Page 111 of Property of Whiskey

“How?”

“I had a plan.”

“And afterward?”

She glares.

I smile. “That’s what I thought.”

I climb onto the Harley. “Get on, Deputy.”

She pauses, then swings one long leg over the seat.

Her thighs close around me.

Fuck.

I stare straight ahead.

“Problem?” she asks.

“Nope.”

Her arms wrap around my waist.

“Sounded like one.” Her laugh vibrates against my back, and I’m getting too damn comfortable with that sound.

I start the Harley.

The ride home should take ten minutes.

I make it in fifteen, and it ain’t because I’m slow.

Twila’s body stays fitted to my back, her hands locked over my stomach. Every time I lean us through a curve, her thighs tighten around me and the inside of her knees press harder against my hips. Every squeeze pulls her tighter against my back, and my dick apparently doesn’t give a fuck that I’m trying to operate a motorcycle. If she shifts those hips one more goddamn inch, I’m gonna have to pull over just to remember how breathing works.

Nobody needs fifteen minutes of that unless they’re headed somewhere with a locked bedroom.

Which, unfortunately, I am.

My driveway comes into view beneath the trees. Wren’s pink bicycle still lies where she abandoned it beside the front walk, one handlebar turned toward the grass.

Twila notices.

I feel the change in the way she sits behind me before I even kill the engine. Less teasing. More attention.

I park beneath the carport, and she swings off before I do.

When she removes the helmet, her hair falls everywhere.

My brain immediately supplies the memory of her hands tangled in my hair while she kissed me in Mama’s basement.

“Quit.”

She frowns. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“You said quit.”