Page 193 of Property of Whiskey

My hips lift automatically. His forearm settles across them, not pinning me down but keeping me from sliding halfway up the mattress while he works me harder.

I drag my fingers into his hair. “Whiskey.”

He doesn’t answer. He’s busy. Bastard is giving me a beard burn. Pressure builds fast, too fast, until instinct makes me try to move away from it.

He follows. His voice vibrates against me, nearly pushing me over all by itself.

“Fuck.”

“That’s it,” he says, his mouth full.

“Don’t talk.”

He laughs against my clit.

I hate that laugh.

Love what he’s doing.

Hate that too.

My thighs tighten around his shoulders as every muscle in my body pulls tight.

Then everything breaks.

I come hard enough to lock every muscle at once. Whiskey stays with me through it, slowing afterward until the sharpest tremors fade.

Gentler than I expect.

When he finally comes back up the bed, I’m breathing like I ran five miles uphill.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

Smug fucker.

I grab him and pull him down. “Take your jeans off.”

“Bossy.”

“Yes.”

“Like it.”

“Know.”

His jeans hit the floor, followed by his underwear.

I look.

He catches me.

“Problem?”

“No.”

“Staring.”

Bending, he reaches into his discarded jeans and pulls out a condom.