Page 20 of Venomous Games

He turns and walks off, heading to where Antonia is standing.

“Lovely to meet you,” he says to Antonia, tone polite and formal.

Much nicer than he ever talks to me. Of course. I roll my eyes and head for the door after waving goodbye to my friend, sensing him behind me. Outside, the night air is cool, the streetlights casting long shadows across the pavement.

When we reach his car, he automatically moves to the passenger side and opens the door for me. I pause. Not because I’m impressed, but because it gives me a perfect view of the gun in the holster at his hip. It’s angled incorrectly. Without thinking, I step closer, instantly feeling the heat radiating off of him. My throat tightens, and I find it hard to swallow before I reach down to adjust the holster so it rests properly against his side. Raising my head, I notice the way his jaw has locked at my closeness, and I stand here, waiting as his gaze lifts from my hands to my eyes. The look on his face is somewhere between disbelief and irritation.

“You should never touch a cop’s gun,” he grits out.

I shrug. “I adjusted it for you. You’re welcome.”

His brows knit together. “You know the proper positioning of a holster?” he asks, like the idea personally offends him.

I lean in, invading his space on purpose. Popping up onto my tiptoes, I bring my mouth close to his ear, my breath brushing against his skin. I feel the exact moment his body goes rigid.

Good.

“I know how to do a lot with a gun,” I murmur. “Maybe one day I’ll show you. I could teach you a thing or two.”

He steps back sharply, putting distance between us. Those slate-colored eyes hard and unamused.

“You’re drunk,” he says.

The accusation lands flat.

Offended, I straighten, flicking my hair over my shoulder. “Please. If I were drunk, you wouldn’t still have that gun.”

His jaw tightens. “Don’t touch my weapon again,” he warns, his voice dropping into something close to a growl.

I tilt my head, studying him like he’s a puzzle I might enjoy breaking. “Do you want me to disarm you?” I ask sweetly.

His jaw clenches harder. The man clearly does not want to play this game with me.

Unfortunately for him, I’ve already decided we’re playing.

“You wouldn’t be able to.” The words have barely left his mouth before my hand moves. The holster pops open with a practiced flick, and the weight of his gun is suddenly in my hand.

Smooth, cool, and now mine.

His hand shoots up to stop me, but he’s too late. It lands on empty leather where the gun used to be. For a moment, neither of us moves, and I fight the smirk pulling at my lips. When I look at him, I’m not sure, but I think I see a reluctant flicker of pride in his gaze.

I glance down at the weapon in my hand like I’m inspecting a new accessory. “You’re slow,” I say lightly.

His breathing goes heavier beside me. “I could arrest you for that,” he says, his voice low and tight.

I lean in closer, lowering my voice so the words brush against his ear. “Do it,” I whisper. “I like being handcuffed.”

For half a second, the air between us goes completely still. Then I slide the gun back toward his hip. He doesn’t move, doesn’t try to stop me, just watches. I clip his gun back in place, my fingers lingering for a moment longer than necessary. When I lift my head, his face is inches from mine. Too close.

“You’re like a stick of dynamite,” he mutters roughly. “Ready to fucking explode.”

Something in his voice almost sounds like a warning, and I flash him a sweet smile.

“Thanks, handsome,” I declare. “Now, take me home.” Before he can respond, I slip into the passenger seat of his car. The door slams shut behind me a second later. He circles the front of the car, tension rolling off him, and climbs into the driver’s seat.

“That wasn’t a fucking compliment,” he growls.

I buckle my seat belt slowly, taking my time. “Of course it was.”