Page 230 of Property of Whiskey

I stroke him once. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

His smile is pure trouble. “That’s what I thought.”

His fingers move lower.

I suck in a breath.

“Cold?”

“Your hand ain’t.”

“Compliment?”

“Don’t ruin it.”

He kisses me, and his fingers slide through me slowly enough that my hips lift toward his hand.

“Jesus.”

“Still wanna chase ghosts?”

“Shut up.”

He rubs my clit once.

I forget whatever I was going to say.

Whiskey notices.

Of course he does.

“There she is.”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Get smug.”

He rubs me again.

“Can’t help it.”

I tighten my hand around his cock.

His smile disappears.

“Neither can I.”

He catches my wrist.

For half a second I think he’s stopping me.

Instead, he pulls my hand free of his jeans and kisses my palm.

“What?”

“My turn.”