Page 33 of Sweet Like Whiskey

“Need something?” I grunt, not liking the way that gaze feels. Not liking the heat in it. How it has my blood sizzling in response.

Ash huffs a small laugh before meeting my eyes. “Hi,” he says breezily. “So you missed dinner, and everyone assured me it wasn’t because you were eating elsewhere, so here.” He shoves a tinfoil-covered plate at me. “And…” He pulls a bottle of Darling Whiskey out from behind his back. “I brought this as a bribe so you’d let me join you. So… Can I join you?”

I look at the whiskey in Ash’s hand. At his earnest expression and the painfully beautiful face I’ve tried so hard to ignore. At the blonde hair breaking like waves over his temple and around his ears. At his broad shoulders and straight nose and those stormy eyes that are begging me without words.

No, I want to say.Yes, my brain whispers.

Ash looks victorious as I take a step back. He sweeps inside, carefully removing his shoes and walking into my house as if he’s already comfortable in my space. His hand drifts along the edge of my couch as he passes through the living room, a slow, tortuous process.

“You’ll probably want to reheat the food,” he says, not even looking back at me. He’s in my kitchen now, opening cupboards. He makes anahasound as he finds the glasses, grabbing two in one hand before he heads to my table. “Coming?”

Everything about this man is dangerous. Yet I find my feet carrying me forward anyway.

Deciding my safest bet is to focus on the food, I remove the foil and place the plate in the microwave. When I turn around, Ash is pouring a couple fingers of whiskey into each of the glasses. He takes a seat, utterly relaxed, his foot propped up on the edge of his chair and his arm hanging loosely over his knee. His eyes rake down my torso again as he takes a small sip of the amber-brown liquid, and I’m reminded of the fact that I’m not wearing a shirt.

The microwave beeps, and I turn away, heart thudding.

Ash is quiet as I take a seat near him. His closeness unsettles me. Themanunsettles me.

“It’s good,” I tell him after a minute.

“Glad you like it.”

“Mm.”

We go quiet again, and Ash twirls his glass in one hand, the liquid shifting like a gently rolling sea.

“How’s, uh…your back?” I ask.

His smile grows slightly. “Better. Thanks for the medicine you brought.”

I nod, and Ash’s lips twitch, drawing my eye down to the small divot in his chin. Such a masculine feature on such a pretty face. It’d be the perfect spot for my thumb to grab a hold of while I—

Fuck.

I avert my gaze, cheeks hot, my body coming to life in a way I haven’t experienced in so very long. I grab my whiskey in an attempt to drown out the images in my mind, but it doesn’t work. They only burn brighter, the alcohol lighting a fuse as it forges a path across my tongue.

I feel reckless.

I don’t like it. And I crave it.

“Jackson,” Ash says, his foot moving from the edge of his chair to the top of my thigh. I freeze, everything in me drawing tight. “Are you open to being propositioned?”

Jesus Christ. The candidness of this man.

I can’t answer him. I don’t know what I’d say. I’m afraid if I open my mouth, the answer will beyes.

I grab Ash’s ankle, intent on pushing him away. Somehow, my grip only tightens.

Ash notices. Of course he does. He leans forward, his gaze holding mine, challenging. “I propose,” he says slowly, “that we kiss. Because see? I have this theory about you, and I want to know if I’m right.”

I can’t think. Can’t remember why I thought this was a bad idea.

“Jack,” he says softly, his toes curling against the top of my leg.

It’s my name—that single syllable spoken with so much longing—that does it.

I tug Ash’s ankle. His eyes widen for only a fraction of a second, and then he’s moving, following my pull. Our mouths clash as Ash grabs hold of my knee to steady himself, his fingers digging in. My hand grips his jaw tight, keeping him in place or—I don’t know—maybe trying to bring him closer. For a moment, it’s chaos, frantic and precarious, like a newborn foal.

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