Page 84 of Fiery Romance

I frown, sensing that he’s downplaying both answers. Before I can say anything, he offers the gun to me.

Excitement stirs in my gut.

I take it. Test it. Lighter than I expected although it has a good weight. The top is smooth and I slide my fingers on it, back and forth. Back and forth.

From the corner of my eyes, I notice Clay watching me intently.

Turning away to hide my mischievous grin, I fix my face into an angry pout and whirl around, pointing the gun at him.

Both his hands go up. Despite his move of surrender, there’s no fear on his face. There’s no expression at all. How many times has he been held at gunpoint?

“You said you wouldn’t be stupid enough to hand me a loaded weapon.”

“Careful. This may look like open terrain, but there are cameras, Miss Hayes.”

I glance at the dry grass and the mountains in the distance. Where would they even hang cameras out here?

While my attention is diverted, Bolton grabs my arm, flattens his hands against my stomach and pulls me in. My back is to his front, his nose is at my temple and the gun is under my jaw in less than two seconds.

It all happens in such a fluid, seamless dance that I don’t even know when it started.

Silence settles on the gun range.

We stand in place, our bodies brushing with every breath.

The gun barrel is cold against my jaw bone. I should be scared, but I’m not. Rather, it’s his chest against my back that’s sending adrenaline soaring through me.

“Unfair, I wasn’t ready,” I whisper.

“A gun isn’t a toy. Be careful who you point it at.” His voice is deep. It caresses me. Touches me everywhere. “Do you want to learn or not?”

My heart is lodged in my throat. It takes effort to find my voice. “I want to learn.”

“Then be a good girl and don’t try to shoot me.”

“Being a good girl really isn’t my thing.”

The gun slides down my throat to between my chest. His breath is hot against my cheek. “I gathered.”

Damn. It’s a gun. It’s a scary, life-taking, dangerous weapon. But the way he’s trailing it down my skin feels downright obscene. I squeeze my eyes shut. I should scold him, remind him I’m spoken for, tell him to keep his distance.

Instead, I accept the gun when he pushes it into my hand and sigh in pleasure when he wraps his arms around me from behind to steady my grip.

“Step number one,” his calloused thumb slides over my knuckles, making me shake, “always keep the gun pointed in a safe direction. This 1911 is unloaded. One day, it might not be. Better not to take that chance.”

I, naturally, curl my finger around the trigger. He uses his pointer to twine around mine instead.

“Always keep your hand off the trigger until you’re ready to shoot.”

“I’m ready to shoot.”

“No, sweetheart. Not even close,” he rasps in my ear. “You’re ready when I say you’re ready.”

I lean my head back, resting on his shoulder. He glances down at me and I see the darkness in his eyes. The strain to hold himself back. The desire that he can’t hide.

It makes my body tighten with longing. It makes my heart pound.

His finger strokes mine. Heat trails his touch. “Always pay attention to your target and everything around it. Focus. Don’t be impulsive. It only takes a second to do something you’ll regret.”

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