Page 189 of Property of Whiskey

“Man was a fucking idiot.”

Something tight pulls behind my ribs.

“Ain’t nothing wrong with too much woman.”

His thumb brushes once along my jaw.

“Problem was he wasn’t enough man.”

That does it.

I kiss him.

Hard.

Whiskey makes a rough sound against my mouth and catches my waist.

His hand slides into my hair and tightens just enough to tip my head back. “That what you needed, Blondie?”

“What?”

“A man who ain’t scared when you come at him full fucking force.”

I bite his lip. “You talk too much.”

“Then shut me up.”

This time there are no cuffs between us, no basement post, no escape plan running behind my eyes and no question whether I’m trying to buy freedom with my body. No baby mama interrupting us.

I shove him backward until the dresser catches his hips. Something falls over behind him, probably a bottle, and neither one of us gives a shit.

His hands settle over my hips.

“Still violent.”

“Shut up.”

“Like you better this way.”

“This way?”

“Mad.”

I dig my fingers into his sides.

He laughs. “Strong.”

My hands push beneath his shirt. “Whiskey.”

“Mouthy.”

I yank his shirt over his head, and he catches my wrists before I can throw it.

“Mean.”

“You complaining?”

“Not a fucking chance.”