Reaper rose from the spot on the ground. “Walk with me to my bike. I have something for you. My ass is numb, and yours has to be, too.”
Jewell wanted to argue, but didn’t. Not only was her ass numb, but so was the bottom of her thighs.
They reached Reaper’s bike, and he opened his saddlebag to take out a present.
Taking the present, Jewell opened it to see a mirror with twinkling stars inlaid within.
“It’s beautiful. Thank you.”
Reaper ran his finger around the middle of the mirror. “This is the way the sky looked the night you were born,” Reaper moved to circle the outer curve of the sky. “This is the way the sky looked the night your soulmate was born.”
Jewell frowned down at the mirror, the beauty of it diminished by what he said. “And how would the person who made the mirror know what the sky looked like that night?” she asked him skeptically, hurt more by the present than being told he considered her friend.
“It’s my turn to say, ‘Don’t ask,’” Reaper answered her cryptically as he got on his bike. “I’ve talked to Viper, and we’ve agreed that because of your willingness to help Elizabeth and your long-standing commitment to The Last Riders, we’re going to forgo the rule of you just being with one of the brothers.”
Jewell gaped at Reaper. “You’re giving me permission to fuck other men?”
Reaper nodded at the mirror in her hand. “We don’t want to stand in your way.”
“You don’t seriously believe in this crap, do you?”
While Reaper was looking directly at her, she could tell he was staring unseeingly.
“I didn’t. I do now,” he said softly. Then, like a light coming back on, he was back with her. “Once upon a time, I said almost the same thing. It took me a while, but yes, I do. You’re the one who shouldn’t need convincing.” He gave her a quirky smile, which reminded her of the old Gavin whom she had fallen in love with all those years ago. Jewell felt a painful lump rise in her throat.
“Do you”—she had to clear her clogged throat to continue—“ever think about him?”
He started to reach out toward her then dropped his hand to his side. “You know I do. I’ll never forget Michael. His birthday is coming up.”
“In a week,” she managed to croak out. Then, shoving her hands in her jeans pockets, Jewell changed the subject. “You talk to Rory?”
“Yes. Rory set up a meeting with him tomorrow. Are you sure about this?”
“Everyone keeps asking me that question. I might not be known for making the best decisions in my life, but I’m sure about this one.”
“The only one who doubts your decisions is you. We all know you always do what’s in the best interest of those you care about. Do you see us letting Rider or Nickel run the factory?” he joked.
Jewell gave a mock shudder. “Point taken.”
“Good. Now, get your ass back to the club and change out of those wet clothes.” Starting his motor, Reaper kicked up the kickstand.
“Are you going to be there tomorrow?” she asked before he could leave.
“You know it.”
Jewell nodded. “Do me a favor and wear the jacket Razer made for you.”
“Planning to clean house?”
“No. A cremation.”
Chapter Fifteen
“You good?”
Keeping his gaze on the road as they drove out of Treepoint, Jewell placed the pillow she had brought with her against the window. “Never better.” To prevent Rory from spending the next five hours talking to her, she planned to sleep through the long drive ahead. “Wake me up five miles from Fort Hill.” Leaning sideways, she closed her eyes.
The palpable silence in the car didn’t bother her. She forced herself to imagine she was in bed at the club rather than in the car with a man who sent her hormones buzzing like a bee on crack. Stretching her legs out, she relaxed each muscle. Then, homing in on each small sound Rory made, Jewell found herself imagining which of his body parts she would lick first, if given the chance.
Definitely his bottom lip, what little was left of the good girl inside her mused.
Nah, her slutty pussy countered. His dick. From there, her imagination took off to size and shape.
Based on the outline in those black trousers, at least a good eight inches. He had to have at least seven inches, right? Who would pay for a gigolo who wasn’t at least packing a good seven-inch tool? She knew she wouldn’t.
Depends, her pussy countered her again, on how good he is at giving a woman her money’s worth.
A stray thought wormed its way into the debate she was having with herself.
Does he do women and men, or just women? She didn’t have a problem with him doing men. She mainly wanted to know which he preferred. It was hard enough to compete with other women without having the added competition of men.