Page 25 of Catching Flynn

Flynn’s mouth went dry.

Up close, the thing was longer than he’d expected, heavier. All dark metal and polished wood. Beautiful the way something could be beautiful and still make your stomach drop.

“Zavier,” Flynn said slowly. “That’s a gun-gun.”

Zavier watched him closely. “Shotgun.”

“Still categorized as a gun.” He’d never held one before, and Zavier wanted him to use a weapon that looked like it would tip him over.

Carefully, Zavier broke it open to show the chambers. Empty. Then he angled it so Flynn could see every angle at the same time. He found himself watching those hands as much as the shotgun. Long fingers. Strong wrists. Control without any showiness. It should not have been so attractive. And it changed absolutely nothing.

“This stays pointed downrange at all times,” Zavier said. “You brace it into your shoulder. Lean forward a little. Let the recoil move through you instead of fighting it.”

“Love that for me. Already sounds violent.”

Something sparked in Zavier’s blue eyes. There and gone. “Only if you do it wrong.”

“Fabulous. No pressure.”

Flynn felt absurdly pleased with himself at the faint quirk of Zavier’s mouth, even while standing next to a machine designed to humble his entire frame.

After loading the shells, Zavier positioned himself behind Flynn. “Pick it up.”

Flynn wrapped both hands around the shotgun and nearly yelped. “Jesus.”

“It’s not that heavy.”

“For you. You’re built like you could deadlift a train. I’m built like I could deadlift the toy version.”

“You’re built perfectly, kitten,” Zavier said close to Flynn’s ear, leaving him breathless.

Keep your mind on the loaded gun, not the loaded weapon.

Flustered, Flynn lifted the weapon. Holy. Crap.

The weight was solid, immediately dragging through his arms. The stock pressed into his shoulder. Metal cooled his palm at first, then warmed under his grip. His pulse jumped hard enough to feel it in his throat.

From behind, Zavier adjusted him with quiet patience. A hand settled on Flynn’s waist and nudged. “Feet apart.”

Flynn spread them awkwardly. “You frisking me for contraband, officer? I have a rubberband I forgot to leave at work. Petty workplace theft. Throw the book at me.”

“Didn’t bring any cuffs. A little more.” With two fingers at Flynn’s ankle, Zavier nudged one sneaker outward. Then he stepped in behind him and adjusted Flynn’s shoulders with warm, strong hands.

Pressure at the top of his arms. Breath near his ear. The solid line of Zavier at his back for only a second, but it still sent Flynn’s thoughts skidding into a ditch.

He swallowed. “You’re enjoying this.”

“More than you know.”

The hand remained at his side for one more maddening second before sliding lower to shift Flynn’s hip. Heat soaked through Flynn’s jeans where Zavier touched him. Then his other hand covered Flynn’s, guiding the angle of the gun.

I’m not going to survive this man.

“Lean into it,” Zavier said near his ear. Even through the muffs, his voice made those wicked thoughts return. “Good. Tuck it tighter here.”

He pressed the stock more firmly into Flynn’s shoulder. Every place they touched ignited something deep inside.

Flynn was holding a gun and still somehow thinking about kissing Zavier. His priorities were a tangled mess.