She looks back at me. Unimpressed. "But it looks scarier."
There it is again. That edge. That pull toward danger. Toward something bigger. Darker. I lower my voice.
"You don't need scary," I correct. "You need effective."
Her eyes hold mine in an unvoiced challenge and a subdued fire. Fuck. Why the hell is she getting to me like this?
"For now," I add, turning her back toward the lane, guiding her hands into position again, "you learn this."
Her lips turn into a pout. Fuck, now instead of her hands, I imagine those lips around my cock. I can feel precum run down my dick. With the remainder of my waning willpower, I add in a rasp, "You'll earn the rest."
That gets her. I see it. A spark. Something that wasn't there before. Or maybe it was. Just buried. She lifts the Glock. Aims. Her arms don't shake. Her breathing steadies. I step behind her. Close enough to correct her form one more time. Close enough to feel her. Not touching.
"Line up the sights," I murmur near her ear. "Slow breath in… and out."
Her inhale is sharp. Sharper than it should be. For a moment, I wonder if my nearness does something similar to her as hers does to me. She exhales. "Now squeeze."
The shot cracks through the range. Sharp. Clean. Controlled. Bullseye. She doesn't flinch. My mouth twitches. Yeah. There she is.
"Now you." I step back to watch.
She lifts the Glock again. No hesitation. No second-guessing. Just… focus. Pure. Sharp. Deadly. She lines up the shot. And starts firing. Not wild. Not panicked. Controlled. Measured. One after the other. Small, precise bursts. My jaw tightens as I watch the target at the other end of the lane. Chest. Center mass. Again. Again. Again. The paper jerks with every impact. Shredding exactly where it should. Like she's done this a hundred times. Like this is second nature.
What the fuck.
"One bullet left," she announces calmly.
I don't answer. I never told her how many rounds were in the magazine. It's an extended magazine that holds two more rounds than is standard. Someone with no experience wouldn't know that. I'm still watching her. Trying to figure her out. And then it clicks. She's counting. Every shot. Like a fucking professional. She adjusts her stance slightly. Tilts her head. Takes her time before she fires the last shot. It cracks through the range. Clean. Final.
Right between the dummy's eyes.
The silence that follows is underlined by the ringing in my ear. I excuse my lack of logical thinking because all my blood seems to be in my cock.
She lowers the gun. Turns to me. And for a second, there's something almost playful in her expression. With a slight smile, she blows lightly across the barrel. Like some old western cliché. At the same time, her fingers move, smooth and effortless. The magazine slides free without her even looking.
I just stare at her.
"You've done this before." I feel like an idiot.
It's not a question. It's a fucking fact. Her smile is small and elusive. Once. Then again. Like she knows exactly what she just did to me. And doesn't mind it one bit.
If I thought I wanted her before?
That was nothing compared to now. I have barely enough control to keep myself from lifting her up onto the small edge by the shooting range, pulling down her pants, and fucking her. Senseless.
I grimace with the effort it takes to force my hands to stay exactly where they are. Controlled. Still. Like everything else about me.
Even though it's a lie. Because inside? There's nothing controlled about this. I've never wanted a woman the way I wanther. Not like this. Not where it gets under my skin,into my blood, into every goddamn cell of my body. She's not just in my head. She's everywhere. Like she rewired something fundamental in me the second I laid eyes on her.
This isn't desire. It's not even need. It's darker, deeper. An instinct. Primal and ferocious. An absolute certainty.
Mine.
The word settles heavy in my chest. Not questioned. Not debated. Just… is.
Nothing has changed. Not my nature, not the fact that with her, I still have to deny it. I still have to force myself to wait, not take. Even if every part of me is pushing, demanding, and urging me on. To see how far she'll bend. To feel where she'll give. My control isn't slipping.
It's being tested. Strained. Pulled tighter with every breath she takes, every glance, every second she stands too close and doesn't step away.
