Page 123 of Property of Whiskey

“Romantic.”

“Ain’t a poet.”

I kick the bedroom door open.

Twila laughs. “Real subtle.”

“Door deserved it.”

I lower her onto the mattress.

She immediately reaches for my belt.

I catch her hand.

Her mouth flattens. “Now what?”

“Need to know this ain’t about your daddy.”

“It ain’t.”

“Or escaping.”

“No.”

“Or proving something.”

“Whiskey.”

“What?”

“If you ask me one more fucking question, I’m gonna finish this by myself.”

My eyebrows rise. “That a threat?”

“Promise.”

I let her hand go.

She opens my belt slowly, looking at me the whole time.

“That enough consent for you?”

“Getting pretty damn convincing.”

She opens my jeans, shoves my underwear down enough to free my cock, and closes her hand around me.

Every joke leaves my brain.

“Fuck.”

Her thumb drags over the head, slow enough to make my stomach lock.

“Still wanna ask me if I’m sure?” she whispers.

“Keep touching me like that and I ain’t gonna remember my own fucking name, much less another question.”

Twila smiles.