Desert Steel

He walks you backwards until your back hits the sun-warmed rock, the rough surface scraping against your skin even through your t-shirt. He pins you there with his body, his hands sliding up your sides, dragging your shirt up as they go. You raise your arms, letting him pull it over your head and toss it aside, baring you to his hungry gaze.

“Fuck,” he breathes, his eyes darkening as they roam over your lace-clad breasts, the smooth plane of your stomach. “So goddamn beautiful.” He dips his head, tracing the edge of your bra with his tongue before sucking your nipple into his mouth through the lace. The wet heat of his mouth, the scrape of his teeth, has you arching into him, a keening moan escaping your lips.

“Jagger,” you gasp, your fingers pressing into his shoulders. “More. Need more.”

He makes a low, needy sound in his throat, his hands going to the button of your jeans. He pops it open, tugs down the zipper, his fingers slipping beneath the denim to cup your ass. “Lift,” he orders, his voice rough.

You obey, lifting your hips so he can drag your jeans and panties down your legs, leaving you bare to the warm desert air. He steps back, his eyes devouring every inch of you, the heat in his gaze making you feel wanton, powerful, desired.

“Your turn,” you say, reaching for the hem of his t-shirt. “I want to see you too.”

He yanks his shirt over his head, revealing the broad, muscled expanse of his chest, the dusting of dark hair that trails down his stomach and disappears into the waistband of his jeans. You drink him in, your mouth watering at the sight. He’s gorgeous. All golden skin and hard muscle, a work of art sculpted by sun and wind and hard living.

You reach for his belt buckle, your fingers trembling with anticipation. He bats your hands away, making short work of his own belt and jeans, shoving them down his hips along with his boxers. His cock springs free, thick and hard, the head glistening with pre-cum. You lick your lips, desperate to taste him.

“Later,” he promises, reading your mind. He grips your hips, lifting you again, positioning you so the head of his cock nudges against your slick entrance. “Need inside you. Now.”

“Yes,” you breathe, wrapping your legs around his waist, your arms around his neck. “Now, Jagger. Please.”

He thrusts into you in one smooth, powerful motion, filling you to the hilt. You cry out at the exquisite stretch, the delicious fullness of him inside you. He stills for a moment, buried deep, his forehead resting against yours. You can feel him trembling, the same desperate need that’s coursing through you.

“Okay?” he murmurs, his voice rough with restraint.

“Better than okay,” you whisper, canting your hips to take him even deeper. “Perfect.”

He groans, long and low, and starts to move. His thrusts are slow, deep, deliberate, each one hitting that sweet spot inside you with devastating accuracy. You cling to him, meeting him thrust for thrust, your body coiling tighter and tighter with every stroke.

The world narrows to this – to the drag and slide of his cock inside you, the harsh rasp of his breath against your ear, the desperate clutch of your hands on his sweat-slicked skin. The desert sun warms your bare flesh, the vast sky watches over you, and nothing exists but the two of you, joined in this ancient, primal dance.

“Jessa,” Jagger gasps, his thrusts growing faster, harder, more erratic. “Fuck, you feel… I’m not gonna last…”

“Come for me,” you urge, tightening your inner muscles around him. “Want to feel you come.”

He groans, a raw, guttural sound, and slams into you one last time, his body shuddering as he spills himself inside you. The feel of him pulsing deep within you, the look of pure, unguarded bliss on his face – it’s enough to send you flying over the edge after him. You come with a cry, your body clamping down on his, waves of ecstasy crashing through you, leaving you breathless and boneless in his arms.

He holds you through it, his face buried in the curve of your neck, his breath warm and ragged against your skin. You cling to him, trembling, aftershocks of pleasure still rippling through you. The desert air cools the sweat on your skin, and the vast, silent sky watches over you, a silent witness to the promise you’ve just sealed with your bodies.

After a long moment, Jagger lifts his head, his eyes searching yours. They’re soft now, sated, full of a tenderness that makes your heart ache. “Okay?” he asks again, brushing a strand of hair from your face with gentle fingers.

“Better than okay,” you repeat, smiling up at him. You trace the line of his jaw, the curve of his lips, your touch reverent. “That was… everything.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, his voice full of wonder. “It was.” He presses a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. “You’re incredible, Jessa. In every way.”

“So are you,” you whisper, your heart so full it feels like it might burst. You glance up at the darkening sky, the first stars beginning to wink into existence. “We should probably head back before it gets full dark.”

“Probably,” he agrees, though he makes no move to let you go. “But I’m not ready to let this moment go just yet.”

“Me neither,” you sigh, resting your head on his shoulder, content to stay in this perfect bubble of warmth and connection for just a little longer. The real world – Rusty, the club, the burden of Jagger’s past – will intrude soon enough. For now, there’s just him, and you, and the endless desert sky. And it’s more than enough.

You hold onto this peace for as long as you can, but as you rumble back into Redemption, the real world comes crashing in. It starts small – a curt nod from one of the Renegades as you pass the clubhouse, his eyes lingering on you a little too long. Then it builds – the whispers that fall silent when you walk into the diner, the way conversations stop when you enter a room. You try to ignore it, to focus on the work at the garage, on the stolen moments with Jagger, but the tension is a constant hum in the background, a discordant note in the song you and Jagger are trying to write.

It comes to a head a week later. You’re at the garage, elbow-deep in the guts of a ’67 Mustang, when you hear the distinctive rumble of bikes pulling up outside. Not just one or two, but a whole pack. You wipe your hands on a rag, a knot of unease tightening in your stomach. You step outside, squinting against the late afternoon sun, and find yourself facing a half-dozen Iron Renegades. At their head is Rusty, his expression hidden behind his sunglasses.

“Jessa,” he says, his voice deceptively mild. “We need to talk.”

You cross your arms over your chest, meeting his gaze squarely. “About what?”

“About Jagger,” he says bluntly. “And where his loyalties lie these days.”

You feel a flicker of fear, but you smother it quickly. “Jagger’s a big boy,” you say, keeping your voice level. “He can decide where his loyalties lie for himself.”

Rusty takes a step closer, his posture radiating menace. “See, that’s where you’re wrong,” he says, his voice dropping to a growl. “When you wear the Renegade patch, your loyalty is to the club. First, last, always.” He jabs a finger at you. “You’re a distraction, girl. A liability. And you’re pulling Jagger’s focus away from where it needs to be.”

You lift your chin, refusing to be cowed. “Jagger’s focus is exactly where he wants it to be,” you retort. “He’s a grown man. He makes his own choices.”

Rusty’s jaw clenches. “We’ll see about that,” he snarls. He turns on his heel and stalks back to his bike, the other Renegades falling in behind him. “This isn’t over,” he throws over his shoulder, his voice cold as ice. “Not by a long shot.”

You watch them ride away, your heart pounding in your chest, a sick feeling of dread pooling in your stomach. You know this is only the beginning. You know things are about to get a whole lot harder.

Jagger finds you later that night, sitting on the porch of your small rental house, a cold beer sweating in your hand. He looks tired, worn down, the day's burden heavy on his shoulders.

“Rusty paid me a visit too,” he says, his voice rough as he lowers himself into the chair beside you. “Gave me an ultimatum. You or the club.” He scrubs a hand over his face, his eyes shadowed. “I’ve been a Renegade since I was nineteen, Jessa. They’re my brothers. My family. But…”