Adrenaline races through my blood.
“Wow!”
I set the gun down on the table and slide my headphones around my neck before turning my head to look back at her.
Eyes wide and blinking and lips parted, Riley smiles big as she slowly lowers her hands and flattens one to her chest. “Holy crap, that scared me!” she says on a nervous sounding giggle. “It’s still really loud, even with the headphones.”
“You all right?”
She nods quickly. “Yeah. That was so cool.” She looks past me briefly, then meets my eyes again. “Did you hit the target?”
I cock my head, face serious. Riley pulls her lips between her teeth and fights a grin.
“If I didn’t, I'd have bigger problems than a bum leg. I’m going to need to choose a new career,” I reply. She laughs, giving me her smile. As I’m bringing the target in to take a look at it, I gesture at her to move closer.
“Were you scared the first time you shot a gun?” she asks, reaching my side. Her headphones are around her neck now too.
“Nah. I’ve always been comfortable with it. But I started young. My dad taught me how to hunt when I was eight.” I release the switch and grab onto the bottom of the target, pulling it over the table so it hangs without obstruction.
Riley steps closer, putting her one hand on my thigh. She reaches out with the other and traces her fingertip over the holes in the paper. “You hit the bullseye,” she observes with wonder in her voice.
I look down at her hand on my leg. At her black painted nails and the way her fingers curl under and grip. “Good,” I say. “I was aiming for it.”
“Mm.” She laughs a little. “Well, that settles that.”
“What settles what?”
“I think you’re the shit too, CJ Tully.”
Her quiet confession lifts my head, and I briefly meet her eyes before she’s looking down and away, hiding her blushing cheeks and pulling her hand from my leg.
Something swells inside my chest, pushing organs and bone out of the way. I want her eyes back on me and her touch and Jesus fucking Christ, I want her mouth.
“Riley . . .”
“It doesn’t look real,” she says, standing closer to the table now and pushing the target back to look down at the gun, hearing me but choosing to ignore because she knows what I’m about to say—why the fuck are we just friends—and she either doesn’t want to have this talk with me or she’s not ready to have it.
I’ve had moments with Riley like this since she moved in, where she gives me a look or her touch lingers, and the second I notice or open my mouth to question what the fuck we’re doing, she does the same shit. She looks away or changes the subject. She acts unsure. And I don’t want to rush her. I don’t want Riley hesitating with me. I know what went down with her ex was a lot and she’s still feeling that, but fuck, it kills me. All of this kills me. Her getting close and then pulling away. Knowing how she tastes and the way her body opens and moves, under and above me, her shaking limbs and quiet desires. I’m not forgetting shit.
I get off on the memory of Riley while she sleeps in the next room. I fantasize about touching her and fucking her.
I am the worst friend this girl could possibly have, because that’s the last thing I want us to be.
“You know?”
Riley’s question jars my focus and draws my attention to her face. She’s looking at me over her shoulder. Her brows are lifted.
“I know what?” I ask, not following.
“The gun. It doesn’t look real.”
“Feels pretty damn real.” I shift to the edge of the stool so I can get closer to Riley and the table, then I pick up the gun and hold it out for her to see. “It’s not loaded. Here. Look.” I release the magazine, set that down, and rack the slide to show her the empty chamber. “You want to hold it?”
She reaches out. No hesitation. Not with this.
With me—when we get too close or look too long? Every damn time. But holding a firearm, Riley’s all in.
Go fucking figure.
“Can I? Just for a second.” She takes the gun from me and lets it rest in her hand, keeping her palm up. “Wow. It’s heavy. I didn’t think it would be this heavy,” she comments, curling her fingers around it and flipping it over to study.
I could make a joke about that—something heavy in her hand—but I don’t. Instead I slide my hand along the back of hers and move her grip. “Keep your finger off the trigger,” I instruct. “Only time your finger should be there is if you’re ready to shoot. Even if it’s not loaded, it’s a good habit to hold it like this. Okay?”
She nods, then lifts her arms and extends them out in front of her. “Like this? Am I doing it right?”
I grab her waist and twist her body so she’s standing at an angle. “Right foot back, like you’re ready to throw a punch. Don’t lock your arms.”
Riley follows instruction. She stands like a natural, and there’s no need for me to be keeping hold of her right now, but I do it anyway. My knees on either side of her, my hands on her hips and my chest pressing up against her back.
I inhale her shampoo and the soft floral perfume she uses and fuck me, no woman has ever smelled this good.
“Look at you,” I murmur beside her ear, watching the corner of her mouth twitch.
“Do I look good?”
“Dumb question, darlin’.”
Riley smiles. She lowers her arms. “Can I,” she looks back at me, teeth sawing across her bottom lip, “try and shoot it? Just once.”
“You can shoot it as much as you like.”
I load the gun with one round and run through how it fires and how she can aim for something, making sure she’s comfortable with everything before handing it over. After sending the target back out and getting our headphones on, I resume how I was holding onto Riley before, keeping steady at her back so she feels me with her.
If she’s nervous, I want her knowing I’m right here. That I’ve got her.
“Ready?” I ask.
“I think so.”
“Don’t worry about aiming. I just want you to shoot, okay? You do this and like it, we’ll load it again.”
Riley nods. I feel her body get into position before she extends her arms out in front of her. She holds there, breathing in, then out. Again. And once more. She knows to fire on an exhale.