He bites my lip.
The sharp sting goes through me, somehow erotic. I moan.
“Then I’ll hurry,” he says against my lips, letting me breathe for a moment. I suck in oxygen, and his words penetrate. I pull in more air to protest, and he kisses me again, driving deep in rhythm with his fingers.
It’s too much. Live wires explode inside me. He scrapes his thumb across my clit, and I explode. The climax burns, careening across every nerve inside me. He releases my mouth just in time for me to cry out. Loudly.
I shut my eyes.
The waves take me and I ride them out, pressing my lips together to keep from crying out again. A small whimper still escapes. Finally, I come down, sagging against him.
He releases my hair and then my pussy, which protests and tries to grip him. “So this is how to gain your obedience.”
I blink and look up at him, my vision clouded. Heat spirals into my cheeks, and I can never look at that driver again. “I hate you.” My words slur.
“Then you’re gonna want me dead after I fuck you a couple of times.” He sounds almost cheerful. Then, keeping my gaze, he licks his fingers clean. “Delicious.”
I don’t have the energy to punch him again. “Gross.Just gross.” Yeah, I’m cradled against him, snuggled into him in a way I can’t afford. I can’t trust any man, anybody beyond Alana and Rosy, so this can’t happen. “I’m going to kill you slowly,” I mutter.
“Maybe we should go again.” He rubs his thumb across my bottom lip.
I tear my gaze from him and pretend to study the world outside of us. It’s about two in the morning, the hour when downtown Palo Alto shows both polish and rot. LEDs glow on glass towers, and a street sweeper sends water across broken cups and napkins. A delivery bike runs a red light and vanishes. A man sleeps under a silver survival blanket near a bench lit by a boutique’s sign. The city throws sparks and shadows in equal measure, and our car swims through both.
I mark the route. University. Ramona. Bryant. We slip past late offices with screens still on and cafes that never close. The air inside the car holds whiskey, leather, andhim.My pulse won’t settle. “Where are we going?” I whisper.
He turns his head so close that his breath warms my mouth. “Wherever I want.” He leans toward the front and speaks to the driver in Gaelic while his hand settles at my waist. The cadence is sharp and quick. Alana taught me enough to recognize the language, not enough to pull meaning from the words. I track the driver’s small nod and the way his grip tightens on the wheel. We avoid each other’s gazes.
We keep moving toward the city center, which argues against a body dump, at least for now. I’m sure he’d bury me out in the middle of nowhere if he wanted me dead. Right now, anyway.
Wait a minute? Why would we head into town? “Are we going to Malice Media?”
He ignores the question but still holds me tight. Heating me.
Movement erupts at the edge of my vision as two black SUVs barrel out of opposite alleys and box our lane. Our driver swears and cuts for the curb, and the grille of a Mack truck fills the street ahead, dead center. Brakes slam. My stomach flips and I yelp before I can stop it.
Justice pulls me tight and locks my hips to his chest, then lifts his chin toward the front. “Go back,” he orders. The driver throws the car into reverse and hammers the pedal. The car jerks hard and surges backward, tires screaming while the lane opens for half a block. A second Mack rolls out behind us and drops its broad nose into our path, killing the escape. The driver stabs the brakes, and the chassis shudders under me.
I twist enough to see past Justice’s shoulder. The driver shouts a string I can’t interpret and slaps the horn while he checks both mirrors. Sweat beads at his temple. His breath rasps. “Punching in a 911 to the men,” he mutters, tapping against the dash.
Justice stays calm and holds me steady against him. His heartbeat presses against my shoulder in a slow, fixed rhythm. I push closer because my body wants the steadiness, and I hate that I need reassurance from him. My hands grip his shirt to anchor myself.
Gunfire cracks the night and stitches the air with a hard rhythm. I scream before I can stop myself. Justice folds over me, covers my head with his jaw, and keeps his arm firm across my back. The driver throws another curse and rides the gas, then the brakes. My teeth rattle. Thedoor shivers near my hip. The window haze blooms and spreads.
Gunfire patters.
Glass shatters.
Justice slides me onto the floor. “Keep down.” He kicks his door open while pulling a pistol from his side. Cold grit bites my bare knees. The car reeks of oil and cordite. My mouth tastes of metal. I press my spine to the seat base as fear crawls up my throat and tries to choke me.
He leans out with the gun. “Shoot everyone, Rick,” he mutters as the driver shoves his door wide and rises into the frame. Glass breaks again and rains over my arms. The street noise tilts into a roar. My ears ring so hard I can’t hear my own breath.
Gunfire erupts everywhere. The rhythm is too fast and too even. “They have automatic weapons. You only have a handgun,” I yell.
Justice drops into a crouch, braces, and fires three sharp shots.
The sound multiplies. A new wash of bullets tears across the block from two sides, then another answers from the rear. If we’re close to Malice Media, there should be guards moving right now. With Thorn out of town, Justice is the head of the Irish mob in this slice of the world. What would anyone be thinking to hit him here? My hands shake so hard my fingers ache. I press my palms to my temples and swallow down panic.
A lone voice cuts through everything and shouts, “Give us Rendale!” The words land wrong and cold. I look up and catch Justice in profile as he pivots, fires twice, and resets. A yelp breaks from the dark. Metal echoes. Something heavy drops out of sight. More gunfiresurges around us and drives me lower. I cover my head and clamp my elbows to my skull.
