Sinner's Revenge (Sinner's Creed MC #2)(6)

Written By: Kim Jones

It’s after midnight and the only people left are a few regulars. Mick the bartender greets me with a chin tip before handing me a beer.

“Let me get a shot of Patrón too. Chilled.”

“Make it three.” Her. I’d recognize that damn voice anywhere.

“Three, huh?” I ask, not bothering to look her way.

“Yep.” No explanation. Just a confirmation.

She takes a seat, adjusting her stool so that she’s facing me. Then, her legs are thrown over my thighs. I look down to see a pair of black heels covering her feet. Slowly, I drag my eyes up her naked legs, her short, black skirt, to her white silk top, and finally to her face. Gone is the glittery eye shit from the other day. She looks . . . professional. Like a naughty schoolteacher. Only thing she’s missing is the glasses.

“You wanna take a picture?” she asks, cocky as hell. She knows she looks good. Mick delivers the shots and she throws one back before turning to me. “Give me your hand.” Without waiting for me, she grabs my hand from the bar and pulls it to her mouth, circling her tongue between my thumb and index finger. She then covers it in salt, licks it, shoots the tequila, then sucks the lime.

I’m annoyed that I’m letting her control me like this. But I’m more annoyed that I’m so turned on by it. She’s so bold and sure of herself. Grabbing my beer, she chases the shot and then sticks her hand out to me. “Here, you try.”

I’m not playing her game. Instead, I use the same hand she did. She throws her head back and laughs, pleased with herself. “I knew you’d do that. You couldn’t resist my taste. Could you?”

“No.” My sudden answer catches her off guard. I watch her cheeks turn the faintest shade of pink before she recovers.

“What’s your name, mystery man?”

“Zeke.” Shady, Sinner’s Creed, Houston, Texas.

“I like it.” She smiles, waiting for me to ask her name. She’ll be waiting a while. I don’t need her to tell me her name. I just want to hear how mine sounds when she screams it.

“Another round, Mick,” I say, never taking my eyes off her. He puts two more shots on the bar. When she reaches for one, I catch her wrist in my hand. Rubbing my thumb over the soft flesh, I feel her skin prickle with goose bumps. Keeping one hand on her wrist, I pull her stool closer with the other until the backs of her thighs are pressed up against me.

“Now it’s my turn to give you something. Something so salty and warm that even days from now you’ll still be thinking about it.”

Her eyes widen slightly at my words, and it’s her only show of weakness. Her breathing is controlled. Her pulse is steady. And I wonder if she’s trained herself to keep her composure, or if she’s not affected by me at all. When I run my tongue up the side of her neck, and she shivers, I get my answer. Tilting her head, I shake the salt onto her velvety-smooth skin and lick. Then, I kiss her.

The tiniest of moans escapes her and I catch it with my mouth, moments before I pull away. I release her wrist and hand her the shot, then grab my own. And her fight for control is lost as her pulse beats heavily against the hollow of her throat.

I lift her legs before standing, then lay them back across the empty stool. I throw a bill down on the bar and give Mick a nod. Before I leave, I can’t resist making her head spin one last time. She might be good, but I’m the best.

Rubbing my thumb across her bottom lip, I pull it from between her teeth. She’s still breathless and reeling. I can only imagine what she’ll be like when she’s beneath me. “See you around, pretty girl.” I walk away, and it takes only three steps for her to call my name. I smile because she can’t see me, but when I turn, my face is void of every emotion.

“You never asked me my name.”

I want to smirk, but I hold it in. “That’s because I already know it.”

Her brows draw together in confusion. I watch as she fights hard to remember when it was she told me. Before she says anything else, I put her out of her misery.

“Good night,” I say, finality in my tone. My voice drops slightly before I add, “Diem.”

The last image I have of her is with her mouth slightly open, shock on her face and a flash of heat in her eyes.

And my newfound knowledge was worth every dime I paid Mick.


“There’s not a f*cking thing to eat in this house,” Rookie told me the last time he was over. He and Tank had been slamming cabinet doors in my kitchen, looking for food. I guess they thought the more noise they made, the more likely they would find something. Dumb-asses.

“I mean you ain’t even got a loaf of bread or a can of beans,” he’d continued. “Beer and water. How do you survive off that shit?” It was late and there’d been nothing open within fifty miles. I’d felt guilty about my brothers going hungry. I’d been there before.

So today, I’m at the grocery store, shopping for what is probably only the fifth time in my entire life. I usually live off of takeout. Mostly because nothing makes a man feel more like a domesticated * than pushing a buggy alongside a shitload of soccer moms.

I’m in the cereal aisle, grabbing random boxes and tossing them in my cart, when my knees nearly buckle from the impact of a buggy hitting me at my ankles. Turning slowly, I expect to see some snaggletoothed, snot-nosed kid with a Kool-Aid ring around their mouth. What I see is Diem.

Kim Jones's Books