Page 229 of Property of Whiskey

“Not from me.”

“Give it time.”

I kiss him.

He catches the back of my neck and kisses me harder, and everything changes fast. Cold mud beneath my knees, his mouth hot against mine, his beard rough against my skin while my hands slide underneath his shirt.

Whiskey rolls us again, taking me beneath him.

This time I let him. He presses one thigh between mine, and I hook my leg around his hip.

His hand slides under my ass and drags me harder against the bulge behind his zipper. I grind into him once, and the sound he makes is low enough to feel against my mouth.

“Still wanna blame the mud?” I whisper.

“Mud ain’t what I’m thinking about getting you dirty with.”

“You’re filthy,” he murmurs.

“So are you.”

His mouth finds my neck, the only clean spot.

I grab his hair. “There’s mud in your beard.”

“Your fault.”

“Looks good.”

“Got a swamp kink now?”

“Maybe.”

He bites lightly beneath my ear, and I suck in a breath.

“Quiet.”

I push at his shoulder. “We’re in the woods.”

His hand slides up my thigh, leaving another smear of mud across my jeans. I shift beneath him and feel the low sound that leaves him against my throat.

Whiskey kisses me hard.

My hands go to his belt.

His gaze drops to them.

I open his belt while his hand slips beneath my sweatshirt, his palm rough and warm against my skin. Cold air hits everywhere the fabric rises, followed almost immediately by the heat of his mouth.

I arch. “That’s cold.”

“Could warm you up.”

I get his zipper down first and shove my hand inside his jeans, beneath the waistband of his underwear. My fingers close around his cock, hot and hard despite the cold night.

Whiskey bows his head, his breath hot against my cheek. “Fuck, Twila.” His hand finds the button of my jeans and opens it. Two fingers slip beneath the waistband of my panties.

“Tell me to stop.”