Page 195 of Property of Whiskey

He shifts his weight and rolls us.

Suddenly I’m on top.

I brace both palms on his chest and look down at him.

That expression gets me. Like this is exactly where he wants me.

Not smaller.

Not quieter.

Not easier.

Right here.

I start moving.

Whiskey’s hands settle on my hips without trying to take over.

He’s watching.

His eyes stay locked on where my body takes him. “That’s it.”

My nails drag over his chest. “That all you got?”

His gaze snaps up to mine. “No, Deputy. Show me what too much looks like.”

I go faster.

His head drops back into the pillow. “Fuck, Twila.”

There’s power in hearing my name like that.

I lean forward. “Too much?”

His eyes open. “What?”

I know I shouldn’t ask.

I do anyway.

“Am I too much?”

Every trace of filthy amusement disappears from his face. His hands stop moving on my hips, and one slides into my hair instead. He draws me down until our mouths are almost touching.

“Not even fucking close.”

My throat tightens.

“You want more?” I whisper.

His smile turns rough. “Give me everything.” His fingers tighten in my hair. “Don’t you fucking shrink for me. Not here. Not ever.”

So I do.

I ride him harder, and he meets every movement without trying to slow me down or turn me into something easier to handle. His hands stay on me. His mouth stays on me. Every sound he makes says yes to the exact version of me Cal spent years trying to sand down.

When I come again, Whiskey follows a few thrusts later, gripping my hips hard enough that I’ll probably have fingerprints burned into my ass tomorrow.