When I finally open my eyes, my breath coming in shallow pants, I find Tristan watching me, not the display.
“What?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper.
“Nothing,” he says, a slow smile on his lips. “Come on,” hesays, taking my hand again. “Let’s find the others. Dane’s probably convinced himself we’ve been kidnapped by now.”
A week later, the soft, pulsing light of the art exhibit is replaced by the harsh, fluorescent glare of a shooting range.
“Wider stance,” Dane says, his voice a low, deep rumble right in my ear.
His foot hooks around my ankle, dragging my leg into the correct position.
Tristan, it turns out, is a terrible shot. His bullets hit everywhere but the target, much to his chagrin and our amusement. Rett is ruthlessly competitive, determined to outshoot everyone, including Dane. Diego, surprisingly, is quite good, his hands steady and his aim true.
But Dane is in a class of his own. He hits the center of the target every time. Watching him shoot is like watching a master craftsman at work.
Now he’s teaching me, his patience seemingly endless as he corrects my stance, my grip, my breathing. His other hand settles on my hip like a firm, possessive weight, tugging me back until my ass is pressed flush against the hard muscle of his thighs.
My breath hitches.
His large body brackets mine, his chest a solid, hot wall against my back. His arms come around me, caging me in as he adjusts my grip on the handgun. His clean, cool peppermint is a stark contrast to the metallic tang of the gunpowder.
“Relax your shoulders,” he murmurs, and his thumbs press into the tense knots just below my neck, sending a jolt of pure, electric pleasure down my spine. “You’re too stiff.”
No kidding, I think, trying to remember how to breathe. It’s impossible to be this close to this much solid, controlled man and not be stiff.
I am acutely aware of every point of contact: his thighsagainst my ass, his chest against my back, his breath against my ear, his thumbs on my shoulders.
“Inhale,” he instructs, his voice a low vibration that I feel through his entire body into mine. “Exhale slowly as you squeeze.”
I do as he says, my body moving with his. Inhale. Exhale. Squeeze.
The gun fires, the sound shockingly loud, the recoil pressing me back even further into his solid frame. A small hole appears in the target, respectably close to the center.
“Good,” he says, and I can feel the word, the deep rumble of satisfaction, vibrate through his chest. “Again.”
We repeat the process, and I get better with each shot, but I am barely aware of the target. All of my focus is on the man holding me, on the subtle shifts of his muscles, the heat of his body, the low, steady sound of his breathing.
He seems to realize it, too. When I hit the center ring for the first time, he doesn’t pull away. Instead, his grip on my hip tightens for a fraction of a second, and he leans in, his lips brushing the shell of my ear.
“You’re a natural,” he whispers, and the words are a hot, possessive caress.
I shiver, my fingers going weak on the gun. “I... I think that’s enough for today,” I manage to say, my voice a breathy, unfamiliar thing.
He pulls back then, but it’s slow, reluctant. The loss of his body heat is immediate and unwelcome.
“We can work on your stamina,” he says, and there is a dark, dangerous promise in his pale eyes that has absolutely nothing to do with my arm strength.
I just swallow hard, unable to form a coherent reply. He gives me a single, slow nod, then turns and walks away, leaving me standing there with trembling arms, a racing heart, and the lingering, clean scent of peppermint in the air.
This has become the new, torturous rhythm of my life. Theseintense moments that materialize out of nowhere. I find myself pulled into one of their orbits, and the world will narrow to just the two of us. The tension will build until it’s a nearly unbearable hum in the air. Until I can feel it buzzing on my skin.
I’m being seduced by a four-man army, and I am losing the war. I’m not sure how much longer I can hold the line.
Case in point: tonight.
I’m supposed to be relaxing, watching a movie. But how am I supposed to focus when I’m surrounded by the very men who are the source of my own internal combustion?
I’m sandwiched in the middle of the massive couch, a warm, solid wall of Dane on one side and the restless energy of Tristan on the other. Diego is on the floor, his back against the couch, arranging a cheese board on the coffee table that is a literal work of art. Rett is in the large armchair that faces the couch, his focus on the critical, high-stakes debate currently raging.
