She gasped and moaned like she was close. I leaned backso I could reach between us and rub her clit the way she’d shown me in the shower.
The moment she cried out, I gave in too. Basking in waves of pleasure that I felt everywhere, taking me over. My hips kept rocking into her to draw it out. To keep that connection between us for as long as possible.
As I started to soften, I lowered myself to the mattress beside her and kissed her forehead. Her cheeks. “How do you feel?”
She smiled and hummed. “Like I got what I always wanted.”
That made me smile too, though the feeling was also bittersweet.
“How about you?” she asked. “How doyoufeel?”
“Like I want to do that again as soon as I’m hard.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Keira
Livingand training with Dean was a wholly different experience now that we were lovers.
Mornings started off with kisses and caresses in bed. Smiling and flirting as we made coffee together. Dean finally let the sunnier side of his personality show through after it was absent for so long. I loved how he would sneak up and hug me from behind as I poured my cereal, as if he couldn’t stand not to be touching me.
Dean was still serious about getting out early to complete our drills and training, but sometimes I succeeded in distracting him. Like when I sank to my knees in the kitchen and sucked him off until he shouted and came hard down my throat. No more teasing like that first day.
Or when I worked him up so much he set me on the kitchen counter, tugged off my sweatpants, and licked and sucked my clit until I was a rambling mess. Other times, he bent me over that counter and slid his thick cock into me, pumping until an intense orgasm left me gasping.
But we always got outside eventually, where Dean ran the obstacle course. I pushed myself a little harder each day too. As soon as the three-month mark since the attack passed, Istarted practicing with my service weapon on the outdoor range we’d set up.
No, my doctor hadn’ttechnicallygiven the okay yet, but I felt strong. I was ready. Each day, I warmed up my shoulder carefully and kept the targets close, using lower-recoil ammo.
After a few days of watching my progress, Dean brought his handguns out of their case and joined in the daily target practice. He didn’t say a word about it, but I could tell it was a big deal for him. Firing a gun again after so many years.
But it was just practice. Not firing at a person. Still in loophole territory.
Some afternoons, Dean showed me knife techniques for hand-to-hand combat, though we couldn’t spar full-out. I was relieved to feel more like myself again, brushing up on the skills I would eventually need to go back on patrol. I hadn’t been cleared to return to duty, of course. Except on a desk, which I’d been able to avoid so far.
I much preferred spending my days with Dean.
“Are you ever going to show me how to shoot this thing?” I asked one afternoon in the sniper’s nest.
Because as much as I loved being here with him, beinganywherewith Dean, this aspect of my training had completely stalled. I had a long way to go before I could handle firing the rifle myself because of the level of recoil. EvenIwasn’t stubborn enough to risk re-fracturing my collarbone.
But I could learn a lot from seeing him do it. I didn’t understand his reticence. Probably because he wouldn’t talk to me about it.
“Soon,” he said. Same thing he always said. “You’ve got plenty of room to improve on ranging and target ID, and a dozen other things that don’t involve firing.”
I held back my grumbling.
Dean turned his head to look at me. “The problem is,halfway through any lesson I try to give you, you start kissing the teacher.”
“Me? Who was just grabbing my ass like five minutes ago when I was making a wind call?”
“You have to learn to ignore distractions.”
Pushing into Dean, I rolled him half onto his back and draped my leg over him. It wasn’t easy in the narrow depression we were in. But he went willingly, laughing as I kissed him. We were all tangled limbs and heavy breathing and heat. The butt of the rifle bumped me.
His hard cock was bumping me too, through the stiff canvas of his cargo pants, but there wasn’t enough room to get too vigorous in here. After a couple of minutes, our kisses slowed, turning softer and sweeter.
It made me think of the way he’d fucked me from behind in bed last night, rough and raw and dirty, then traced soft patterns on my back with his fingertips until we both fell asleep. How could those hands be so lethal and yet so gentle?
