"Show me."
His eyes flash silver. His hand wraps around my throat—not squeezing, just holding—and he fucks me harder. The table slams against the wall. I'm going to have bruises on my ass and my hips and my throat and I want every single one.
"You're mine." The words come out guttural, barely human. "Every part of you. Every fucked-up, violent, perfect part."
"Yours." I'm already close again. Still sensitive from before, still wound tight. "I'm yours, I'm—"
"Say my name when you come." His hand tightens on my throat. Just a little. Just enough. "Say it so the whole compound hears."
"The room is—"
"I don't care." His hips stutter. "Say it anyway."
I come with his name tearing out of my throat, my nails raking down his back, my whole body clenched around him. He follows a second later, slamming deep and spilling inside me with a sound that's more growl than moan.
We stay there. Panting. His cock softening inside me, his hand still loose around my throat, his forehead pressed to mine.
"That was..." I swallow. Try again. "What the fuck was that?"
"I don't know." He sounds as wrecked as I feel. "I don't know, but I want to do it again."
"We don't have time."
"I know."
Neither of us moves.
"The gun." I manage finally. "I dropped it."
"I'll get it." He doesn't move. "In a minute."
"We have a schedule."
"I know." He kisses me—soft this time, almost gentle. It's more disorienting than the violence. "One more minute."
I give him two.
After, he retrieves the gun from where it landed. Checks it over. Hands it back to me with reverence.
His eyes are still dark. Still hungry. But he steps back, putting distance between us. "We need to finish the lesson. Moving targets. Reloading under pressure. You need to be ready."
"I can't feel my legs."
"Then you'll learn to shoot without them." His smile goes sharp. "Come on. We have work to do."
An hour later, my shoulders ache and my hands smell like gunpowder and sex and I can hit a moving target at thirty feet.
Koshin watches me fire the last round and says nothing. He hasn't said much for the last twenty minutes—just watched, silver eyes tracking every shot, every adjustment. Every time I hit center mass, his jaw tightens. Every time I nail a headshot, his hands curl into fists.
He's been hard the entire time. I've been wet the entire time. Neither of us has acknowledged it.
"Enough?"
"Enough." He takes the gun, checks the chamber, hands it back. His fingers brush mine again. "It's yours. Keep it loaded."
I slide it into the holster he gave me earlier. The weight settles against my thigh.
"About that wall."
