Chapter Fourteen #2
“Like you better this way.”
“This way?”
“Mad.”
I dig my fingers into his sides.
He laughs. “Strong.”
My hands push beneath his shirt. “Whiskey.”
“Mouthy.”
I yank his shirt over his head, and he catches my wrists before I can throw it.
“Mean.”
“You complaining?”
“Not a fucking chance.”
He releases me and kisses me again. Slower. That nearly gets me worse than the rough kissing did.
His hands move over my back, my waist, and my ass without hesitation. He isn’t touching me like he’s taking inventory or deciding which parts he can tolerate. He feels me like he likes every damn thing he finds.
I pull away enough to breathe. “Cal hated that I was taller in heels.”
Whiskey looks down at me, then at my bare feet. “How tall?”
“Six-two.”
His smile comes slow. “Wear ‘em.”
“What?”
“Heels.”
His mouth finds the side of my neck.
I tilt my head. “Cal hated wrestling.”
“Cal was stupid. I’ve got a poster of you on my bathroom wall.”
“He hated the bruises.”
“I’ll give you some more, if that’s what you like.”
“That’s fucked up.”
“I’m a biker.” His hands slide beneath my shirt, warm palms moving against my skin.
“Cal said I fought everything.”
Whiskey pulls back and looks me straight in the eyes. “You better fight. You’re hot as fuck when you’re fighting me.”
“Yeah?”
“Hot as fuck.”
I laugh.
He kisses the sound out of me.
My shirt lands on the floor, followed by my bra. This time he gets the clasp on the first try. Then his mouth closes over my breast and accuracy stops mattering.
His tongue circles my nipple before his teeth catch it just hard enough to make my back arch.
“Fuck.”
His mouth curves against my skin. “Thought you liked fighting.”
“I’ll fight you if you stop.”
“That’s my girl.”
My fingers dig into his shoulders as his hand slides down my stomach and stops at the waistband of my jeans.
He looks up.
I know the question.
“Yes.”
“Not because you’re pissed at Cal?”
“I was wet before Cal got here.”
“Good point.”
“Whiskey.”
“Yeah?”
“Take my fucking pants off.”
His grin turns pure sin. “Now that sounded like an order.”
“Do it.”
“Yes, Deputy.”
He opens my jeans and pushes them down until I kick free.
I turn just enough to work the denim off one ankle, and Whiskey’s hand catches lightly at my hip.
“Hold up.”
I look over my shoulder. “What?”
His thumb brushes the little black dandelion inked low on my back, just above my left hip. Three tiny seeds blow away from it toward my spine.
“Didn’t know you had ink.”
“You don’t know everything.”
His mouth curves. “Yet.”
“Don’t get cocky.”
“Little late for that.”
His eyes move over me slowly, without apology. I should feel exposed standing in my bedroom wearing panties while a man I barely trusted two days ago looks at me like that.
Instead, I feel powerful.
Wanted.
Not despite being too much.
Because of it.
“You keep looking like that,” I say, “and I’m charging admission.”
“I’m ready to pay.”
“With what?”
“I’ve been told I’ve got a big cock.”
I laugh. “I can confirm.”
He hooks one hand behind my thigh and lifts, and I wrap my leg around his hip.
“Bed.”
“You ordering me around?”
“You like it.”
“Yeah.”
We make it to the bed somehow.
I land on the mattress, and Whiskey follows me down, his mouth finding mine before I can come up with another smartass comment. My hands move over his chest, his back, his belt, every part of him I couldn’t touch freely when metal was around my wrists.
When I reach lower, he catches my wrist.
“What?”
“Slow down.”
I stare at him. “You?”
“Yeah.”
“Who are you?”
“I’ve been waiting for this.”
He lets go of my wrist and kisses his way down my stomach.
Then lower.
My breath catches. “Whiskey.”
“Yeah?”
“You don’t have to prove anything.”
His eyes lift. “Good.”
“Then why…”
“Because I want to.”
Every joke leaves me.
He hooks his fingers beneath my panties and slides them down my legs.
I should say something smart.
I’ve got nothing.
His mouth touches the inside of my thigh. Then higher.
My fingers fist in the blanket. “Oh, fuck.”
Whiskey laughs softly against me. “Got words now?”
Then his mouth is on me. His tongue drags over my clit slowly once, like the bastard has all night, then does it again harder when my thighs jerk. Two fingers slide inside me while he sucks, curling until my hips come off the mattress. And I forget his entire fucking personality.
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.
I raise an eyebrow. “You keep those handy?”
“Single man.”
“Whore.”
“Jealous?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
He rolls it on, then comes back over me.
The jokes disappear from his face before he says my name.
“Twila.”
I know what he’s asking.