I walk tentatively toward him, curious. "May I?"
Surprise flickers across his face before he schools his expression. He offers me the gun, handle first. "You've shot before?"
I shrug, feeling the cool metal against my palm. "Not really."
The Beretta feels familiar in my hand—similar to the weapon Byron insisted I master during countless sessions at his private range. But Damiano doesn't need to know that.
"Show me your stance," he says, crossing his arms over his bare chest.
I position myself, feet shoulder-width apart, grip firm but not tight. I raise the gun, lining up the sight with the target.
"Like this?" I ask, playing innocent.
I catch his nod from the corner of my eye. I exhale slowly and squeeze the trigger. The bullet hits just left of center.
"Not bad for a beginner," Damiano says, voice laced with suspicion.
I fire again. Closer to center this time. Then again. Dead center.
"Lucky shot," I murmur, but can't hide the smile tugging at my lips.
Damiano moves behind me, close enough that I feel his body heat against my back. "Lucky indeed. Three lucky shots in a row." His breath tickles my ear. "Where did you learn to shoot like that, lupacchiotta?"
"Beginner's luck," I insist, lowering the gun. "Maybe I'm a natural."
He takes the Beretta, reloads it with practiced ease. "Byron trained you?."
I keep my expression neutral. "He didn't think it was important for a society daughter to handle firearms. So, no."
Damiano stands behind me, his hands gripping the pistol in mine. "Remember, breathe out as you squeeze the trigger," he instructs, his voice low and intense in her ear.
I nod, focusing on the target ahead, pretending that he must correct my position. As I exhale and squeeze the trigger, the recoil jerks my body back slightly. Damiano's hands tighten on mine, steadying me.
I can feel the heat of his body pressed against my back, the hard planes of his chest and stomach flush against me. I swallow, trying to focus on the task at hand.
Damiano's hands slide down to my hips, guiding them into the proper stance. "Keep your legs shoulder-width apart. Spread your weight evenly," he coached, his voice a deep rumble.
I bite my lip, acutely aware of his touch, the way his fingers dig into my hip bones. I can feel myself growing warm.
Damiano presses closer, his groin nestling against my rear. I suck in a breath, my eyes fluttering closed for a moment. I can feel him, hard and insistent against me.
I swallow hard, trying to gather my thoughts. "I'm concentrating," I say, my voice breathy.
Damiano's hands slide from my hips to my stomach, pulling me back against him. "I don't think you are," he rumbles, nipping at my earlobe.
I gasp, my head falling back against his shoulder. "Damiano," I breathe, arching into him.
His hands slide up my body, cupping my breasts through my shirt. "Tell me to stop, Zoe," he says, his thumbs rubbing my nipples into stiff peaks.
I whimper, my body aflame with need. "Don't stop," I beg, grinding back against him.
Damiano growls, spinning me around and crushing his lips to mine in a searing kiss. I moan into his mouth, my hands fisting in his hair.
He takes his mouth from mine, his hands making quick work of my shirt. I shudder as the cool air hit my heated skin, my nipples tightening further.
Damiano takes a moment to drink me in, his eyes dark with lust. "Bellissima," he says, before crushing his mouth to mine once more.
I wrap my legs around his waist as he lifts me onto the edge of the table, his hands gripping my thighs. I can feel his hardness pressing against my core, the heat of him searing me.
