Page 157 of Property of Whiskey

His hand leaves me immediately.

The absence of it is so fucking noticeable I react before I think.

My fingers close around his wrist.

Shit.

Whiskey looks down at my hand.

Then up at me.

I release him.

His brows draw together. “You just said…”

“I know what I said.”

His eyes darken.

“What?”

“You arguing with yourself.”

“I’m complex.”

“You’re a pain in my ass.”

“You like my ass.”

“That too.”

“Whiskey.”

“What?”

“You don’t get to act like I belong to you in front of your club.”

The humor leaves his face.

“I never said you belong to me.”

“Your hand’s been on me since we came back out here.”

“Was.”

I hate that one word more than I should.

He did exactly what I asked. That doesn’t stop half the clubhouse from watching us like they already decided what this is before I did.

Oaks walks past, slows, and looks between us.

“Not saying anything.”

Whiskey points toward the other end of the room. “Keep walking.”

“Didn’t say shit.”

“Your face did.”