I do as he says, hyperaware of the weight in my hand. It’s maybe two pounds, but it feels like so much more. Like I’m holding responsibility. Consequence.
“Good. Now bring your other hand up to support. You’re going to need it.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“Shooting a gun is basically holding a small explosion in your hands. There’s going to be a kick.”
“The soreness you mentioned.”
“Some pleasures are worth a little pain.”
Jesus Christ.
The look he gives me is pure heat, and my body responds like Pavlov’s dog hearing a bell. Nipples tightening, thighs pressing together, that familiar ache settling low in my pelvis. We’re in a shooting range surrounded by other people and I’m thinking about all the ways he could make me sore.
Focus, Sierra.
Matteo moves behind me, one hand settling on my hip to guide me toward the firing lane. The target at the far end is just a white sheet with a dark silhouette, but when he presses a button and it slides closer on the ceiling track, my stomach drops.
Twenty feet.
That’s how close Viktor was in my apartment.
The memory slams into me without warning. The sound of breaking glass. The first shot, impossibly loud. Matteo shovingme behind the kitchen island, his body a shield between me and?—
“Breathe.”
Matteo’s chest presses against my back, solid and warm, and I realize I’ve stopped breathing entirely. My hands are shaking around the gun.
“I’m fine,” I lie.
“You’re not. But you will be.” His lips brush my ear, and despite everything, my body responds to his proximity. “That’s why we’re here. So next time, you’re not helpless. Next time, you fight back.”
Because there will be a next time. We both know it.
I force air into my lungs. Let it out slowly. Focus on the target. On the cold metal in my grip. On Matteo’s hands sliding up my arms, adjusting my stance, straightening my elbows.
“Spread your feet shoulder-width apart.” That command in his voice, the same tone he used last night when he told me exactly what he wanted. My core clenches. “Lean forward slightly. Keep your shoulders squared to the target.”
I lean, and my ass presses back into him. The hard length of his erection is unmistakable, even through layers of denim.
Well. At least I’m not the only one affected.
“Eyes on what you want to shoot,” he continues, like he’s not rock-hard against my ass. “When you’re ready, squeeze the trigger. Don’t pull. Squeeze.”
I focus on the center of the silhouette. Imagine Viktor’s face there. Every bruise he left on my skin. Every night I jumped at shadows. Every text that made me feel hunted.
I squeeze.
The explosion isdeafening. Even through the ear protection, it rattles my skull and punches through my sinuses. The recoil slams up through my arms, wrenches my shoulders, and I stumble backward with a yelp?—
But Matteo’s there. One arm around my waist, the other gripping my wrist, keeping the barrel pointed safely downrange.
“Holy shit.” My laugh comes out breathless and a little manic. “Holyshit.”
“You okay?”
“I think I just gave myself whiplash.” I straighten, still grinning—and then the adrenaline fades enough for me to feel the hot throb beneath my bandage. The recoil jarred it. Not bad, but definitely there.
