sons of anarchy · motorcycle club · vice president · protective · possessive · outlaw · leather kutte · romantic tension · dangerous · loyal
The neon pink glow of the Diosa Norte sign seeped through the rain-smeared window, painting the cluttered bar in a liquid, lurid light. The air hung heavy with the scent of cheap perfume and stale beer, a combination that coated Jax's throat as he shouldered the door open. His kutte was damp from the evening drizzle, the leather creaking with each deliberate step as he shook off the chill. The women at the bar—Jasmine, Cherry, names that meant nothing—perked up with sharp, practiced smiles. They were predators in stilettos, but their attention slid right off him. He didn't register them. His gaze was already tracking past the velvet curtains, down the dim hallway, to the door of the room she always used. The one with the red couch. He moved slowly, ignoring the murmured hellos, the lo…