Page 68 of The Fighter

“No. Why would I? In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a gym instructor, not a member of the mafia. This is so far outside my experience?—”

I stop talking as Tomas lies down next to me. The mattress sinks under his weight, and my awareness sharpens. I’m not used to sharing a bed. I try to remember the last time I spent an entire night with a man, and my memory offers nothing. This is extremely intimate. I can feel the heat radiating off his body. He’s close enough that I can reach out and touch him. Stroke those hard muscles, run my fingers over his tattoos. Follow them with my tongue. I could straddle him, and he’d wrestle me down, his weight over mine, holding me anchored in place.

Tomas mistakes my silence for disquiet. “For what it’s worth, killing people isn’t an everyday occurrence in my world either,” he says, his lips twisting in a grimace. “I’m the money guy, not the assassin. Most of the time, my life is very boring.”

“There’s an assassin?” I blurt out.

He gives me his blandest look. “I didn’t say anything about an assassin.” He turns on his side, facing me. “I’ll teach you to shoot this weekend if you’d like.”

There’s definitely an assassin, but the less I know about it, the better. I spend a minute wondering who it could be and then let it go.

Tomas wants to teach me to defend myself. My heart warms. Maybe it makes me a bad person, but it’s stopped bothering me that he killed two people last night. Without his intervention, I could have woken up in Moscow this morning, the unwilling, captive bride of a Bratva boss. He protected me last night, and he’s protecting me now.

“Thank you.” I reach out and touch his arm. “I don’t think I said that. Thank you for saving me last night.”

Something unreadable passes over his face. “You’re welcome.”

My entire body is alight with desire. Stop staring at his crotch, Ali, I scold myself, but it’s not working. He’s in my bed, and I want him to make love to me. “And yes,” I manage to say through the haze of lust drowning my brain. “I’d like to learn to shoot a gun.”

“Good,” he responds. “Now, onto more pleasant things. You look stressed, dolcezza. What would help you feel better? A hot drink? Something to eat?” His gaze slowly slides over my body. “An orgasm?”

“An orgasm?”

“It’ll help you relax.” He strokes the lace, his touch setting me on fire. His fingers are inches away from my taut, aching nipples, but he avoids them intentionally, the jerk. “Ask me nicely.”

A ripple of excitement runs through me. I like this game. “And if I don’t? Are you going to throw me out of bed?”

“Oh no,” he says with a smile that’s positively carnal. “If I throw you out of bed, Ali, it’s because I want to fuck you on the floor. No, your punishment will depend on how much of a brat you are.” He plucks my nipple between his thumb and forefinger, and the rush of pleasure leaves me speechless. “I could put you over my knee and spank your ass. Or I could make you bring me your vibrator. Like this morning, I’ll tie your hands up so you can’t touch yourself, and I’ll edge you with your own toy, over and over, until you’re begging for release.”

Every nerve in my body is screaming in anticipation. “Yes,” I whisper. “Yes, please. Do all of that.”

And he does.

The next day, as promised, Tomas takes me to a gun range that Antonio owns to teach me to shoot. It’s a large, brightly lit room with a row of targets at the far end, and no one’s there except for us.

“You look nervous.”

“I am, a little,” I admit. Tomas, on the other hand, looks relaxed and confident. He’s wearing a pair of beige linen pants and a white linen shirt, and the effect is making me drool.

“It’s good to be nervous,” he replies. “Guns aren’t toys; they’re dangerous weapons. Better to be wary than complacent.” He opens the case he’s carrying and pulls out a black handgun. “This is a Beretta M9. It’s a good beginner pistol.”

“Can I hold it?”

“Not yet,” he says. “Let’s go over the basics of gun safety first. Most important: always treat every gun like it’s loaded.”

That makes sense. “Got it.”

“Never point your gun at someone unless you mean it,” he continues. He gives me a stern look. “But if someone’s threatening you, you shoot, got it? I don’t want you to feel sorry for the scum that tried abducting you.”

“I don’t know if I have what it takes to shoot someone in cold blood, Tomas.”

“It won’t be in cold blood,” he says, cupping my cheek in his palm. “It’s you or them, dolcezza. Don’t let it be you.”

When he puts it that way… “What are the rest of the rules?”

“Keep your finger off the trigger until you’re ready to shoot.” He demonstrates the motion. “Got it?”

I nod. He walks me through the different parts of the gun, showing me how to load and unload it, and then it’s time to actually fire the gun. Tomas makes me wear protective glasses, puts earmuffs over my ears, and then positions himself behind me. His hands cup my waist. “Aim for the bullseye,” he murmurs into my ear.

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