Chapter 2: Trust and Treachery
The words hung in the air, a poison so sweet it froze him mid-stroke. Easy. His hips stilled, the frantic, gentle rhythm she’d coached him into shattered. The amber light seemed to dim, narrowing his world to the girl above him, her chestnut hair curtained around a face that was no longer soft with feigned innocence, but sharp with knowing triumph.
“What did you say?” The question came out rough, stripped of passion, just raw gravel.
Jaime smiled, a slow, wicked curl of her lips. She rolled her hips, taking him deeper, and he hissed, his body betraying him with a jolt of electric pleasure. “I said you’re easy, Jax. Predictable.” Her voice was a low purr, all trace of the trembling virgin gone. “All that big brother protectiveness… it just needed a little push. A damsel in distress by your precious bike.” She leaned down, her breath hot against his ear. “You bought it wholesale.”
A storm of betrayal and fury erupted in his chest. He moved to flip her off, to regain control, but she was faster. Her hand slapped flat against his sternum, nails biting into his skin. “Ah-ah. My turn. You had yours.” Her brown eyes held his, and he saw it now—the calculation, the practiced flicker of desire that wasn’t for him, but for the win. “You think I’d let some clumsy, weepy boy from Charming College touch me first?” She laughed, a husky, genuine sound. “I’ve had half-a-dozen patches in me, Jax. Piney taught me how to ride a bike and a man when I was sixteen.”
The confession was a physical blow. Piney. An old, grizzled bastard, a friend of his father’s. Nausea rolled through him, hotter than the arousal still coiled in his gut. He felt used, stupid. A mark.
“Get the fuck off me,” he snarled, his hands coming to her waist to shove her away.
But Jaime dropped her weight, sheathing him to the hilt, and he groaned, his traitorous cock throbbing inside her warmth. “You don’t mean that,” she whispered, beginning to move again, a slow, grinding roll that was utterly deliberate. “You’re pissed, but you’re still hard as fuck. You wanna punish me now, don’t you? Show me who’s boss.” She lifted herself up, almost letting him slip out, then sank back down with a wet, filthy sound. “So do it. Stop being a gentleman.”
Every moral wire in him was screaming. This was Opie’s little sister. This was a mistake that could split the club, ruin friendships, bring a world of hell down on them both. But the heat of her, the tight, slick clutch of her body, the audacity of her lie—it fused with the constant, simmering violence of his life, redirecting it. The need to dominate, to reclaim some fucking control, overrode the caution.
“You manipulative little bitch,” he growled, and finally his hands moved, digging into the soft flesh of her hips. He bucked upward, driving into her with a force that made her gasp, her eyes flaring wide with a shock that looked real for the first time.
“Yeah,” she panted, her composure cracking into raw hunger. “Like that. Fuck me like you mean it, Jax. Not like some precious fucking virgin.”
He flipped them then, a sudden violence of motion that slammed her into the mattress. The headboard cracked against the wall. He didn’t care. He wedged her thighs apart with his knees, his size swallowing her. The gentle lover was gone, incinerated by her deception. He looked down at her, at the flushed skin, the parted lips, the triumphant gleam still lingering in her eyes, and he wanted to wipe it clean.
He drove into her, a deep, punishing stroke. “You wanted this?” he grunted, the bedsprings protesting. “You got it.”
“Yes,” she hissed, her fingers clawing at the tattoos on his back. “God, yes. Harder.”
He obliged. He fucked her with a relentless, piston-like rhythm, each thrust a wordless reprimand. The sounds were obscene—the slap of skin, the creak of the bed, her choked moans that turned into ragged cries. He hooked an arm under her knee, yanking her leg higher, opening her wider, changing the angle. She screamed, a short, sharp sound, and her back arched off the bed.
“There,” she begged, “right there, don’t stop, please—”
He didn’t. He was chasing his own release now, a brutal race to the finish line of this catastrophe. The pleasure was a dark, guilty thing, twisted with anger, but it built inexorably. Her heels drummed against the small of his back, urging him on. Her curses were a filthy litany in his ear. “Fuck, you’re so deep, I can feel you in my throat, you feel so good, you goddamn bastard…”
Her internal muscles clenched around him in a sudden, vicious spasm. Her whole body went rigid, her mouth open in a silent scream before a broken wail tore out of her. The sensation tipped him over the edge. With a final, ragged snarl, he buried himself to the root and came, pulsing hotly inside her, his vision bleaching white at the edges.
For a long moment, the only sounds were their ragged breaths and the distant, fading rumble of a bike down the lane. The smell of sex and sweat was thick in the air.
He collapsed beside her, not holding her, just staring at the water-stained ceiling. The cold reality was seeping back in, colder than the garage at midnight. He felt hollowed out.
Jaime shifted first. She turned onto her side, propping her head on her hand. He could feel her eyes on his profile.
“So,” she said, her voice hoarse but composed. “That was better than the garage.”
He didn’t look at her. “Get out.”
“Or what?” she challenged, but it was soft. She traced a finger over the ‘S’ of the SAMCRO tattoo on his shoulder. “You’re not gonna tell Opie. You’re not gonna tell anyone.”
“You don’t know what the hell I’m gonna do.”
“I do,” she said, with utter certainty. “Because if you do, I’ll tell them you seduced me. That I came to you for advice and you took advantage. They’ll believe me. The poor, grieving sister. Opie will believe me.”
He finally turned his head, his blue eyes glacial. “You’d do that? To your brother? To me?”
Her doe eyes met his, and the cunning there was breathtaking. “I’d do anything to keep you. Even if I have to share you with the club, with Tara… for now. This?” She gestured between their naked bodies. “This is mine. And you’ll be back. Because now you know what I am. And it’s gonna eat at you. And you’re gonna need to fuck it out of me again.”
She swung her legs off the bed, standing with a wince he couldn’t help but notice. She dressed slowly, deliberately, not hiding her body from him. As she pulled her shirt on, she glanced back. “I leave for Stanford in six weeks. I expect a proper send-off.”
She left the door slightly ajar when she walked out. He lay there, listening to the quiet click of the latch, the faint sound of her footsteps on the gravel outside. The ghost of her scent lingered on his skin, under the sweat and sin. She was right. It was already eating at him.
And the worst part was, beneath the fury and the disgust, a dark, intrigued thread was already unspooling in the deep, hidden parts of him. She’d played him. And she’d won.
He got up, found his jeans, and pulled a bottle of whiskey from the shelf. He took a long, burning pull straight from the bottle, waiting for the warmth to drown out the memory of her words.
You’re so sweet, Jax. So easy.
He looked at the rumpled sheets, the indentation of her body on the mattress, and knew with a sick, sure clarity that this wasn’t over. It had only just begun.