Page 66 of Savage Desires

I pack up a duffle with what we need for the range. I smirk at how wide her eyes get with every new item I add to the bag. She probably thought I would teach her how to shoot a little and call it good. I want her to be proficient in several types of firearms. You never know when you'll end up in a gunfight and need to pick up someone else's gun to protect yourself. She needs to learn to be comfortable with anything she could come across.

"I think that's everything," I say, zipping the bag. "Let's go shoot stuff."

"Yay," she says sarcastically.

"So sassy," I scold, giving her ass a playful spank.

She frowns at me, rubbing her butt. "Mean."

"You love it."

Her cheeks flush, letting me know how much she does like it when I spank her. I can't wait to spank her sexy ass red while I'm fucking it. My cock is instantly hard at the thought of fucking her ass. I swear I'm going to spend every minute I'm with this woman hard as a rock.

The shooting range is a twenty-minute drive from my building. Willow decides we should get to know each other better, so we play twenty questions. We keep it light and easy. Learning favorite colors, movies, TV shows, music, books, sports… We actually have quite a bit in common.

We like the same types of movies and music. Neither of us is big on TV, and we both like MMA, boxing, and football. Books we're total opposites. She's a romance reader, and I'm horror and thrillers. Her favorite color is any shade of pink, while mine is dark blue. We're debating on whether Italian food is superior to Chinese when I park in front of the range.

"Face it, Chinese food is superior. You wouldn't have your precious pasta if the Chinese hadn't invented it," I say with a cocky smirk.

Her lips tilt up in her own smirk, her eyes dancing with amusement. I love that she's comfortable enough to argue with me, even if it is over something as silly as pasta.

She tsks. "It's a myth that Marco Polo introduced Italy to pasta after his trip to China. Italy had its own form of pasta, which is believed to date back to the Etruscans. Sure, he brought new methods of making pasta, but the people of Italy were making pasta long before Marco Polo."

My eyes widen in surprise, making her giggle. "I was a bit of a nerd in my old life… Useless facts are my superpower."

I squeeze her thigh. "There's no such thing as useless information. You just won an argument about pasta that you would've lost without that knowledge."

She laughs. "I wasn't going to lose because nothing is better than Italian food. Lasagna with all those cheeses and rich sauce… a little Italian sausage. Delicious. Plus, Italian food just gets better as leftovers. Chinese food does not."

I put my hands up. "I concede. Italian is superior."

She kisses my cheek. "Smart man. Now, let's go shoot some shit!"

The range is empty save for the owner, T.J. He's another member of my band of misfits, but he stays in the background, supplying guns, ammo, and any other weapons required for the cause with a steep discount.

He looks like an unassuming thirty-something man, but he's one of the most dangerous men I know. He's deadly with any weapon you put in his hand and excels in any kind of hand-to-hand combat. He might be slightly shorter than me and more leanly muscled than I am, but he's still one of the most challenging men I've gone up against in the ring. He's also the leading arm's dealer on the East Coast. He isn't someone to fuck with.

"Hey, man," he says when we walk in. "I got you all set up in back. Cleared the place out like you asked."

"Appreciate it. Willow, this is T.J. he owns the place."

T.J. scoffs. "What this asshole means to say is, 'this is T.J., my friend who nicely shut down business on one of the busiest days of the week so he could bring his girlfriend in for a date.'"

Kisten glares, and I giggle. "Nice to meet you, T.J. Sorry your asshole friend made you shut down your business for me."

"No big deal. I'm just giving him shit. He needs to fucking relax a little," T.J. says.

Willow tucks her hand around my arm and leans against me. "No rest for the wicked or the weary."

"Truer words," he agrees.

"If you're done flirting with my girl, I'd like to get started," I say through gritted teeth.

"It's called making conversation, jackass. You should try it sometime. Grunts and caveman sounds don't count," T.J. says, giving me shit like always.

Willow is watching our back and forth with amusement. I don't give him the dignity of a response. I stomp to the door that leads back to the shooting lanes. I'm mildly surprised that T.J. buzzes us in without any more needling. He knows what's at stake and how important it is for Willow to learn. I'm glad because there's an unfamiliar anxiousness growing inside me with every passing minute.

Knowing I'm willfully putting Willow in a dangerous situation goes against my every instinct. I don't know what I'll do if anything happens to her… I force those worries away for now. No use focusing on something that might never happen. Especially if I give her every advantage possible.

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