Page 190 of Property of Whiskey

He releases me and kisses me again. Slower. That nearly gets me worse than the rough kissing did.

His hands move over my back, my waist, and my ass without hesitation. He isn’t touching me like he’s taking inventory or deciding which parts he can tolerate. He feels me like he likes every damn thing he finds.

I pull away enough to breathe. “Cal hated that I was taller in heels.”

Whiskey looks down at me, then at my bare feet. “How tall?”

“Six-two.”

His smile comes slow. “Wear ‘em.”

“What?”

“Heels.”

His mouth finds the side of my neck.

I tilt my head. “Cal hated wrestling.”

“Cal was stupid. I’ve got a poster of you on my bathroom wall.”

“He hated the bruises.”

“I’ll give you some more, if that’s what you like.”

“That’s fucked up.”

“I’m a biker.” His hands slide beneath my shirt, warm palms moving against my skin.

“Cal said I fought everything.”

Whiskey pulls back and looks me straight in the eyes. “You better fight. You’re hot as fuck when you’re fighting me.”

“Yeah?”

“Hot as fuck.”

I laugh.

He kisses the sound out of me.

My shirt lands on the floor, followed by my bra. This time he gets the clasp on the first try. Then his mouth closes over my breast and accuracy stops mattering.

His tongue circles my nipple before his teeth catch it just hard enough to make my back arch.

“Fuck.”

His mouth curves against my skin. “Thought you liked fighting.”

“I’ll fight you if you stop.”

“That’s my girl.”

My fingers dig into his shoulders as his hand slides down my stomach and stops at the waistband of my jeans.

He looks up.

I know the question.