Chapter Seventeen
Twila
“There.”
I start forward.
Whiskey catches my arm. “Wait.”
I pull free. “Somebody’s down there.”
“Which means maybe don’t run straight at ‘em.”
I’m already moving.
“Twila, goddammit.”
Branches slap my arms and wet leaves drag across my sweatshirt as I push downhill. Mud sucks at my boots while the pale shape moves again between the trees and Whiskey crashes through the brush behind me.
“Stop!” I shout.
Brilliant, Twila. Criminals famously respect commands screamed through forests. I speed up.
Whiskey catches the back of my sweatshirt. “Quit running toward murder.”
“Quit fucking touching me.”
“I’m trying to keep you upright.”
“I’m a cop.”
“You’re off duty.”
“Murder don’t keep office hours.”
The ground disappears beneath my next step.
“Twila!”
Not completely, just enough for my boot to hit slick mud at the edge of a shallow embankment and shoot forward.
“Oh, shit!”
Whiskey catches me around the waist. We both go down through wet leaves and mud, my flashlight flying somewhere into the dark. Whiskey lands flat on his back with me sprawled halfway across him, knocking the breath out of both of us.
For one stunned beat, the woods are silent except for us trying to breathe.
Then Whiskey starts laughing.
I lift my head. “You think this is funny?”
“Hilarious.”
“You asshole.”
“You ran down a muddy hill.”
“I was chasing somebody.”
“You were chasing fucking Casper. Or Mama Crowley.”
“That old ghost story? I’m not a child.”
“You’ve heard it too? Sound scared.”
I grab a handful of mud and smear it across his shirt.
His mouth drops open. “You did not.”
“Apparently I did.”
He looks down at the streak, then slowly back at me. “Oh, you’re fucked.”
“Threat?”
“Promise.”
He grabs my wrist. I twist, use the direction of his pull against him, and roll until I’m straddling his hips. Whiskey looks up at me with mud tangled through his beard and leaves caught in his hair, and I start laughing.
“What?”
“You look like a swamp creature.”
“You’re sitting on me, so watch your mouth.”
“You always threaten law enforcement?”
“Only when they mount me.”
I plant both hands on his chest.
“Deputy.” His hands settle on my hips, warm even through wet denim.
“Abuse of authority,” he says.
“Skill issue.”
Whiskey narrows his eyes before he moves fast enough to remind me he didn’t survive this long by being slow. He catches one arm, turns his hips, and suddenly I’m beneath him.
“Cheater.”
“Winner.”
I hook my leg behind his knee and bridge hard.
He curses.
I roll us again.
Back on top.
“Wrestler.”
“Cocky.”
“Very.”
He reaches for my hip, but I trap his wrist. He slips free and catches mine, so I shift before he can roll me again and wedge my knee between us.
“Careful.”
“What?”
“My balls.”
I grin big.
“Always thinking about my dick.”
I slap mud across his cheek.
His laughter dies instantly. “Twila.”
“What?”
“That was beard territory.”
“So?”
“Sacred.”
I laugh hard enough that my balance shifts.
His hands catch my waist.
Then neither one of us is laughing anymore because I can feel him hard beneath me through his jeans.
Very.
I look down, then up. “Oh.”
Whiskey’s eyes narrow. “Don’t act surprised. You’ve been straddling my dick for the last five minutes.”
“Through jeans.”
“My dick knows where you are.”
I shift against him deliberately.
His fingers bite into my hips. “Careful, Deputy.”
“Thought you liked me on top.”
“I do. That’s the fucking problem.”
Whiskey closes his eyes.
I shift my hips once, just enough to make his fingers dig harder into my waist.
“Twila.”
“What?”
“You start that shit out here and I ain’t responsible for what happens.”
I lean closer. “Thought you liked dangerous women.”
“Like living too.”
“Coward.”
“Men have died over less.”
“Not from me.”
“Give it time.”
I kiss him.
He catches the back of my neck and kisses me harder, and everything changes fast. Cold mud beneath my knees, his mouth hot against mine, his beard rough against my skin while my hands slide underneath his shirt.
Whiskey rolls us again, taking me beneath him.
This time I let him. He presses one thigh between mine, and I hook my leg around his hip.
His hand slides under my ass and drags me harder against the bulge behind his zipper. I grind into him once, and the sound he makes is low enough to feel against my mouth.
“Still wanna blame the mud?” I whisper.
“Mud ain’t what I’m thinking about getting you dirty with.”
“You’re filthy,” he murmurs.
“So are you.”
His mouth finds my neck, the only clean spot.
I grab his hair. “There’s mud in your beard.”
“Your fault.”
“Looks good.”
“Got a swamp kink now?”
“Maybe.”
He bites lightly beneath my ear, and I suck in a breath.
“Quiet.”
I push at his shoulder. “We’re in the woods.”
His hand slides up my thigh, leaving another smear of mud across my jeans. I shift beneath him and feel the low sound that leaves him against my throat.
Whiskey kisses me hard.
My hands go to his belt.
His gaze drops to them.
I open his belt while his hand slips beneath my sweatshirt, his palm rough and warm against my skin. Cold air hits everywhere the fabric rises, followed almost immediately by the heat of his mouth.
I arch. “That’s cold.”
“Could warm you up.”
I get his zipper down first and shove my hand inside his jeans, beneath the waistband of his underwear. My fingers close around his cock, hot and hard despite the cold night.
Whiskey bows his head, his breath hot against my cheek. “Fuck, Twila.” His hand finds the button of my jeans and opens it. Two fingers slip beneath the waistband of my panties.
“Tell me to stop.”
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.”
“You already have your hand in my pants.”
“Had.”
Then he starts moving down my body.
My breath catches.
“Whiskey.”
“Yeah?”
“We’re in the fucking woods.”
“Noticed.”
He drags my jeans and panties down together, only far enough to clear my hips.
Cold night air hits bare skin.
I immediately try to close my thighs.
Whiskey catches one knee.
“Too cold?”
“Little late to ask.”
“Can stop.”
“Touch me again and I’ll arrest you.”
He looks up at me from between my thighs.
“That a yes?”
I grab his hair.
“Figure it out.”
His mouth lands on me.
I nearly come off the ground.
“Oh, fuck.”
Whiskey laughs against my clit.
The bastard actually laughs.
“You think this is funny?”
His tongue drags over me again.
My question turns into a moan.
“Hilarious,” he murmurs.
“I hate you.”
“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.
I come with my hand locked in his hair and his name breaking out of me loud enough that somewhere in Kentucky an owl probably files a noise complaint.
Whiskey keeps his mouth on me until the last pulse fades.
Then he kisses the inside of my thigh.
“Still cold?”
I’m breathing too hard to answer.
He looks entirely too satisfied with himself.
“Fuck you.”
“That was the direction we were heading.”
He climbs back over me.
I grab his face and kiss him.
I taste myself on his mouth.
That should not make me hotter.
It does.
My hand goes straight back to his open jeans.
Whiskey groans when I wrap my fingers around him.
“Deputy.”
“What?”
I stroke him.
“Jesus Christ.”
“Thought you wanted to fuck me in the mud.”
“I want to fuck you damn near everywhere.”
“Then quit talking.”
I pull him closer.
His hand slides beneath my thigh.
“Condom.”
“You got one?”
He reaches toward the inside pocket of his cut.
A branch cracks behind us.
Not some little twig giving way beneath a squirrel.
Heavy.
Close.
Every bit of heat disappears.
Whiskey is off me before my brain catches up.
I yank my panties and jeans over my hips while he shoves himself back into his underwear and jeans. I don’t get the zipper all the way up before his gun clears the holster.
One second his mouth is between my legs.
The next he’s crouched between me and the darkness with his pistol raised.
“Stay down.”
I shove my feet underneath me. “Absolutely not.”
“Twila.”
I find my flashlight buried in the leaves. “Somebody’s there.”
“No shit.”
“Then stop standing in front of me.”
“That’s literally what I’m doing.”
“I have a gun too.”
“Where?”
I reach toward my waistband.
Nothing.
Right.
Whiskey gives me one quick look. “Still got yours at the house.”
“Asshole.”
“Survival.”
He sweeps his flashlight across the trees, but nothing moves inside the beam.
I get to my feet with my jeans half buttoned, hair wet, sweatshirt covered in mud and leaves.
Professionalism is having a rough night.