Page 102 of Property of Whiskey

Jesus Christ.

“Thought you wanted my keys,” I mutter against her mouth.

“Shut up.”

“Definitely your plan.”

She kisses me harder.

One of my hands settles at her waist while the other moves slowly up her back. Her hips roll against me, slow and deliberate enough that I groan into her mouth.

Twila pauses just long enough to know exactly what she did. Then does it again. The chair legs scrape across the concrete when my boots brace harder against the floor.

Little shit.

“You like that?” she whispers.

“No.”

“Liar.”

“Yeah.”

Her mouth travels along my jaw and down my neck. Every inch makes it harder to remember why this is a bad idea, especially when her teeth scrape lightly over my throat.

I tighten my grip on her waist.

“Twila.”

“Mmm?”

“Don’t.”

She pulls back enough to see my face. “Don’t what?”

“Make this something it ain’t.”

Her expression hardens slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You started this for the keys.”

“Maybe.”

“Yeah.”

“So?”

“So now you ain’t thinking about them.”

She opens her mouth, then stops.

There.

Caught her.

I lean back enough to see her properly. “You forgot why you started.”

“That’s arrogant.”