’s the way he’d overreact, blowing up at the stupidest things. The car was running low on gas and we were running late. We’d go out to dinner and the waiter wasn’t attentive enough or the food took too long to get to us. Just stupid, little, everyday things like that were enough to send him into a tailspin. I told myself he was passionate, highly strung, used to having things his own way. I’d help him get past all that nonsense, I was sure.

But I didn’t. And before long, the puppy love was over and reality slapped me right in the face. Literally. I was left on the floor, hand to my burning cheek, staring up at him. I was too shocked to cry, even though my face felt as though it was about to explode. All I could do was look at him and wonder how he could hurt me like that when he told me he loved me. That first time, the sight of me on the floor was enough to snap him out of it, and he helped me to my feet with tears in his eyes and a million excuses on his lips. He’d flown off the handle, he’d never hit a woman in his entire life, it would never happen again because he loved me so much and now he was so ashamed of himself. I’d ended up being the one to comfort him, come to think of it. Holding him in my arms while he cried, wishing I had an ice pack to put on my cheek.

It had been six months before he hit me again, and the second time he wasn’t sorry as quickly as before. This time when I looked up at him, where he’d knocked me to the couch, he didn’t look ashamed and guilty. He looked angry. Disgusted. He made a move at me, as though he was about to hit me again. I flinched, drawing back. And I saw what I knew was satisfaction in his eyes. He’d made me afraid of him, but he wasn’t ashamed now. He was proud of himself.

Things didn’t get much better from there. Finally, I left him, after much too much pain and too many nights spent in tears. I moved away and bought a coffee shop and I’ve been happy ever since. Happy for me, anyway. I don’t think I’ll ever truly be happy unless he disappears off the face of the Earth. Because he’s still out there, still wanting me. Every so often he’ll text or call, just to remind me how I broke his heart when I left. Once, he left a vicious, drunken voicemail in which he promised to make me pay for hurting him. It’s knowing that he can contact me at any moment that robs me of any real joy. He’s always lurking in the corner of my mind, waiting to spring.

Tommy has his demons, and I have no desire to get to the bottom of them. That’s why I can’t get involved with somebody like him, somebody like Jax, though time and again I find myself drawn to broken men. Angry men. Hurt men. In the end, they always end up hurting somebody else. I won’t let it happen to me again.

I hear a loud bang coming from downstairs and know Jax has gone outside, probably to clear more snow. He must think I’m asleep up here, though the way that door banged tells me that he wants me to wake up and get my butt out of bed. Maybe he’s tired of playing host. I can’t blame him. If he’s not used to being around people, it has to be a shock to the senses. I’m sure he’s tired of me already. Maybe he even wonders why he bothered saving me in the first place.

I get out of bed and go to the window, peering through its white lacy curtains. There he is, plodding through the snow that had fallen overnight and covered the work he already did. It’s not terrible, though, and he’s making quick work of the few inches left over. I see a great hulking white blob in the distance and realize it’s my car, parked by the side of the road. I could be in there right now. Dead. I know now that if I’d stayed asleep, I would definitely have frozen to death. I hadn’t even had a blanket in the car, as Jax had helpfully pointed out. The jackass.

But I can’t call him that. Well, I can, but I don’t believe it in my heart. He saved my life.  Even if I didn’t have a tiny crush on him, he’d always be special to me. He didn’t need to come and get me, bring me to his house, sit me by the fire, and make sure I wasn’t on the verge of losing a toe or a finger. He didn’t have to take care of me. Demons or not, he has a good heart. He just does his best to hide it.

I move away from the window, shivering from the cold that leaks through the cracks in the frame. My nipples are painfully hard again, so hard they could have etched the glass. I brush my fingers over them, unable to help myself. Thinking about him. The way he looked last night.

Before I know it I’m on the bed, hands inside the boxers I’m wearing. I’ve been aching for touch since last night, wishing I could find some sort of relief. The moment my fingers reach my aching clit I can’t help sighing, not bothering to stifle the sound since I know he’s out of earshot. But what would happen if he walked in, right now, and found me like this?

My eyes are closed, my mouth open as I breathe heavily. I imagine him stripping down, lowering himself over me, sliding inside me without a word. I rub my clit, imagining the way he tastes, the sounds he makes as he slowly fucks me. He’s like an animal, rough, hard, pounding me mercilessly yet slowly so he can relish the helplessness I feel. He grunts every time he slams home, and before I know it I’m grunting too. “Do you like that?” he whispers, and I moan as my hand moves faster and faster.

Soon my hips are swaying in circles as I imagine himself grinding into me. He throws his head back in triumph as he howls, exploding into me. Then I explode, too, biting my lip to hold back the cries while waves of pleasure roll over me. I can’t help but smile, relieved. Now, hopefully, I can keep myself under control.

A while later, after washing up and getting dressed, I go downstairs. I explore a little, though there isn’t much to see. A living room with a wood burning stove in one corner. There’s a TV in here, fairly low-tech. A computer, also pretty simple compared to some I’ve seen. I guess he’s too busy working and keeping this place in one piece to spend a lot of time on technology. I’m the same way. By the time I get home from work, I’m exhausted—happy, but too tired to care what’s happening on whatever social media site people my age are spending their time on nowadays.

There’s a dining room that looks as though it never really gets used. I can see why—Jax doesn’t seem like the type who entertains. I can’t imagine him throwing a dinner party, or even a holiday meal. I don’t even know if he has a family. I remind myself that it doesn’t matter.

Then I’m back in the kitchen, which is clearly the heart of the home. The fire is blazing away, the dog curled up in front of it just as he was last night. I lean down to scratch him behind the ears. When I straighten up, I notice how hungry I am. There’s a pot on the stove over a very low flame, and a bowl in the sink. He’s already eaten. I take a look inside the pot to find oatmeal waiting for me. How thoughtful. The good, hot food warms me from the inside. I eat standing by the counter, watching Jax all the while. He hasn’t tired yet. I wonder if he’s planning to dig the car out next.

I remember something. My phone. Where did I leave it? I brought it in with me, I know that much, not wanting to leave it in the frozen car. I look around the room, in my coat pocket. Where is it?

I see it sitting on the counter, plugged into a charger. Thank God he has a cord that works with it. I turn it on, wondering if I’ll have a signal this time. There’s nothing where I’m currently standing, so I unplug and start walking around the house in the hopes it will help.

Once I get to the living room, it does help. The signal gets stronger, and suddenly my list of missed calls jumps to fifteen. I open the list to find that many of them were from my parents, before I called from Jax’s phone. They left several voicemails, too, increasingly frantic.

There’s one voicemail from a number I don’t recognize. I assume it’s a telemarketer or something similar, and press the play button.

“Hey, it’s me.” My heart skips a beat, and not in a good way. Immediately, my palms start sweating. Why the hell is he calling me now? I told Tommy I never wanted to hear from him again after the last time he called, begging me to take him back.