Giving her space was supposed to be an act of consideration. Instead, it’s a punishment I can’t endure.
I want her.
I need a distraction—something sharp and brutal that puts control back in my hands.
By early afternoon, I’m at the firing range. Nothing but concrete and cold steel under humming industrial lights. The air smells of gun oil and cordite.
Here, in the rhythm of recoil and reload, I find precision again.
Slide. Load. Aim. Fire.
Each target is a stand-in for people who deserve to die. I don’t miss.
The rhythm soothes me. Inhale. Squeeze. Release. Again and again, until my shoulders ache and the noise in my head dulls to one thing.
Laurette—her name fires through me like a shot I keep taking.
The way she moans when I break her open, the way she reaches for more—those things have seared her into every inch of me.
The burner phone vibrates in my pocket. Short buzz. Once.
No hesitation. No doubt. The buzz is her.
I set the gun down on the shelf in front of me and pull the phone from my pocket. One new message.
It’s been 3 days.
My mouth curves, but not quite into a smile. It’s something darker and hungrier.
Satisfaction.
She broke first. I knew she would. Because I left her aching, left her wondering, left her trying to pretend this thing between us could be starved.
It can’t be. I made sure of that.
I type back fast.
Do you miss me?
The reply comes quickly.
Very much. I want to see you.
There it is, the snap of tension giving way. The moment control shifts.
She’s mine again.
Everything inside me tightens. The steel grip of restraint slips for half a second, and hunger surges through me.
She doesn’t have to ask twice.
My fingers fly across the keyboard.
Tonight. 10:00.
How do you want me? Kneeling? Lingerie? Blindfolded?
I grin.
