Page 48 of Secret Baby for the Italian Mafia Don

Nico just grins and buries his smile against my neck. I think he might kiss me, and I tense all over, bracing for it as if Nico is the one with the gun. Instead, he adjusts my arms to correct my stance.

“Is this right?” I ask.

“From here, you don’t know until you shoot.”

My palms feel slick against the grip. I take a deep breath.

“No stakes,” he reminds me softly, dragging his thumb over the sun-dappled skin on my shoulder, where the freckles are starting to peek through. He leans down and traces a path between them with his tongue, ending with a kiss in the crook of my neck. “Take your time,” he mutters.

“This isn’t fair,” I mutter as he distracts me.

“If you can’t shoot while you’re distracted, you can’t shoot,” he says, which sounds like decent advice, but I’m pretty sure he makes it up on the spot as an excuse to keep his hands and mouth on me.

I try to focus on the weapon in my hand, and not the far more dangerous thing leaving love bites on my neck.

The sound of the gunshot echoes through the field, shattering the peaceful silence. The bottles stay standing, glinting in the light. I sigh.

“That was your fault.”

“Mhm,” Nico agrees, all too happy to take the blame if it means he gets to keep touching me. “Don’t anticipate the recoil. You’ll fuck your aim.”

The recoil isn’t what I’m anticipating.

“Nico,” I mutter when I can barely take it anymore, when I feel the wanting for him shaking in my knees, like they want to hit the ground for him here and now while I pull at the zipper of his pants and start the whole horrible cycle all over. “You’re an awful teacher.”

“I think that depends on the subject.”

I try and fail to bite back my smile. I take aim again, and this time, Nico just leans into me and watches. I miss again. I curse softly.

“It’s supposed to be hard. More precise than you’d ever need to practically be with a gun, unless you’re into rabbit hunting.”

“I could never,” I say, offended at the very idea.

“So she kills men, but not bunnies.”

“A bunny’s never deserved it,” I mutter, taking aim again. The bottle shatters into pieces.

“There you go,” he says, the same tone he uses when I’m in bed, his finger on my trigger.

With two bottles left, Nico takes his turn. He aims with one hand, the gesture familiar and sure, as if he and the gun are old friends, dance partners, sure of each other’s movements and weight. Chills run up and down my arms as I realize this was someone’s last image: Nico with his hand outstretched, chrome glistening, intent etched into the lines on his face. A deadly marksman’s stare and bottomless rage. He aims for only a moment. The second bottle shatters with a single shot.

I glare at him, offended by how simple he makes it seem. He quirks an eyebrow at his own hand, glancing at the gun as if he’s surprised, too.

“Do it again,” I order him.

There’s one bottle left standing in the sunlight.

“What? You think I got lucky?” he asks.

“I know you did.”

As Nico takes aim a second time, I step around him. I drag my hand across his back, wedge myself up against his body. I push myself up on him. My hand splays on his chest while I let the other slide down his belly, toward his groin. My fingertips skirt clumsily over his belt, his zipper.

Nico goes statue-still under my grip, the pistol in his hand waiting as his finger hesitates on the trigger.

“What’s the matter, Nico?” I ask him. “If you can’t shoot distracted, you can’t shoot.”

I drag my hand against the front of his jeans, feel the stiff rising of his cock against the seam. His eyes are staring forward, but I can see his thoughts are elsewhere, dark and churning as I grope him gently through the denim.

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