Jack (The Kings of Mayhem MC Tennessee 1)

JACK

Fuck.

Standing in the small bathroom set off from the bedroom, I stare at my reflection in the mirror.

If I were an asshole, I would blame the drugs.

But who am I fucking kidding? Even if I could blame it on the drugs, I’m still an asshole.

Last night happened because I wanted it to, and I was too damn weak to stop it. I wanted to touch Bronte since the day she showed up on her grandmother’s doorstep, and I don’t regret one second I’ve spent loving her.

I just didn’t expect it to feel so fucking right.

Even after killing a man.

But now, with the stark light of day casting its reality check over the situation, I need to get things right in my head before we attempt to figure out how this is supposed to work.

Fuck.

I lean down and splash water onto my face.

I can’t deny how I feel.

I haven’t been in love with a woman for years.

Hell, if I’m honest, in the end, I loved Rosanna more out of habit than anything. We were just kids when we met, too young to be in love and too stupid to realize it.

But this? Fuck, this feels like something different altogether. Like my insides light up with sunshine every time I touch her.

Even now, standing here, I want to go back into that room and get lost in her body for the rest of the day. I want to kiss her until her lips are swollen and bruised and to feel the gut-clenching bliss of sliding my cock deep into her beautiful pussy. I want to feel her muscles contract and hear her unbridled moan as I make her come, over and over, until we’re both too spent to move.

I look down at my cock.

Fuck, I’m hard again.

I close the door quietly and pump the thick shaft until my knees go weak and my orgasm washes over me. But if I think jerking off is going to stop me from wanting her, then I’m not only wrong—I’m fucking delusional. Because the moment I walk back into the room and see her tangled in the sheets, I’m hit with an overwhelming sense of longing, and my balls damn well contract with want. She’s fucking perfect. All smooth and tanned with her thick blonde hair spilling across the pillows like satin.

Feeling the need in my belly grow, I dress as quietly as I can, so I don’t disturb her.

It’s been more than a week since I’ve been outside of this clubhouse, and I’m desperate to leave, for more reasons than I care to admit.

I need to clear my head.

I also need to get my words right before we talk about last night.

I simply want my bike and the early morning air whipping across my skin as I ride wild and free into the new dawn. Slipping my cut over my shirt, I take one last look at Bronte on the bed and feel the battle forging through me. I reach for her but stop before I can make contact.

She deserves the right words and right now, my head is too tangled to give them to her. So, I retreat across the room and pick up my wallet off the dresser, attaching it to the silver wallet chain on my belt before shoving it into my back pocket.

I will be back before she wakes.

But just as I reach the door, her rich voice breaks into the quiet morning, “You’re leaving?”

I turn around. “I need to get outta here. The walls are closing in.”

“Is everything all right?”

I walk over to her, hating the look of doubt brimming in her big blue eyes. “I just need to clear my head.”

“Last night—”

“I don’t regret it. You got that, wildflower? I’m not walking away. I just need to get outta this room and ride.” My thumb grazes her chin, then finds her lower lip. “We’ll talk when I get back. So, don’t be having that conversation in your head without me, okay? Because you’ll get it all wrong.”

The sun’s rising as I leave the clubhouse and it glints off the chrome of the Harleys lined up in the secure parking lot.

Hearing the whisper of the road, I climb onto my bike and ride into the pale morning light. I feel like an asshole for leaving her. I should’ve stayed, but I am no good for Bronte when I’m all up in my head about shit like I am. I need to get my head straight before we talk.

I meant what I said. I don’t regret last night. How could I? It was incredible. But what I feel for Bronte—if I were a good man, I would forget about it. Let her go. Encourage her to move on.

But goddammit, my body, heart, and soul is fucking aching to be her man.

As I settle into the ride, my mood lifts. Out here on the road, I feel alive and at peace. Here I can clear the cobwebs and get my mind right.