"Then I'll teach you." He pulls out—the sudden emptiness makes me gasp—and rolls off the bed in one fluid motion. "Now. Before we move."
"Now?"
"You're going to use it tonight. You're going to know how to use it well." He's already pulling on pants, not bothering with a shirt. The muscles in his back shift as he moves. I'm still staring. Still wanting.
Three orgasms and I still want him.
Pathetic.
Absolutely pathetic.
"Thought the plan was: point at father, pull trigger, feel nothing."
"That's the goal." He picks up his discarded shirt and tosses it to me. "The training is how we get there."
I catch it. Still warm from his body. Still smelling like him.
I pull it on and nothing else because apparently I've stopped caring about dignity entirely.
His private range is underground, another secret door, but this one was in his common room this time.
Stone walls. Targets at the far end—human-shaped, torso-height, standing in a neat row.
I'm in his shirt. Just his shirt. It hits mid-thigh and I'm barefoot and my hair is wrecked and there are bruises blooming on my throat and I can still feel him between my legs—slick and used and sensitive.
This is fine. Very professional. Great atmosphere for weapons training.
Koshin's eyes drag down my body when I step into the torchlight. His jaw tightens.
"You're doing that on purpose."
"Doing what?"
He vaguely gestures up and down my body.
"Looking like that." His voice has gone rough. "In my shirt. While I'm trying to teach you something."
"You gave me the shirt."
"A mistake I'm regretting." He crosses to me, and there's heat in his eyes. "I'm going to spend this entire lesson thinking about bending you over that table."
"Then you should focus."
"I should." He doesn't sound like he's going to. "Gun."
He hands it to me. Green detailing catches the light. His fingers brush mine and neither of us pulls away.
"Grip first." He moves behind me, his chest warm against my back. Bare skin through thin fabric. His hands cover mine,adjusting my fingers. "Dominant hand high on the grip. Other hand wraps around it. Firm, not strangling."
I adjust. The wood settles against my palm. His breath is hot on my neck.
"Good." His voice drops. "Now your stance."
His foot nudges mine wider. Shoulder width. Then his hand presses flat against my stomach—low, palm spanning my navel—and holds me there.
"Your power comes from here. Not your arms."
"That seems counterintuitive."
