The Sinner’s Tribe Motorcycle Club, Books 1-3 by Sarah Castille Page B

an awed gasp of appreciation as she tried not to drool over one of the most expensive Harley-Davidson motorcycles in production. “Nice bike, although I didn’t take you for a touring man.”
    â€œI’m a collecting man.” Jagger lifted an eyebrow as he pulled a bandanna from his jeans pocket—black with white skulls, of course, just like his patch—and tied it over his head. “You know your bikes.”
    God, the bandanna made him look even more handsome, the strong planes and angles of his jaw coming into sharp relief. She tore her gaze away and swung her leg over the seat. “I’m a journeyman mechanic. Bikes are my specialty.” Even if she did manage to escape her father’s stranglehold one day, she would never lose her fascination for the sleek design and powerful engines of the Harley-Davidson brand, or her need to make each one she touched run to smooth perfection.
    Not that she had a bike to tinker with anymore. She briefly considered asking Jagger if his boys had retrieved her Ninja, but just as quickly dismissed the thought. Why would they bother, especially when they’d initially suspected she started the fire?
    He shook his head and muttered, half to himself. “Of course you are.”
    â€œNo passenger pegs or sissy bar on the back?” she said, as he settled on the bike in front of her. “You like your passengers holding on to you?”
    â€œNever packed a passenger before.”
    â€œWhat? No old lady? No rides home for the sweet butts after a wild night on the town?” She cringed inwardly after she spoke. How juvenile. And yet, although she would never see this man again, some part of her still wanted to know if he was taken.
    â€œNo time to look after anyone else. Running the club and keeping the brothers in line are more than enough work.” He looked back over his shoulder. “Where am I taking you?”
    â€œGas station on the corner of Eleventh and Main. I’ll call a friend to pick me up. Don’t want you to know where I live, in case you regret not killing me when you had the chance.”
    Jagger laughed, a warm deep chuckle that made her toes curl. “Never gonna happen. I make a decision, I stick to it.”
    She slid her arms around his waist, tucking her body against his, soothed by the familiar scent of leather and the less familiar scent of warm, musky male. “So, who looks after you while you’re watching over everyone else?”
    â€œI look after myself.”
    The motorcycle roared to life and Jagger peeled away from the sea of bikes. Arianne pressed her cheek against the cool leather of his cut and increased her grip around his waist.
    â€œMe, too,” she whispered.
    He couldn’t possibly have heard her over the roar of his engine, but when he reached back and gave her thigh a squeeze, tears prickled the backs of her eyes. Everything about Jagger confused her, from his gestures of respect to his unexpected kindness to his noticeable turmoil when she’d been in danger. Someone had forgotten to tell him this wasn’t how outlaw MC presidents were supposed to behave.
    Her body flamed as he slid his hand down her leg to rest it on her knee, his touch at once soothing and protective. When had any biker ever made her heart pound? Sure, she was comfortable in their world—she could talk the talk, joke with them, and even hold her own in the occasional fistfight. But regardless of such camaraderie, she was live to the underlying truth: In her world—this world—women were property or playthings, definitely not equals worthy of the respect she craved. Not once had she ever sought or wanted a biker’s attention.
    Until now.
    He lifted his hand to grip the handlebars as they took a sharp turn. Arianne bemoaned the small loss of his warmth, the comfort of his strength, and the curious tingles that sizzled through her body from their brief contact.
    After he dropped her