Closure.
Now I get what she meant by that.
“I’ve not been seventeen for a long time,” she whispers, and I don’t know why I get the feeling she’s not talking about her age at all.What the fuck else can she mean?And then she trails her fingertips along my jaw, and I don’t care what she’s talking about.
Our kiss is slow, and she tastes of sugar and chocolate, so different than what I’ve gotten used to from the girls who hang around the club. Jas pulls back and tangles her fingers in my hair.
“What’s so funny?” she asks.
“Nothing.” I tug on the belt of her robe but don’t bother trying to hide my grin of satisfaction. “You better be naked under this.”
“As if.”
“You soon will be.”
“I don’t think so.” She’s trying to not laugh, and grasps the top of her robe to keep it from gaping open. “I’m not getting naked while you’re sitting there in your full MCregalia.”
If any other chick saidregaliato me, it’d be intended as a compliment. I don’t get that vibe from Jas, which is weird, sinceshe’sthe only girl who’d ever dare say anything like that.
“MC regalia?” I loom over her, and she sinks back against the couch, an irresistible smile of challenge on her face. “What’s that supposed to mean? You love my colors.”
“Yeah, yeah.” She rolls her eyes, mocking me without remorse, and I’m kind of stunned. “I’m not an impressionable little girl anymore, Ty.Pleasetake off your clothes. As an apology for not turning up last night.”
For a second I’m tempted to call her out on it. Sure, she was only fourteen when we started dating, and maybe she was impressionable. Hell, she thought the sun shone out of my ass, and I loved every second of it. Butimpressionable little girland the touch of disdain in her voice rubs me up the wrong way—like she no longer has any respect for the Bastards.
Or for me?
Is that why she left? Did something happen that I don’t know about?
Fuck that. I never overthink shit, and I’m not starting now. I stand in front of her and give her my bestlet’s fucksmile. “No touching until I’m done. Reckon you can handle that?”
“I’ll sit on my hands if you like.”
I tug my cut over my shoulders in a gross, over-the-top stripper kind of way that makes her laugh. I leer at her before placing my cut on the chair. “No, don’t sit on your hands. I want them where I can see them.”
She gives a theatrical sigh and places her hands on her thighs, fingers spread. “Looking better already.” Admiration heats her words as she runs her gaze over me, and again doubt gnaws through me, wondering what she’s really saying. “It should be illegal for a guy to look that good in a white T-shirt.”
The flicker of unease dies. What’s the matter with me? It was just a throwaway comment that meant nothing, and I flex my muscles and strike a pose like I’m a bodybuilder on show.
“I’m all about the illegal, babe.”
She groans and slings a cushion at me. “Don’t I know it. Are you waiting for me to beg or something?”
“You’re begging me already.”
“And you’re holding out on me.”
I rip the T-shirt over my head. “Feast your eyes on this.”
She licks her lips, and the look on her face reminds me of when she walked into the kitchen yesterday morning, except this time it’s all good. “Your body’s a work of art.”
“Cade’s the best.” Does she remember him? He was an apprentice back then, but still the best tat artist I’ve ever met.
“I’m talking about the canvas.”
Her quick-fire response is unexpected, but I’m sure not complaining. “You wanna see the back view?”
“No, thanks. I’m enjoying this one.”
