Love Ties (22 page)

Jamison’s arms replaced Ace’s. She clung to her lover, drowning in a sea of despair. A month ago she’d lived a calm existence outside illegal drugs, shootings, and rivalry. She’d done this to herself. If not for her need for vengeance, she would be in her old apartment in another city. Jamison would never have become involved with her, and Stone wouldn’t be aware she was alive.

Hell, Blake would be alive.

“Shhh, baby.” Jamison pivoted them so he could sink to the edge of the bed. She came back to herself suddenly, aware that he was in pain. Someone had removed his other boot, and he was barefoot, his long, bare feet hinting at a brand new vulnerability. His leg was bandaged with thick gauze, and he smelled like whiskey. He must have had a drink after his ordeal.

“Are you okay, Jamie?”

His face softened, and he gave her a hint of a smile. “Of course. Come here.” He pulled her onto his lap.

Her skin prickled with the memory of Stone making her sit on his lap and of his cock poking her backside. His kisses had made her want to throw up.

“Touch me, Jamie. I need you to wash away Stone’s touch.”

He went dead still. “Stone. That’s his name?”

“Y-yes.”

“And you knew him?”

Unable to speak, she nodded. He might reject her now. She’d been withholding information all this time, and she had no right to expect him to go along with that. If she cared about him, loved him—and dammit, she did—then she should tell him everything.

Not yet.

His gaze was intense, making her want to squirm. Here was the time he demanded her honesty.

Instead he stared into her eyes and stroked her cheek. “I hate that he put his hands on you.”

She took his free hand and placed it on her breast. “Touch me.”

He molded her breast to his big hand, kneading it and then grazing the tip. She arched into his touch. He kissed her tenderly, taking into account her split lip. She opened her mouth and gave him total access.

Every swipe of his tongue cleansed her soul. Quivering with love and remorse and so many other things she couldn’t identify, she removed his cut and T-shirt. He tipped her into the bed, and she shimmied out of her clothing as he worked to remove what was left of his jeans without hurting his calf.

When he covered her with his body, she sucked in a breath. His skin was so hot, so perfect against hers. He plunged his tongue into her mouth again, feeding her his groans and the flavor of whiskey.

She moaned at the feel of his rough beard on her skin, so different from Stone’s close shave. An invisible string tugged on her pussy, making her tighter and hungrier for his invasion.

He trailed kisses over her breasts and down the center of her torso. He flicked his tongue in her bellybutton and lower, moving toward her pussy.

Holding her breath, she anticipated the sweet torment of his tongue on her clit, but he hovered over her, eyes dark.

Oh no. Truth or dare.

Again, he surprised her. “I thought I’d lose my mind when I found out you’d been taken by the Raiders. I can’t be without you, Ever.”

It was as much of a love vow as she’d ever heard. She pulled him back up to kiss him. He took control, flipping his tongue against hers while he fucked two fingers into her wet pussy. Each time he withdrew his fingers, her hips would rise to follow. He thrust them inside again, curling them perfectly to reach that sensitive spot on her inner wall.

She thought she’d die from the pressure he exerted. Need built in her core. She ran her hands over his body—lean muscle, a light furring of hair on his arms and thighs. She traced the tattoo on his wrist and then drew it to her mouth and spattered it with kisses.

With a groan, he dropped his forehead to hers. “Don’t scare me like that again.”

She wanted to say she wouldn’t, but the fact was, she had to get inside the Raiders’ MC. Her business with them was unfinished.

Gripping his thick cock, she pumped it from root to tip. She rolled the head through her fingers, squeezing some cream from it. She swiped the depression with her thumb and caught the droplets there. Then she stuck her thumb in her mouth and sucked.

“Fucking hell,” he grated out.

His balls were clenched tight to his body, his erection growing with every stroke she delivered. He burrowed his fingers deeper into her pussy.

“I don’t have a condom,” he panted.

“We don’t need it this time.” She circled her hips, taking more from his fingers. “Let me suck your cock.”

He stilled, breathing hard. Then in a flurry, he fell onto the bed and jerked her hips over his face. The first thrust of his tongue in her pussy threatened to send her sailing, but she wanted him deep in her throat when she came.

She swallowed him in one smooth glide. The flared head of his cock hit the back of her throat, and she swallowed reflexively.

He groaned and batted her clit with his tongue, back and forth, up and down, until she burned.

She ran her tongue around his head and then forced it into her throat again. The full feeling sent her into another realm of pleasure. Her pussy began to pulsate.

When he sent two long fingers into her channel, her movements became jerky, uncontrolled. His steely cock filled every corner of her mouth. She sucked and tormented with her tongue, eager for the prize.

In their time together she hadn’t swallowed his come yet, but when she did, she was taking every drop.

As he changed the pressure on her clit, she tensed. So close. On the verge. She no longer felt Stone’s touch—only Jamison’s.

He twisted his fingers in her pussy and added a third on the next thrust.

She cried out around his cock. Release pounded through her system, stealing all thought. Heat bathed her insides even as her juices spilled over his fingers and tongue. He groaned, his cock stretching another fraction.

Then he was spurting. Salty-sweet drops hit her tongue. She swallowed, catching the jets and milking him for more. He pounded his fingers into her cunt, pulling more contractions from her.

When he stopped coming, she moaned, mouthing him more gently, tracing a love poem on his flesh with her tongue.

A final shudder left her, and he pressed soft kisses to her mound and inner thighs. She collapsed atop him, aftershocks calming her after the horror of her day. As she laid her head on his good leg, she listened to her heartbeat slow.

She fucking loved this biker, and tearing herself from him would rip her in half. But she had to in the end. With any luck, she wouldn’t hurt him—or anyone else—too badly.

In this Life, Jamison had been to more funerals than he cared to count. Drugs and guns killed, and unfortunately they were neck-deep in both.

Strother and Trina stood on the outskirts of the group holding hands, their pain for their son too raw and fresh to participate in the service.

Blake’s body had been taken to the mortician, and the club had purchased the best casket available. The brothers all milled around the entryway of the funeral home, reluctant to view Blake’s body.

Ever was staring at Jamison, her eyes glassy with tears. She caught his hand and tugged him into the anteroom. Flowers flooded the space, and soft music played. The casket was set against the wall, but as they approached, Jamison made a noise.

Ever sucked in a gasp as she saw the same thing Jamison did.

“Who the hell is this punk?” Ace asked at his side.

He stared at the face of the man in the coffin. Clean-shaven, hair slicked back off his head. Only the flare of the dead man’s nostrils gave him away.

“Jeeesus.” Jamison let go of Ever and grabbed the coffin lid. “It’s Blake.”

Blake was wearing a fucking tie, for Chrissakes. Where the hell was his beard, his cut?

“Shut the lid. Shut the goddamn lid!” He released the catch, and Ace helped him lower the lid over their friend. He wouldn’t want to be remembered that way, and none of the brothers would appreciate seeing their friend like this at the end.

Ace grabbed the funeral director as he came into the room. The man’s eyes widened as Ace twisted his shirt and shook him like a bad puppy. “Why the fuck is our friend laid out like this? Where is his cut? His fucking beard?”

“I—The family gave me a picture and said they wanted him to look that way.”

“Hell.” Ace shoved the guy, and he stumbled back, straightening his suit and tucking his shirt back into his pants.

More guys approached the coffin.

“Closed casket?” Franklin rubbed his jaw.

“Yeah, man,” Ace said, eyeing Jamison. “He’d want it this way.”

Ever stood several feet off, wringing her hands. Jamison grabbed a spray of flowers and laid it on the closed coffin. Then he ripped off his own MC patch and set it in front of the flowers.

When he turned to Ever, her eyes glistened with tears. She wrapped her arms around him and stood on tiptoe to whisper, “You did the right thing.”

After that, the service was a blur. The clergyman spoke about lives and tragedies and how those who loved never really lost because of all they’d gained in knowing the departed person. Then each man got up and said a few things about Blake. Funny, serious—they all told a story.

Ever declined to speak, but no one expected her to. And Jamison understood.

After the service, they all gathered together, talking about Blake and his life. Only when Ever touched Jamison’s sleeve did he come back to himself.

He looked at her as if for the first time. Her thick hair was worn off her face today, held in the back by a clip, and she’d added a little makeup. She held out Jamison’s patch, and he pocketed it.

“I’ll sew it on for you later,” she said.

“I can do it,” he said gruffly.

She continued to stare at him, gnawing her lower lip.

“What do you want to ask?”

She threw a look around them and found them relatively alone. Most of the mourners had drifted to the entryway again, prepared to leave.

She dropped her gaze then brought it right back to Jamison’s. “When Blake kissed me…”

He waited, heart throbbing. Did he really want to reveal this information at Blake’s fucking funeral?

“Why didn’t you get upset?”

He told her the truth. “Because I trusted him.”

“You trusted him not to tap your girl?”

“Yeah.” He swallowed hard.

“But why, Jamie? If it were Ace or O’Dovey—”

Instant irritation flooded his veins. “Fuck, no. Not them.”

Confusion etched itself between her long red brows. “Then…”

He leaned close and coiled an arm around her shoulders. “No one knows this but me. Blake wasn’t into women.”

She looked at him from the corner of her eye, pitching her voice lower. “He was gay?”

“As a three-dollar bill.”

“How do you know this? Did he tell you?”

“Yeah, in a roundabout way.”

“What way?”

Fuck, she was going to make him say it. “Blake waited until I was drunk one night, and he grabbed my junk.”

“Your—”

“Yeah,” he whispered, turning her toward the wall in case anyone read her lips, “my cock. Apparently I was his type.”

“But you never…”

“No. I don’t swing that way, and he understood that. But he was a loyal friend—the most loyal I could ask for. And a man I trusted with something I hold dear.”

She turned against him, smashing her face against his cut. “It’s my fault, Jamie. I got him killed.”

His throat ached with unshed tears—tears he’d never release if he had his way. He pinched her chin and raised her head to look at him. “Don’t say that again, baby. He died doing his duty, as he would have liked. To him, that was everything.”

They returned to the club, driving in a procession of bikes. The police cruiser that fell into their ranks was no shocker. Blake’s death was being investigated, and they’d all been questioned. More was to come. They all wanted justice for their brother’s death.

The club was as still and quiet as the funeral home. Strother handed Blake’s cut to Jamison.

Again, that lump constricted his airway. “Thanks, man.” He embraced his prez and all those within reach. Rocket fired up the jukebox with Blake’s favorites, and Ace lined the bar with liquor.

Ever kicked off her black stilettos and padded barefoot to the corner with her Sex with an Alligator. Carol Ann and Sarah sat with her, talking quietly.

Strother clamped his hand on Jamison’s shoulder. “We’re going to church. Important matter to discuss.”

“In a minute. I’d like to put this in my room.” Jamison held up the cut.

“Yeah, do that.”

He strode to his room and draped the cut on the back of the only chair. When he returned to the private room where members-only were allowed, the mood among the men was somber.

His seat was open, as was the one beside his—Blake’s. It almost ripped him apart to take his chair. Everyone watched him closely.

Strother leaned his elbows on the table and put his head in his hands. It was as close to a moment of silence they’d get, and all took advantage. When he lifted his head, his eyes were clearer.

“We buried a brother today. A good man, a terrific friend. Blake didn’t need to die protecting someone in this club, but he did.”

They all stared at Jamison. He’d been waiting for this—an attack over Ever and how she’d brought this shit down on them.

“He was doing his duty,” Jamison said.

Heads bobbed in agreement, even Strother’s. “He would have wanted to go out that way. Besides riding out of this world on two wheels, it’s the best way. But that filthy Raider who shot him is alive.”

Bunky pounded the table with a fist. “He should fucking be dead!”

“That’s right, and he will be, if the Hell’s Sons have anything to say about it.” Strother pulled his handgun from his waistband and set it on the table. All were silent.

“We get this fucker and put this business to bed.”

Jamison shook his head. “No.”

Twelve shocked gazes fell on him. He met each one, taking his time to look at his brothers and try to show them his conviction. “If we kill this Raider for killing Blake, we open the door to bigger problems. That was a fucking bloodbath the other day. Two of us shot, one killed. We took out how many Raiders?”