Chapter Fourteen #3
“Yes.”
“Ain’t gonna be gentle if you start that wrestling shit.”
Heat rolls through me. “Promise?”
His eyes darken. “Woman.”
I wrap both legs around him. “Quit talking.”
He pushes into me slowly enough that I feel every inch.
For exactly two seconds.
Then I tighten around him and Whiskey swears.
His forehead drops against mine. “Jesus fucking Christ, Twila.”
I squeeze him again on purpose.
His hand clamps around my thigh. “You keep doing that, I’m gonna fuck every smartass thought right out of your head.”
“Big promise.”
“Then hold on.”
I laugh.
He thrusts harder, and the laugh breaks into a moan. He kisses me. I move with him, not just beneath him while he does whatever he wants.
With him.
Every thrust pushes me deeper into the mattress, and I meet each one, rolling my hips back into his. His hand grips my thigh as I push against him.
He groans. “Jesus Christ.”
“You like it.”
“Too fucking much.”
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.
Afterward, I end up sprawled across his chest while his hand moves lazily up and down my back. The room smells like sweat, sex, and the faint lavender detergent clinging to my sheets.
It feels normal.
Almost.
Dangerously normal.
Then my phone buzzes somewhere in the pile of clothes.
I lift my head. “You have my phone?”
“Yeah.”
“You asshole.”
“Forgot. Not sure how the ringer got turned back on.”
“Give it.”
Whiskey reaches over the edge of the mattress, stretches too far, and nearly slides off the bed.
I laugh. “Graceful.”
“A naked woman on me affects my balance.”
“Excuses.”
He finds the phone inside his cut and hands it over.
The screen is crowded with missed calls. Daddy several times. Cal. An unknown number.
Whiskey checks his phone too. It’s Glamaw.
Then I see Glamaw’s text.
WREN WANTS TWILA TO SEE THIS.
There’s a picture attached.
The drawing has changed.
Prickle is clearer now, at least as clear as anything drawn in crayon by a seven-year-old can be.
Four narrow legs support a body too thin for a healthy deer.
Short dark lines rise along its spine, and the antlers curve at odd angles that don’t look right even allowing for childhood anatomy.
Its face is long beneath the crayon trees.
Still childish. Still obviously Wren’s drawing.
Still unsettling as hell.
But Prickle isn’t what makes me sit up.
A woman stands beside him.
She’s tall, wearing a white dress with dark hair falling down either side of a face Wren never drew.
I zoom in. “What the fuck?”
Whiskey sits up behind me. “What?”
“The woman.”
His attention sharpens immediately.
Another text appears.
SHE SAYS THAT’S PRICKLE’S FRIEND.
I type back.
Who is she?
The answer arrives almost immediately, probably Wren dictating while Glamaw works the phone.
MERCY
Every warm, lazy thing left over from sex disappears.
Whiskey takes the phone and looks at the word, then the drawing. “Wren’s never heard that name from me.”
“I never said it around her either. She wasn’t at the clubhouse?”
“No.”
“She didn’t hear Cider say it.”
“No.” His fingers tighten around my phone until the case gives a faint creak.
I take it before he cracks the damn thing and study the picture again.
Prickle, the strange skinny deer with little spines along its back.
The faceless woman beside him.
Mercy.
Whatever Mercy meant in Cider’s old memories, Pearly Gates, or the lives of the girls they held, Wren had no way to hear that name from us tonight.
That’s the problem.
Whiskey exhales slowly beside me. His eyes return to the drawing. “Get dressed. We’re going hunting.”