Page 233 of Property of Whiskey

I come with my hand locked in his hair and his name breaking out of me loud enough that somewhere in Kentucky an owl probably files a noise complaint.

Whiskey keeps his mouth on me until the last pulse fades.

Then he kisses the inside of my thigh.

“Still cold?”

I’m breathing too hard to answer.

He looks entirely too satisfied with himself.

“Fuck you.”

“That was the direction we were heading.”

He climbs back over me.

I grab his face and kiss him.

I taste myself on his mouth.

That should not make me hotter.

It does.

My hand goes straight back to his open jeans.

Whiskey groans when I wrap my fingers around him.

“Deputy.”

“What?”

I stroke him.

“Jesus Christ.”

“Thought you wanted to fuck me in the mud.”

“I want to fuck you damn near everywhere.”

“Then quit talking.”

I pull him closer.

His hand slides beneath my thigh.

“Condom.”

“You got one?”

He reaches toward the inside pocket of his cut.

A branch cracks behind us.

Not some little twig giving way beneath a squirrel.

Heavy.