Page 232 of Property of Whiskey

“Lie.”

Then he sucks my clit into his mouth, and apparently I no longer speak English.

Cold mud. Wet leaves. His beard scratching the inside of my thighs. His mouth hot enough to make everything else disappear.

It shouldn’t work.

It really fucking works.

Whiskey slides two fingers inside me.

I arch hard enough that my shoulders dig into the wet ground.

“Fuck.”

His fingers curl.

My grip tightens in his hair.

“Again.”

He does it again.

“Whiskey.”

He lifts his mouth just enough to speak.

“You ordering me around?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

His mouth goes back to work.

Pressure builds fast.

Too fast.

I’m suddenly aware of every ridiculous thing about this.

The mud beneath my ass.

My jeans around my thighs.

The possibility that some possessed Kentucky deer is watching me get eaten out in the forest.

Then Whiskey curls his fingers again and I stop giving a shit about wildlife.

“Oh, fuck.”

He knows.

His free arm hooks beneath my thigh and holds me open while his mouth stays exactly where I need it.

“Don’t stop.”

He doesn’t.