Page 215 of Property of Whiskey

She settles back against me.

A minute passes.

Then another.

I think she’s asleep when she whispers, “I want to.”

My entire chest locks.

“What?”

Nothing.

“Twila.”

Her eyes stay closed. “Go to sleep, Whiskey.”

I know better than to push. So I wrap my arm around her. She doesn’t fight it or complain or tell me I’m touching her without permission. She just fits herself against me like she’s done it before.

Like maybe she’ll do it again. And that’s when it hits me. Sex with the law ain’t the dangerous part. Neither is waking up beside a deputy when my brothers break laws for breakfast and my loyalty belongs to the Kings. Kidnapping Sheriff Dix’s daughter might not even crack the top three anymore.

Twila asleep in my bed with Wren down the hall. Her boots beside mine at the front door. Her phone charging on my nightstand. Her toothbrush sitting in my bathroom. All those little pieces of her scattered through my house like they belong here.

Like she belongs here.

Fuck.

I stare into the dark.

I’ve spent half my life priding myself on committing crimes and getting away with them, counting money, measuring risk, and knowing exactly what something costs before I put my name on it.

Twila Dix is the first thing I’ve ever wanted without really knowing what it’s gonna cost me. And judging by the blonde wrapped around me like she ain’t planning to go anywhere tonight, I’m fixing to find out.

Chapter Sixteen

Twila

I wake up with a biker’s arm across my stomach, one of his legs tangled with mine, and his beard scratching the back of my shoulder every time he breathes.

For about three seconds, I have no idea where the hell I am. Then Whiskey shifts behind me, his hand spreading over my bare stomach as he pulls me closer, and last night comes back in enough detail to send heat creeping straight up my neck.

Well, apparently I’m sleeping with my kidnapper now. Former kidnapper, which feels like an important legal distinction.

I stare into the dark bedroom and wonder exactly when my life went from writing tickets for loose livestock to voluntarily spending the night naked in an outlaw biker’s bed while his seven-year-old sleeps down the hall and a possibly imaginary spined deer stalks his property.

Probably should’ve taken that desk job Daddy kept suggesting.

Whiskey makes a rough sound behind me and drags me tighter against him. My ass settles directly against a very awake part of him.

I freeze. “Whiskey.”

Nothing.

“Asleep my ass.”

Still nothing.

I turn carefully beneath his arm until I can see him. He’s flat on his back now, eyes closed, beard messy, dark hair pushed every damn direction. I’ve never seen him look like this. Unguarded and quiet, not watching a door, checking a phone, or calculating how many ways the next five minutes could go wrong.