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She fires.
The bullet sings through the air and strikes dead center of the target with a force that rings the steel plate like a church bell. Without hesitation, she fires again, and again, every fucking bullet hitting perfect center.
Her aim’s so perfect it’s almost supernatural. Her instinctual ability to control of the massive recoil is breathtaking to watch.
I stare at her in disbelief. I fired three hundred rounds through this same gun before I felt even remotely competent with it.
I blink. Stare some more. A slow grin spreads across her face.
“Wow,” she breathes, turning to me with the gun pointing down. “Oh my God. That felt amazing. It was as easy as breathing. I thought that would be a lot harder.”
I shake my head, incredulous. “There’s no fucking way that was the first time you’ve shot a gun. No one shoots like that right out of the gate. Did you lie to me?”
The snap of her brows together warns me that I pushed a button. I haven’t forgotten the slap across my cheek. She isn’t lying.
“Are you kidding me? When the hell do you think I’d have the chance to shoot a gun? I told you, I touched my father’s gun once and he nearly killed me over it.” Her brow softens. “It felt like this, though…”
“Like what?”
She swallows. “Like it’s an extension of me.” She marvels at the gun in her palm. “Like…like I was created to do this.”
I watch her with a mix of awe and newfound respect.
All my brothers are skilled with weapons, thanks to our tireless training and years of study. Only one’s a natural, though: Nikko. His skill is unparalleled. He’s the only person I ever met that talked about his weapons like he’d talk about making love.
“Are you serious?” I ask because I don’t know what else to say.
“Deadly serious. Now are we going to stand around here chatting, or can I shoot some more?”
I set up cans for her to hit, target after target. I watch, shaking my head in disbelief, as my wife shoots with the skill of an absolute master. Shot after shot pings. Her gaze never wavers, her skill perfection. I can’t help but see her for what she well and truly is: a force to be reckoned with. Her skill and prowess with weapons transcends practicality. It’s a fucking art form. She’s Mozart with a 1911.
Unparalleled. Breathtaking. I’m hard as fuck simply watching her.
“Drop the gun,” I say hoarsely.
She turns to look at me, her cheeks flushed and eyes bright and wide, as if she’s just come from a run on the beach. “What?”
“Drop it,” I repeat. “Now.”
As she walks to me, the gun discarded reluctantly, I place a call.
“Nikko?”
“Yeah?”
“How soon can you get here?”
“Fifteen minutes. I’m at Mikhail’s. You okay?”
I swallow. “Yeah. Bring your shit. Everything. I have to show you something.”
I hang up the phone and toss it next to her gun. When she reaches me, I stab my fingers into her hair and pull her head back. Her breathy groan makes me even harder. I shift my grip and lift her up, turning so the line of trees gives us privacy. We’re alone in the dense cover of the forest.
Wordlessly, I slide her down and bend her over a low-hanging limb. Holding her in place with one hand, I yank down her leggings and panties in one swoop. Spread her legs. Pull my cock free and feel for her wetness with the head of my cock. Satisfied, I thrust into her in one hard motion.
Her head flies back and she braces herself on the limb. I fuck her hard, silently, until her body shudders beneath mine and I spill inside her.
When we’re finished, panting and hot, she tips her head to the side and twists her torso, staring up at me over her shoulder. “What the hell was that all about?”
