Tex (Hell's Ankhor #5) - Aiden Bates Page 0,50

way. From childhood until now—I didn’t need anyone else. And when he was locked up, I wasn’t interested in dating seriously. Why would I want to start a relationship with a woman Jazz hadn’t vetted first?

But now that he was back, I still didn’t have any interest in trying to pick up or meet women. It just seemed like a waste of effort. The possibility of a quick fuck wasn’t better than spending time with Jazz after so much time apart… But what did that mean?

Watching him sleep made my stomach flip; it made my chest feel tight like I couldn’t quite catch my breath.

I needed space. A shower, my own clothes instead of Jazz’s sweatpants, a cup of coffee, some fresh air. Once I cleared my head, I’d be able to sort all this out. I’d be able to think about last night, and right now, without feeling like I was about to take my bike around a corner too fast.

I started to sit up, moving to climb out of the bed. But before I could, Jazz shifted. He reached for me, catching my forearm in his hand. “Clint,” he muttered, breathy and low with sleep, his eyes still closed. “Five more minutes.”

Maybe it was hearing my real name, instead of my club tag, or maybe it was how open and soft he sounded, but something kept me from pulling out of his grasp. I settled back down onto the mattress next to him. Jazz, satisfied, fell easily back into sleep with his fingers still loosely curled around my arm.

Siren and Maverick had been right—Jazz was a different man now. He wasn’t the anxious kid brother I’d had all those years, always seeking direction and inclusion to the detriment of anything else. I’d worried that San Quentin would break him. There was a real chance, I’d thought, that he’d come out too hurt and shaken and scared to continue with the club life. But he’d found some strength inside himself I didn’t realize he had, and he’d borne the sentence with grace and come out the other side wise, self-assured, and confident.

I was proud of him. Happy for him. Beyond relieved to have him back at my side.

But that didn’t explain what I was feeling now, watching him sleep—looking at the way the neckline of his shirt had slipped lower on his shoulder in his sleep, revealing the tan divot of his collarbone.

I had the weird urge to tuck my finger into the fabric and pull it even lower.

And his arms, they were so big now, broad around the bicep and defined in the forearms. His back was broader now, too, and which made the taper of his waist look narrower, and then the rise of his hip, and—

Heat sparked in me, low in my gut, looking at him.

I wanted to reach out and touch him, slide my hands over his side and back. Push his shirt up and see that lion tattoo roaring at me.

What the fuck? This was so absolutely inappropriate. He was my best friend, my brother, and he needed me here supporting him—not taking advantage or putting unwanted moves on him. This was just a perfect storm of bad circumstances: My relief to have him back, coupled with my dry spell and lack of relationships, combining in unfortunate ways.

Then Jazz’s eyes flickered open, barely halfway, still unfocused with sleep. He tugged at my arm just barely, like he wanted me closer.

We looked at each other for a long moment. I knew I should get up. Start my day. Clear my head. Pretend none of this never happened.

But then. Natural as anything, easy like we’d done it a hundred times before—

Jazz leaned forward and kissed me.

For a moment, time stopped. I was frozen in shock as my world narrowed to the gentle, soft pressure of Jazz’s mouth on mine, the brush of warmth where it parted against my lower lip, my eyes open as Jazz’s fluttered closed.

Then reality crashed over me like a bucket of ice water.

I reared back, and then clambered out of the bed, stumbling a little as my feet hit the floor. I swallowed hard and scrubbed my hands over my face, trying to ignore the tingling sensation in my lips. “The fuck?”

Jazz sat up, his face suddenly pale. “Tex—”

I turned my back. I didn’t know what I felt—it was like there was a storm in my chest, brewing and thundering. And Jazz’s look of terror and regret was only making it worse.

“I