Page 40 of Jett

“You’d think that would be the logical solution, wouldn’t it? I won’t lie—it crossed my mind. My life would be so much easier without her, but I couldn’t. I didn’t choose to have her head cut off and mailed to me in a fucking box.” Tears well in his eyes.

I know he didn’t do this, that Russian bastard did, but what would have happened to Mia, to us, if she wasn’t lying in a morgue across the city? Would Jett have left his wife for me? Would he have had her killed? Could I betray my vows and leave Joshua? Could I live with myself for my part in any of this? I’m under no illusion that this club is just for motorcycle enthusiasts. Jett has done hard time. They probably all have, and I’m sure they’re all capable of truly horrific things, but I believe wholeheartedly that he didn’t orchestrate her death.

“Come on. You need a shower.”

I press a gentle kiss to his forehead. Jett inhales, and for a beat, I just linger in his space. I don’t care that he smells worse than a distillery, or that my boobs are in his face and his hands are digging into my hips as though I am his lifeline. I cry, my tears trailing down my cheeks, glancing off my jaw and falling into his hair. He lost his wife, and though I had no love for that evil bitch, I can’t help but wonder if being the wife of the Savage Saints MC President would turn my heart as black and bitter as hers.

I pull away and stand. Jett reaches for my hand. I take it and attempt to haul him to his feet. He’s far drunker than even I anticipated, and he almost crushes me when he pitches forward.

“Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.” I take his arm and help him navigate the cluttered floor to his bathroom. Without incident, I finally get him situated in the tub. He still has his jeans and T-shirt on, but I turn on the faucet and cold water blasts him from head to toe.

“Jesus. FUCK!”

“I’m sorry. I needed to wake you up.”

“Consider me fuckin’ woken, darlin’.” He tucks his legs into his chest and covers his face from the freezing spray.

I fiddle with the taps, adjusting the temperature slowly so I won’t burn him. When it’s warm enough, I paw at his clothing. I don’t get very far because I need to keep my cast dry, Jett anticipates my wants and drunkenly leans forward and pulls off his tee. His jeans soon follow, and I swallow hard and try desperately not to look at his naked body.

I grab the shampoo and kneel on the cold tiles beside the tub. With my one good hand, I pour shampoo from the bottle and lather it into a foam. Jett closes his eyes and leans back against the tub. The only sign he hasn’t fallen asleep are the tears that slide out from the corners of his eyes beneath closed lashes.

I wish I had some words of kindness to offer, but I don’t. I can’t tell him it will be all right, because it won’t. His wife was brutally murdered after she caught her husband buried deep inside me. There are no words to say. So, we sit in silence.

When I’m done washing his hair, I take the soap and slide it over his body in a perfunctory manner. I’ve done this a hundred times or more with Joshua, but it’s a thousand times different with Jett. I love my husband, I truly do, but a part of me will never forgive him for leaving me, for attempting suicide, and succeeding in killing the man I knew and loved. I still love him, but I haven’t been attracted to him in a long time, and that alone feels like a betrayal.

Jett places his hand over mine, and together we glide the bar of soap over his body. Over tattooed muscle and huge arms, down his pectorals and washboard stomach. I wish the soap wasn’t between us. I wish I had the courage to touch him the way I want, the way I did in that kitchen, but he’s not mine to touch, and I am not his.

I try to pull away, but he opens his eyes and grabs my wrist. I whimper, more out of need than fear. He forces my hand lower, through the blond curls covering his lower abdomen, and finally down over his erect cock. I gasp, and try to pull away, shaking my head.

“No.”

“Please?” His voice is gruff, but it’s also desperate, and sorrowful. It reminds me of the nights after Joshua’s accident, when I would lie awake in our bed at night, wishing someone would hold me. I’d make myself orgasm, violently, longing for my husband’s touch, praying he would come back to me whole and the way I remembered him. Afterward, I would cry for hours because that was never going to happen.

Guilt washes over me, but the pleading in Jett’s eyes rips my heart to shreds. I understand the need to feel something—anything—other than misery, so I don’t stop him when he guides my hand over his length again. He groans and releases my wrist, but his other hand still covers mine. It’s still coaxing, his powerful body taut with tension.

I gently remove his hand from on top of mine and take his shaft in my grip. I slide my closed palm over him, from base to tip. His gaze is firmly locked on mine. Tears well in both our eyes. Does he know that I have a dreadful secret? Does he understand that this one act which brings me so much joy and sorrow makes me a traitorous whore?

Jett’s eyes never leave mine the entire time I stroke him. And when he finally rests his head back on the edge of the tub and his whole body turns rigid with orgasm as creamy cum spills from his dick, I savour every second of the pleasure and pain on his face because I know it’s the only time I’ll allow myself to see it.

A sob wracks my body, and the sound seems to pull him from his euphoria.

“Fuck. Raine. I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

I shake my head, attempting to signal that this isn’t on him.It’s on me. For the second time in as many weeks, I’ve broken my vow to stay faithful to my husband. And the worst part is, even now, even hurting and broken-hearted as I am for Joshua, I’d still do it all again. I’d let this man take me to bed, and I’d relish his hands on my body.

What does that say about me?

“Raine.”

I can’t stop crying. I feel like Alice, flooding the room with my tears. Jett is in no way capable of dealing with this, and I don’t know what else to do, so I get up and flee from the room.

Once in the hall, I run into Tank, who steadies me when I might have otherwise toppled.

“Hey, where’s the fire, sweetheart?”

“I ...” I sob. “Can you ...?”

“Raine, what’s wrong?”

---