Page 218 of Property of Whiskey

My throat tightens before I can stop it. “Her back.”

Whiskey doesn’t tell me he’s sorry. Doesn’t give me some pretty bullshit about wishes coming true in other ways. He just slides his arm around me and pulls me against his chest.

That’s better anyway.

“Go back to sleep.”

“Come here.”

“I’m already here.”

“Closer.”

“There is no closer. I’m halfway on top of you.”

“Could improve.” His hand slides around my waist, and I let him pull me over him because apparently self-respect has also gone missing in Paradise County. His mouth brushes mine, slow and warm and not nearly enough, and my fingers slide into his hair.

Whiskey smiles against my mouth. “Oh, Deputy Dix.”

I kiss him before he can say more and ruin it.

His hand travels down my back and over my ass. I’m just starting to decide four in the morning ain’t nearly as unreasonable as I thought when something taps the bedroom window.

We both stop.

Another tap follows.

I lift my head. “What the fuck was that?”

“Tree.”

“There ain’t a tree touching this window.”

“Big moth.”

Tap. Tap.

I look toward the glass. Moonlight barely reaches through the curtains, leaving the window a dark rectangle against the wall.

“That moth got a hammer?”

Whiskey sighs. “Could.”

“You really committed to explaining creepy shit badly.”

“Worked with the raccoon.”

“It absolutely did not.”

He starts to sit up, but then the quietest voice comes from the hallway.

“Daddy?”

Whiskey is out of bed before I blink.

Everything soft disappears as Daddy Whiskey takes over. He grabs jeans off the floor and steps into them without bothering with underwear while I snatch his T-shirt from beside the bed and pull it over my head. The hem drops nearly to mid-thigh.

Whiskey looks.