Whatever words she planned on spewing at him turned into a groan when he pressed his mouth over hers. Her lips were soft, moist, and full. He dipped inside, taking advantage of her parted lips, and delved deep into her heat.
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She moved against him, rubbing her body over his like a cat. Chase growled, impaling her mouth with his tongue while letting go of her hand and grabbing her shoulders. Her skin was smooth, soft, yet she was toned and firm. He slid his hands down her arms, feeling the small bulge of well-defined muscles. She kept in shape. But then he’d already noticed her quick wit, her sharp tongue, and it only fit she’d be just as fine-tuned physically.
Chase put his hands between them as he tilted his head, moving his mouth over hers and then nipping at her lip as she grabbed his forearms. He doubted she was a tease. She wanted him, and if she did, she would have all of him. He wasn’t a chaste-kiss kind of guy.
When he gripped her breasts, her nipples stiffened, growing and rubbing against his palms, making his blood boil and immediately drain to his cock. Ashley hissed in a breath, every inch of her stiffening and her fingers digging into his arms, before she exhaled and moaned into his mouth.
She definitely wanted this as badly as he did. And that knowledge would torture both of them, as well as provide him with an insurance policy. He’d already told her he was an ass-hole. Hopefully she would never find out to what extent.
“Goddamn, sweetheart,” he growled into her mouth. “I sure hope you have sweet dreams.”
“What? Huh?” She blinked, licking her lips, when he ended the kiss and straightened, enjoying watching her recover. “Oh, okay, fine.”
He’d give her this, she was quick at bouncing back. Stepping around him, and he didn’t stop her this time, she yanked at her tank top, allowing him an even better view of ripe cleavage. Her nipples were hard as stones when she cleared her throat, looked down, and then tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
“Are you always this nonchalant when a man kisses you?” Chase knew he was pushing her, but he liked the way her green eyes glowed a dark, alluring shade when emotions ran strong in her.
She shot him a look to kill, her long dark lashes hooding those glowing orbs. “I don’t have a set behavior for something that doesn’t usually happen,” she snapped.
“Good. I like knowing other men aren’t kissing you.” He tapped her nose before she could slap his hand out of the way, and then reached for her door. “Keep it that way,” he told her, then let himself out before she could utter a crude comment in his direction.
ASH PARKED HER car in front of Club Toro, opting for door-to-door ser vice instead of pulling into one of the many empty stalls in the large parking lot in front of it. Her mind was spinning after a day of discovery, and although she’d received all the credit, it nagged at her that she didn’t deserve any of it.
After comparing notes on each case down at the station with her captain, they’d confirmed all three girls wore thin, rope bracelets, each with several knots in them. The knot pattern didn’t match, but they were all hand designed out of hemp, and each girl wore hers on her right wrist.
Otherwise, each victim was as different as night from day. The autopsy on the first two confirmed the drug that killed them was the same, and of a very high dosage. ISIS, the street name of the drug put in each drink, otherwise called “Instant Slut in Ser vice,” was not only incredibly illegal, but not easy to find. It was a despicable drug, and just thinking about the kind of people who would create such a life-threatening concoction, and then give it an even more disgusting name, brought bile to her throat.
Men who viewed women as objects, who cared nothing about life, and who were willing to drug a woman and use her as they pleased, knowing she’d been poisoned and would die, such men needed to be shot on sight. No, they needed to be tortured and abused as they had done to their victims, their cries for mercy ignored, until they met a painful death.
Shaking the unpleasant thoughts from her head, she parked and shut off her car. Ash had several leads to follow up on; the first was talking to the bartenders who were working the night each girl died.
Climbing out of the car, she squinted against the afternoon sun at a dark SUV idling ahead of her alongside the building. Dark-tinted windows made it too hard to see if anyone sat inside. Ignoring it, she headed to the club doors. Once these interviews were done she needed to figure out how a killer could have gotten his hands on a not-so-accessible drug.
“What are you going to ask them?” Chase’s deep baritone did a number on her insides.
The driver’s side window wasn’t rolled down the first time she checked out the SUV. Approaching it, making note that Chase Reed drove a black Navigator, she also made a mental note to research this guy further. The average FBI agent didn’t make the kind of money it would take to drive one of these babies.
“Probably the same thing I asked at the last two clubs,” she told him, stopping when she stood inches from his car door. “Do you want to come in with me?”
“Nope,” he said, not hesitating. “I’m a ghost and we’re going to keep it that way.”
She hadn’t mentioned him to anyone down at the station, but didn’t tell him that. “Maybe you should have told me that last night.”
“I knew last night you wouldn’t bring up my name.” He lifted his arm off the rolled-down window and ran a finger down her arm.
Ash had half a mind to back up out of his reach. She didn’t want him torturing her and making it hard to stay focused. Nor did she want him thinking she would be his piece of ass while he decided to hang around. He’d told her he lived here and didn’t work here. FBI wasn’t assigned to this case. And neither of those facts explained why he was suddenly coming around.
“I’ve got a job to do,” she told him, taking a step backward.
He let his hand fall back over the open window of his car. “I’ll be by your house at seven.”
“No,” she told him. She’d be insane counting the minutes until seven and that wasn’t how she planned to spend her early evening.
“Fine.” He turned from her, grabbing a pen and jotting something down. It crossed her mind to walk away from him, but he handed her a business card before she managed to move. “Meet me at my house at seven. I want to hear what your bartenders have to say.”
“I’m not sure about this,” she mumbled, staring at the block letters. He’d written down a street address and phone number.