Page 34 of Sweet Like Whiskey

But then Ash pushes forward again, abandoning his chair and climbing onto my lap. His hands thread into my hair, tugging,urging me to settle, andfuck. I subside, letting him control me, letting him lead me likeI’mthe damn foal. His lips brush mine, softer now, coaxing me open, his tongue sending a shock through my system as it greets my own.

Dangerous. So fucking dangerous.

He doesn’t let me up for air, not for long minutes. I’d forgotten how good it feels tokiss. To be connected to someone in this way. To feel lust and want coalescing like possibilities I want to chase.

I wasn’t expecting this. Any of it. Ash came into my life like a sudden easterly wind, with a smile brighter than the sunlit sky, and now he’s in my lap, his mouth and mine learning each other’s language. He’s kissing me like he wants to know me, or maybe like he already does.

It’s glorious. It’s terrifying. I don’t want it to ever end.

Ash’s sigh against my mouth is what finally has my rationale returning. Because it feels like he’s surrendering, too. And damn it all, I’m not prepared to have that kind of control over this man. Not yet.

He must feel me tense because, slowly, he pulls back. I regret it when his lips feather away from my own.

“Mm,” he hums, his hair tickling my face as he kisses my cheekbone once. His voice settles close to my ear. “Exactly like I thought. So. Very. Sweet.”

I pull in a shaky breath as Ash lets go of my hair and climbs off my lap. He picks up his drink, finishing the whiskey in a neat gulp, and then he sets down the glass with a soft thunk.

“I’m going to have you, Jackson Darling,” he declares with all the confidence of a man who already knows he’s won. “When you’re ready, I’ll be waiting.”

With that, he walks out my door, leaving the memory of him branded like whiskey on my tongue.

Chapter 9

Ash

There’s a smug smile on my face the entire weekend after my visit to Jackson’s. Every time I catch the man around the property, he blushes.Blushes. Like the memory of my lips on his own is enough to have him running hot.

Needless to say, I’m on cloud nine. Which is why I’m humming to myself when Marigold comes into the kitchen late Monday morning.

“You’re in a good mood,” she says, seemingly happy herself. She’s wearing a light flannel today, the blue the same color as the sky.

“Hard not to be on a sunny day,” I reply, skirting the real reason as to why I’m feeling so darn giddy.

I like Marigold, but there are certain truths she doesn’t need to hear from me. Like the fact that I’m lusting after her son.

“By the way,” I add, “we’re running low on flour and a few other things.”

“If you write up a list, I’ll have somebody make a run,” she says, picking up the empty coffee pot and bringing it to the sink to wash. “Unless you’d rather do it yourself?”

“You don’t have to clean that,” I tell her. “I was getting there.”

Shepfts. “It’s still my house. I’ll clean if I want. The groceries?”

I don’t bother arguing with her, having a feeling it’d be futile. “Yeah, I’ll do it, if that’s okay?”

“Sure is,” she says happily. “I’ll get keys and a credit card to you after lunch. Now what in the heavens…”

I follow Marigold’s gaze out the window. Hank is walking past with a large white mesh hat tucked under his arm. It looks like…

Marigold throws the latch on the window and hoists up the pane. “Hank! Tell me you did not buybees.”

A beekeeper’s hat, that’s what it is.

I cover my mouth as the elder Mr. Darling stops, looking toward the house. “Well now,” he says loudly, “I would, but I know you don’t like it when I lie.”

I sputter a laugh as Marigold says, “Bees, Hank? Really?” She slams the window down and hastily dries her hands. “I swear to God, that man has more ambitions than sense. Excuse me.”

Mrs. Darling storms gracefully from the room, and I watch out the window as she catches up to her ex-husband. Hank sets the beekeeper’s hat on his head and holds his arms wide, as if to say,see?Marigold pinches the bridge of her nose.

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