Page 253 of Property of Whiskey

“Yeah.”

“You don’t own me.”

“You sure?”

“No.” She laughs.

I put my hands at her waist and pull her closer.

“I know you ain’t mine because I decide it,” I tell her.

Her smile fades. “But?”

“But I’m starting to think I’m yours.”

Fuck.

Twila just looks at me.

No smart answer.

For once.

I should fix it.

Make a joke.

Instead, she grabs my beard and kisses me hard enough that my back hits the shelving. Boxes shake overhead as I catch her ass and lift.

Twila wraps her legs around me.

Her hot little wrestling shorts ride higher when I hitch her against me, and my cock goes hard enough to make thinking somebody else’s problem.

She feels it and rolls her hips once.

“That because Rhett touched me?”

“That’s because you exist. Rhett touching you just made me mean about it.”

“Jesus.”

“Quiet.”

“Ain’t my daughter sleeping outside this door.”

“Still people.”

“Let ‘em fucking hear.”

Her mouth curves.

I kiss her again. She tastes like sweat and a little blood, which shouldn’t be hot. It fucking is. My hand slides up her thigh beneath the edge of those tiny shorts. I carry her backward until the backs of her knees hit a stack of folded mats and set her on the edge. She spreads her knees for me like she doesn’t know exactly what that does.

I step between her thighs, and she hooks one boot behind my leg to drag me closer until my cock presses right between them.

“You looked ready to climb into the ring,” she whispers.

“I was ready to drag you out of it and bend you over the first flat surface I found.”