Page 92 of Sweet Like Whiskey

With a hoarse shout, I release all over Ash’s fist. He pumps me through it, the stickiness spreading, my cock throbbing in his grip as my lungs battle to catch air. Spots dance in my vision, the suddenness of my orgasm leaving me dizzy.

Ash kisses my ear, his hand slowing, the fingers on the back of my neck squeezing tight. He urges my head up with his grip.

“Lie back,” he tells me.

I do as he says, lying down on our coats that are spread out over the hay. Ash waits until he’s my sole focus, and then he brings his hand to his mouth. Slowly, he licks my cum from his skin, tongue curling around the digits one at a time. It’s enough to send a shudder of renewedwantdown my spine. Once done, he bends down to lick along the length of my softening cock.

I mutter a few choice expletives as Ash’s breath dances over my skin, his efforts to clean me soft yet thorough. He even snatches up a few drops that hit my shirt, bringing them to his mouth and smacking his lips when he’s done.

“So sweet,” he teases.

My laughter takes me by surprise. Ash, too, judging by his sudden grin.

“Liar,” I mutter.

Ash chuckles, tugging the band of my underwear up over my cock. He covers himself, too, and then he falls beside me, rolling into the crook of my arm.

“Romp in the hay,” he says lightly. “Ten out of ten. Who knew?”

I rub his bare arm, snorting. “All right?”

“Mhm,” he hums, kissing my jaw. “Boneless, thanks to you.”

We’re both quiet for a moment, just our breaths and the faint sounds of the Montana wild a soundtrack for our night.

“Thanks, Jack,” Ash finally says, his voice soft. “This was…perfect. A perfect end to the night.”

I press a kiss to his hair, eyes slipping shut at how sincerelyhappyhe sounds to be lying here inside a hayloft with me. At how easily he fits. Here. In Montana. On this ranch.

Hefits. And it’s getting hard to imagine him anywhere else.

Anywhere but here with me.

When Ash shivers, I reach around to grab his shirt. “Here,” I say, giving him a nudge to get up.

Ash accepts the clothing, tugging it on as I reposition myself, sitting upright and leaning against the stacked hay bales behind us. Once done, Ash joins me, his back to my chest as we sit nestled together. He reaches for the still-open jug of cider and drags it close.

“Thirsty?” he asks.

“Not sure that’ll help.”

He chuckles, bringing the jug to his lips. He passes it back to me after taking a sip, his arm settling over my bent knee. The alcohol burns pleasantly on my tongue.

“My brothers and I used to play this game called ‘truth or lie,’” I tell him. Although the last time was probably a good half-decade ago.

“How’s it go?” Ash asks.

“You tell a truth or a lie, and the other person has to guess which. You get it wrong, you drink.”

“Ah,” he says. “One ofthosegames. All right. You go first.”

I hum, thinking for a second. “When I was younger, I wanted to be a musician.”

Ash twists around, looking at me for a moment. “Lie,” he finally decides. “You never wanted to leave this place.”

I huff. “Did try my hand at guitar in high school, though. Wasn’t very good.”

“Don’t suppose you were trying to impress someone?” Ash asks with a knowing smile. He laughs at whatever he sees on my face.

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