Page 82 of Danger

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

winnie

I dragmy fingertips lightly up his forearm—slow, tracing the line of muscle, catching the way goosebumps ripple across his skin under my touch. His jaw clenches. Hard. For a second, I think he might pull away.

He doesn’t.

“Winnie,” he warns, voice rough.

But I’m already leaning in, my hand sliding to his shoulder. “We can go back and drink that shot if you want. I’ll follow your lead.”

He doesn’t move.

His hand closes around my wrist—gentle at first—before he pulls me hard into his chest. And then his mouth crashes into mine like he lost the fight the second I touched him.

He runs his thumb along my jaw, careful, hypnotic.

The kiss is slow at first, then urgent, the kind of kiss that carries you into another reality, one you’ve always dreamed about. I can taste the faint hint of citrus and expensive whiskey.

His hand is on my hip, then under my shirt, thumb brushing the edge of my ribs. My skin burns where he touches, and allmy senses explode. He groans, low and desperate, like he’s been holding back for a lifetime.

He breaks the kiss, forehead pressed to mine. “Winnie, I swear to god?—”

I cut him off, pulling his hand higher, guiding it up to where I want him. He doesn’t hesitate this time. His thumb traces my breast, and I arch into him, gasping. His mouth is everywhere—my jaw, my neck, my throat.

He moves on top of me, careful but heavy, pressing me into the mattress. His knee parts my legs, and I let him because I’ve wanted this. It’s something I’ve imagined, dreamed about lately.

He takes his time, kissing me until I’m dizzy. He lifts my shirt over my head and moves lower, mouth trailing down to my collarbone, then my chest. I make a sound that’s half whimper, half moan.

“Tell me right now if we should go take the damn boot shot, Winnie.” His voice is a rough, whiskey-soaked slow draw.

I shake my head, eyes squeezed shut, lips parted. My heart hammers against my ribs like a frantic little bird trapped in a cage. If I open my mouth, I’ll whimper. If I look at him, I’ll beg and sound pathetic.

Then his hand is there.

His palm drags up my thigh beneath the hem of my skirt, fingers rough. His thumb finds my panties, pressing in just enough to make me gasp.

“Guess I’m the deputy tonight,” he says. “Means I decide how this goes.”

“Big responsibility,” I breathe.

He leans in against my ear. “You trust me with it?”

I barely nod. His fingers don’t stop moving, tracing slow, maddening circles over the soaked lace.

“Good. Because I want you to come. Are you gonna make yourself do it, or should I?”

I can feel how wet I am, how every tiny shift of his hand sends sparks shooting up my spine.

“I’ve never made myself do it.”

He laughs—a dark, filthy sound—and then his fingers are hooking into the waistband of my panties, shoving them aside like they’re nothing.

“Your pussy is this fucking pretty and you don’t touch it?” His voice drips with disbelief.

My hips jerk involuntarily, seeking more, but he holds me still with his other hand, fingers digging into the soft flesh of my hip. He’s relentless. His fingers circle my clit with just enough pressure.

“So fucking wet,” he growls, dragging his fingers through my center before pushing two inside without warning.