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Giving her a grin, I tug up my jeans and go to work on finding her dress. I slip it over her head, straightening it and smoothing out its wrinkles.

“What now?” Delilah chews her lip as she looks at me. I glance at the clock above the bar. It’s early still. Barely nine o’clock.

I snatch my hat off the bar, dust it off, then set it on her head. A jolt of awareness crackles across my skin at what I’ve just done. “Come home with me.” This night isn’t over. I ache to keep her beside me.

Her smile is a beam of light that hits me square in the chest. “Yeah.”

We go back to my house, where I fuck her in the shower, cleaning the whiskey off her body between quick, frantic thrusts. When we’re finished, I towel her dry and put her into my bed.

Delilah snuggles into the pillow. Naked. Beautiful. One toned leg, kicked out over the sheets. “I should go back to my Creek House.”

I grunt as I shrug on a pair of underwear. “Not an option, Delilah.” Tonight, she stays beside me.

Leaning over, Delilah examines a framed Weston Whiskey napkin with my mother’s handwriting. “To my little Wild Westons. I love you.” She looks at me, stretching her body. “That’s sweet. What is it?”

“That’s what our mom called us.” With a rough swallow, I sit beside her. “Her little ‘Wild Westons.’ Hell, we ran half the town ragged back then.”

She laughs. “I can picture it.”

I close my eyes as she runs her fingers up my back. Her warm, soft touch feels so good. “She was always leaving notes for us on distillery napkins. I found that one, and I kept it.”

She flops back against the pillow, her pretty brown eyes shiny. “What were their names?”

“Jacob and Caroline.”

“What did your mom love?” She tilts her head, and my heart pounds at the question.

“Animals.”

“Your father?”

“Whiskey.”

“Real helpful.” Her smile is soft.

I reach my hand out, running it down her bare leg, feeling emotion wrench inside of me. It matters that she’s asking, that she cares. Neither of us say anything. We just look at each other, then I cup her cheek and shove to standing.

Delilah likes music so I put on a record. Johnny Cash’s faint warble fills the room. I join her in bed, pull her into my arms. I’m starving for more than just her pussy, I’m starving for the whole of this girl.

Delilah lays her golden head on my chest.

“I had fun tonight.”

“Me too.”

She hesitates, then pushes up. Her full lips flatten. “I want you to know, Cole, I’ve never slept with a man I danced for—”

“Don’t do that.”

“What?”

“Justify, okay?” I tip her chin up to meet my firm gaze. “No shame. You don’t have to do that with me or anyone.”

It was a job. She needed the money. She needed to survive. She’s good at it. End of story. I’d never use it against her. Or use it to think less of her. And damn everyone else who has.

“Thank you.” She smiles, curls her slender fingers in my chest hair. “I liked dancing for you, Cole.”

Hand on her elbow, I pull her closer. I kiss her forehead, her nose, her lips. “I liked it too, darlin’.”