Page 120 of Property of Whiskey

Chapter Eleven

Whiskey

Twila grabs my shirt and kisses me. There ain’t a game in it this time. No keys. No cuffs. No plan to get free.

Just her.

I catch her waist as she comes against me hard enough to drive my shoulder blades into the wall.

“Jesus.”

“Shut up.”

“You always this bossy?”

She kisses me again.

I turn us, and now she’s against the wall. Her hands shove beneath my cut and push it from my shoulders until it lands on the floor.

My mouth finds her jaw, then the side of her neck.

She tilts her head and gives me more.

“Thought you hated me.”

“Fuck you.”

“Getting there.”

She bites my shoulder through my shirt.

I laugh against her throat. “You got a biting problem.”

“You’ve got a talking problem.”

Her hands drag my shirt upward.

I help her get it off, and it lands beside my cut.

Twila looks at my chest.

Really looks. Ink, old scars, newer ones. Years of shit I don’t explain unless I have to. Then her palms touch me. Slow. That nearly does more damage than the kissing.

I grip her hips. “Don’t get sweet on me.”

“I’m inspecting evidence.”

“Find anything incriminating?”

Her fingers trace an old scar near my ribs. “Plenty.”

I kiss her before she asks where it came from.

Her hands slide into my hair while mine move beneath her shirt, palms finding warm skin.

Her body stills for half a beat.

I stop.