Page 213 of Property of Whiskey

Her lips brush my ear. “Shut up and fuck me.”

That filthy little order ruins me.

I give her exactly what she asked for. Slow ain’t happening anymore, but quiet still has to. Every hard thrust gets swallowed against her mouth, her fingers digging into my back while the bed gives one dangerous little creak beneath us.

We both freeze.

Nothing from the hallway.

Twila looks at me and bites her lip.

“Don’t,” I whisper.

“Don’t what?”

“Look at me like that when I’m trying not to fuck you through the mattress.”

Her legs tighten around me. “Who said you had to try?”

Fuck me.

I kiss her before either one of us gets any louder and keep moving until her body locks around mine, her moan buried against my shoulder. I follow not long after, face pressed into her neck because apparently keeping quiet is a lot harder when Twila Dix is wrapped around my dick.

Later, the room settles around us again.

Twila lies half across my chest beneath the sheet, one warm leg tangled with mine while I run my fingers lazily through her hair. Somewhere down the hall the house creaks, then quiets.

Twila doesn’t say anything.

Too quiet.

“You asleep?”

“No.”

“Thinking?”

“No.”

“Liar.” I look down at her.

Her eyes are open, watching the ceiling. She sighs, then shifts closer until more of her body is pressed along mine. That tiny movement hits harder than it should.

She could get up right now, pull her clothes on, walk out my unlocked front door, go home, call her father, call Cal, or call a damn Uber if she wanted.

She doesn’t.

Instead, she settles closer.

“You always tuck women in?” she asks.

“No.”

“Good.”

“Jealous?”

“No.”