“Of course.” What brought us together just kept us apart. “You’ll do the scene justice. If the writing thing doesn’t work out for you, I’ll offer you a job.”
Her laughter tinkles like wind chimes. “I may have the gun part down, but I need help writing another scene.”
Back to business. My relief feels strangely hollow, like disappointment. I hold my hands wide to offer her my services. “How can I help?”
She turns her back to me and lifts the shotgun to her shoulder. “I need to write a scene where the hero teaches the heroine to shoot. I need to know how the heroine feels to be in his arms. You know, so I can better write it.”
My pulse trips. She just made that up. And while I’d been about to circle my arms around her a moment ago, her invitation has given our coming embrace a whole different feel.
She looks over her shoulder at me, waiting.
With a deep breath, I step behind her, positioning my feet wide so I can lean in closer. I press my chest into her spine. Do I feel her heartbeat or mine? I gently brace the sides of her ribs to stabilize us together. Her head turns, so that our cheeks can align, and we might as well be on a deserted island with the way her coconut scent surrounds us.
Either the weapon is getting heavy in her arms, or my nearness has made her weak, because the barrel of the gun droops.
“Careful,” I say, sliding my hands up to cover hers.
I’ve held her hands before when fingerprinting her. I knew her skin was this soft. But I didn’t know it could completely distract me from our target. This position would definitely not be allowed in hunter-safety classes.
I turn my head slightly so my lips are by her ear. “Is this what you need for writing your scene?”
Her head nods, but nothing else moves. She stays in my arms. For once, she’s speechless.
We breathe together, taking our time. Because the moment the gun is fired, I won’t have a reason to keep her in my arms, unless I’m brave enough to give her the real reason I want her there.
“Are you ready?” she asks.
I don’t know if she’s talking about guns this time or the more dangerous topic of relationships.
“Yes,” I say to both. In spite of the way she reminds me of my ex. In spite of the way my marriage crashed and burned.
She fires. The report echoes through the trees. Pungent gunpowder overpowers Gemma’s tropical scent. The kickback presses her closer.
I don’t even check the target to see how she did. I swing the weapon from her arms, set it on the table along with my goggles and ear protection, and walk her backward, until she’s pressed against a tree.
She rips off her own goggles and earmuffs. Her hands slide behind my back and pull me closer.
I cup her satin cheeks and press my lips hard to hers. Again and again. Enough to knock my hat to the ground.
Now that I’m letting myself get close, I can’t get close enough. I hate this neediness at the same time it feels so good to take what I want.
I don’t mean to crush her, but her response is so gentle and sweet, and this is what has been missing in my life. As if afraid she’s not real, I hang on, refusing to let go.
“Hey.” Her whisper slows me down.
I nip her silky lips.
Her palms on my chest barely stop me from nipping again. I thought this was what she’d been asking for. She’d said she was ready. She reacted like she was ready. Now she’s ending it?
I pull back to search her eyes. I don’t know what I’m going to see, but I have the feeling it will make me want to shoot machine guns like Rambo.
Her gaze meets mine, just as caring as before. Just as adoring.
Relief hiccups through my veins. But I’m confused. “Are you okay?” My hands slide down to her shoulders, and I look her over. Maybe I hurt her. She is tall and strong, but she’s tiny at the same time. While that tree trunk behind her is as rough as me. “I thought you wanted me to kiss you.”
“I did.” She grips the front of my shirt in her hands and groans. “I do.”
My chest puffs up at that. Did she just stop me from kissing her to tell me how much she liked my kisses? Pfft, writers.
