"Adrenaline."
"Liar."
She said it low, almost a whisper, and I looked at that mouth, red lipstick half worn from the shift, the lower lip she worried between her teeth when she was thinking, and every professional instinct I had said walk away.
Every other instinct won.
I grabbed her waist and hauled her into me.
The sound she made, short and raw and from low in her throat, lit me up from the base of my spine to the back of my skull. Her hands fisted in my shirt and her mouth hit mine and the kiss was brutal and perfect and tasted like whiskey and fury and three days of not doing this. She bit my lower lip and I groaned and she laughed into the kiss, breathless.
"There you are," she said.
I lifted her onto the bar. Her legs wrapped around me, boots locking behind my thighs, and the glass went sideways and shattered on the floor and neither of us flinched.
"That was the good Blanton's."
"I'll buy you a bottle."
"You can't afford my bourbon."
She was already on my holster buckle, stripping it off with the competence of someone who'd handled firearms before, setting it on the wood behind her, then pulling my thermal over my head in one motion.
"Nashville," she said, answering the question on my face.
"Follow-up questions."
"Later. Take this off me."
I tugged her top over her head. Black bra, simple, and her skin was flushed and hot under my palms. Freckles across her collarbone I hadn't known about. I pressed my lips to them and she arched into it, fingers digging into my shoulders.
"Off," she said, reaching behind herself. "Stop being polite."
"Yes ma'am."
"I told you not to—"
I closed my mouth over her nipple and sucked and the rest of the sentence turned into a moan that made my cock throb. She grabbed my hair and pulled, rough, and I sucked harder, my tongue on the stiff peak, then switched to the other breast and gave it the same attention while my hand slid between her legs and ground the heel of my palm into her through the denim. She rolled into the pressure, greedy, impatient.
"Jeans. Now."
"You give a lot of orders for someone sitting on a bar."
"You follow a lot of orders for someone with a gun."
I popped the button on her jeans, dragged them down her hips while she lifted, and she kicked one leg free, boot still on. I dropped to my knees and hooked behind her thighs and pulled her to the edge of the bar.
"What are you—"
I buried my face between her legs and licked a long, slow stripe up through her folds, and whatever she'd been about to say turned into a noise that made my cock strain at my zipper.
She was soaking wet. I dragged the flat of my tongue through her pussy, tasting her, learning her, then closed my lips around her clit and sucked. Her thighs locked against my head, one hand clamped on the back of my skull, and she rocked into my face.
"Fuck, Dane—"
I found her clit with my tongue, tight circles alternating with broad flat strokes, and slid two fingers inside her. She clenched around them immediately, hot and slick and snug, and I curled them forward and sealed my mouth over her at the same time. Her back arched off the bar and her heel dug into my shoulder blade.
"Don't stop, right there—"
