The cab slows to a stop, and then the doors slide open. Bedlam exits with long strides, and I have to lengthen my own steps to keep up. As a testament to his timing skills, he doesn’t pause when sliding into the revolving doors. I barely manage to squeeze myself in after him. My mouth opens for him to slow down, but we’re already outside and approaching a black SUV. A man in an impeccable suit and dark aviators opens the door. Bedlam ushers me into the plush leather interior and slides in after me, taking my hand in his the second the door shuts.
“A security detail?” I blurt out as the guy who opened the door for us takes shotgun and the driver immediately pulls into midday traffic.
“After the third murder, my father insisted.”
The exasperation in Bedlam’s tone relaxes me further. Maybe he’s not as hurt as I initially thought. But then again, he’s always been good at hiding his emotions. As far as I am concerned, there’s nothing more to talk about. I’ve made my feelings clear on this issue, so I move on to more pressing matters.
“I’m still not buying that I’m the target,” I say, not bothering to sensor my words for the benefit of Bedlam’s bodyguards. I’m sure they know everything. I’m also sure all the families with drivers participating in the IC are on high alert. One driver’s death is negligible. A second death could be seen as pure coincidence. A third is intentional. “But there’s definitely a message here that we’re not seeing.”
“The carved words,” Bedlam states, matter-of-fact.
“Yes.” I punctuate the word with a single nod. My gaze traces the insignia of Bedlam’s family—a blade piercing the sun—embossed on the back of the driver’s seat. “Like you said, Hubcap was always full of himself.”
“Hubris,” he says.
“And Whiplash was always obsessed with how beautiful his car is.”
“Vanity.” His hold on my hand tightens.
“And Chicane never sleeps with the same person twice.”
“Lust.” His hold is so tight I don’t feel my fingers anymore. “But that doesn’t tell us much.”
“Other than the killer is part of the Gathering.”
Bedlam eases his grip when the reality of my statement sinks in. “Of course. Since we’re two days away from the Impulse Cup, the killer will most likely strike during the rest stops along the course.”
“That’s what I’ve been thinking too.” I take his hand in both of mine. “The killer is a driver too. I’m sure of it.”
“But what’s the reason for the killings?”
“We don’t know enough to make those assumptions.”
“Then why leave Chicane in your bed?”
My face crumples in disgust at the memory. “Gee, thanks for reminding me.”
He gives me an apologetic look. Without thinking, I reach out and touch his cheek. He leans into the contact. Giving his security a quick glance before returning my gaze to his face, I rub the pad of my thumb over his gauze-covered lips. He stretches his free arm behind him and his fingers fumble for one of the switches on the door. When he finds the right one, he presses it and a privacy screen rises from behind the front seats. In seconds we’re cut off from prying eyes and ears.
Not wasting any time, I shift away from my seat until I’m straddling his lap. I ease the bandages off his lips and attack his mouth with gusto. Sighing, Bedlam settles deeper into the backrest and lets me do as I please. He keeps his hands on my thighs. I take his tongue into my mouth and suck, pulling a raspy groan from him. His hands grip my thighs, spurring me onward. I don’t know what I’m making up for. All I know is I need him. I need to feel him.
Keeping my mouth on his, I grind my center against his erection. He jerks up and hits me at just the right spot. I throw my head back into a moan, and his lips find the column of my neck. His teeth nip at my pulse, driving me even crazier.
“I want to touch your skin,” I growl into his mouth.
His chuckles brush his chest against my breasts. My nipples harden instantly at the divine friction. I pepper kisses around his face while he glides his hands up and down my back.
“Who knew trying to catch a killer turns you on?”
I don’t have time to reply because his thumb immediately swipes up the seam of my jeans. I gasp in pleasure, all my thoughts scattering in the wind. With a flick of his fingers, I’m unbuttoned and unzipped.
He hums in appreciation when he discovers I’m not wearing any underwear. I buck my hips, my core begging for his touch. He obliges. I lift my ass so his hand can cup me inside my jeans. The roughness of his bandaged fingers as he inserts them in me only adds to my pleasure.
“You’re so wet,” he says against my lips.
“You drive me crazy,” I reply, then trace the tip of my tongue around his mouth. My gasp turns into a moan when he scissors his fingers and his thumb brushes against my clit. My breathing is short and ragged as he pinches one of my nipples through my shirt.
“Bedlam, I’m close.” My back arches toward him when he replaces his fingers on my nipple with his lips. The second he sucks the tight bud into his mouth, I’m gone. I cry out. His hand between my legs continues to work me, squeezing out every ounce of my release.
“That’s it, love,” he whispers into my ear when I fall against him, a boneless mass of satisfied female. “That’s it.”
My eyelids droop as all the tension from this morning leaves my
