Page 78 of Property of Whiskey

The basement door opens.

Whiskey comes downstairs.

His eyes move from me to the broom, the wreath, the box sitting several feet from where it started, then back to me.

“You behave?”

I stare at him.

He snorts. “Right. Stupid question.”

He walks over, crouches, and reaches behind my head.

I wait.

The second the gag loosens, I bite him.

Hard.

“Motherfucker!”

He jerks his hand away.

I spit the bandanna onto the floor.

“You put your hand near my mouth.”

Whiskey stares at the teeth marks across the meat of his hand, then at me.

“Hell, Twister. Usually buy a woman dinner before she gets that hungry for me.”

“I’ll bite something else next time.”

His gaze drops.

Straight down my body.

Then returns to my face.

“Careful what you threaten me with.”

Heat jumps into my cheeks.

“You’re disgusting.”

“Didn’t tell you to offer.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“I meant your throat.”

“Sure.”

“Or your dick.”

His eyebrows lift. “There it is again.”