Page 87 of Right Number, Wrong Man
Itisfun though, isn’t it?
How is it so easy to feel safe in his arms? He makes me feel small, too, but that’s not a bad thing. I enjoy it, just how I enjoy the way he moves my body along with his instructions. Decisively but with care.
“You need a steady stance,” he says, a slight strain in his voice. “Think of it like makin’ a triangle with your feet. Left leg forward, right leg back. Balance is key to reduce the recoil.” His boot gently nudges mine, and I shift my legs. “Better. Any questions?”
I let out a hysterical giggle. “No, I’m fine.”
Except for those damp panties under my jeans.
“When you shoot, hold the gun as tightly as you can.” He squeezes my hands. “Dad says you know you’re holding a pistol the right way when your hands start to shake, but I prefer a slightly less tense approach. Don’t take itthatfar.”
I grip the gun harder. “Like this?”
“Seems about right. Focus on the front sight and align it with your target. When you pull the trigger, it should be asmoothmotion. If you jerk or twitch, you ain’t gonna hit your mark.” He switches off the safety and cocks the hammer. “Let’s do a dry run.”
Colt’s large index finger curls around mine, guiding it. My breath hitches as his hips press against my ass, his holster digging into me.
That is his holster, right?
Our hands move as one when he pulls the trigger, applying even pressure until the gun makes an empty click.
“You feel that?” he asks.
The trigger or your groin against my ass?
The words stick to my throat. “Uh-huh.”
“Smooth,” he whispers.
As he pulls the trigger again, a tiny jerk inches his hips forward, and I suppress a weird moan.
Are shooting lessons always this up close with hip action?
“Easy like that,” he says, but nothing, absolutelynothingis easy right now.
I’m getting turned on by my dead husband’s brother who I hate, but also don’t hate. Not as much at least. Not anymore. Not at all.
Or do I?
“Are you good to try a live shot?” Colt asks.
“I think so,” I say, trying to stop my voice from shaking. The gun is exciting, but that’s not what’s throwing me off balance. It’s the man teaching me.
Life was so much easier when my emotions made sense and Colt was still despicable.
Despite the summer heat, an odd shiver runs through me when he steps away. He takes the loaded magazine from his back pocket and gives it to me. “Slide it in.”
I snort. “That’s what he said?”
“Hell nah. I don’t ask. I just take what I want.” A hint of red crosses his cheeks and blushing must be contagious because I flush, too. “Enough talk. Do as I said, Spitfire.”
The magazine locks in. Without Colt’s hands guiding mine—and without his body distracting me with all its muscular perfection—I realize how powerful it feels to hold the pistol. I like it.
“Alright, try for the brown bottle with the billy goat on the label.” He points.
My lips pinch as I remember the stance he showed me, widening my legs and raising my arms. His warm hand lands on my bare forearm, adjusting my position, and my belly tingles.
“Don’t stretch your arms all the way. Give a little slack at the elbows, but not too much or you’ll hit yourself in the face from the recoil. Take your time and when you’re ready, shoot.”
