Page 192 of Property of Whiskey

He hooks one hand behind my thigh and lifts, and I wrap my leg around his hip.

“Bed.”

“You ordering me around?”

“You like it.”

“Yeah.”

We make it to the bed somehow.

I land on the mattress, and Whiskey follows me down, his mouth finding mine before I can come up with another smartass comment. My hands move over his chest, his back, his belt, every part of him I couldn’t touch freely when metal was around my wrists.

When I reach lower, he catches my wrist.

“What?”

“Slow down.”

I stare at him. “You?”

“Yeah.”

“Who are you?”

“I’ve been waiting for this.”

He lets go of my wrist and kisses his way down my stomach.

Then lower.

My breath catches. “Whiskey.”

“Yeah?”

“You don’t have to prove anything.”

His eyes lift. “Good.”

“Then why…”

“Because I want to.”

Every joke leaves me.

He hooks his fingers beneath my panties and slides them down my legs.

I should say something smart.

I’ve got nothing.

His mouth touches the inside of my thigh. Then higher.

My fingers fist in the blanket. “Oh, fuck.”

Whiskey laughs softly against me. “Got words now?”

Then his mouth is on me. His tongue drags over my clit slowly once, like the bastard has all night, then does it again harder when my thighs jerk. Two fingers slide inside me while he sucks, curling until my hips come off the mattress. And I forget his entire fucking personality.