I grab the back of her neck and bring her face towards mine. “You weren’t. And I think you like it when I’m in charge. When I tell you what to do.”
“Maybe.” Her body quivers, but it’s not with fear. It’s with anticipation. The air hangs heavy between us, and once again, a zing of chemistry flies between us, becoming harder and harder to ignore.
“Are you feeling up to this today?”
“I’m fine,” she says, her spine straight, her chin high. “I was introduced to your Russian hangover cure. Pickle juice. Disgusting, but effective.”
Despite not wearing a lick of make-up and her hair piled high on her head, she still looks stunning. Yoga clothes fit her perfectly, every lush curve on display. A black spaghetti strap tank-top bares her slender shoulders and does little to hide the soft bounce of her breasts with every movement. It’s enough to bring a hungry man to his knees—and I happen to be starving.
“So, are we going to do this or are you going to stand there polishing that death ray in your hand?”
My head snaps up to meet her eyes, and I see the naughty glint. Georgia knows she’s pushing me and if that’s the game she wants to play, fine.
“Put on protection and get into position,” I order. All playfulness between us disappears, replaced by something much heavier. Her nipples tighten beneath her tank-top, and I’m aware of how much she likes this game we’re playing. Perhaps I shouldn’t be tempting her when I have no plans of following through, but I just can’t fucking help it where she’s concerned.
Georgia follows my command, putting on the eye and ear protection I have laid out for her, and steps into position on the firing point.
Maneuvering myself behind her, her firm backside presses against my front and it’s all I can do to keep in a tortured groan. After last night, my resolve is dangerously low, aching to push her down head first and thrust inside my little captive.
“What now?” Her voice is a husky whisper.
“I am going to put a gun in your hand and you are going to take it. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
Fuck, is she trying to kill me?
I reach both of my arms around her body, holding up the Smith & Wesson and checking the clip before pointing it at the target. Her body shudders at my nearness and a deep sense of male satisfaction settles in my chest. “Relax,” I say into her ear. “It won’t hurt you if you know how to handle it properly.”
With my arms still in front of her, I show her how to hold the gun with her right hand as I guide her left hand up to wrap her fingers around the handle. “This pistol has no recoil. Perfect to build your confidence.”
“It’s not a confidence issue,” she replies, giving her hips a little shimmy against my quickly hardening cock. “It’s an anti-gun issue.” I contain a groan at the contact between our two bodies. We’re definitely playing a dangerous game.
“You don’t have the luxury of being anti-gun. Oleg uses guns. His men use guns. Knowing how to use one could save your life.”
I feel, rather than hear, her shaky exhale. “All right, show me.”
“Let's talk about grip. First time you grip any handgun you want to grab as high on the back strap as possible. This allows you better control.” When her grip is satisfactory, I move on to talk about stance.
“You want to make sure that you're leaning forward a bit, feet shoulder-width apart and your weight is on your toes, slightly bent forward at the waist to keep from being pushed back when a gun has a strong recoil.” I adjust her hips and help her swing a leg back until she’s in the proper position.
Stepping back a little so she doesn’t feel my semi-hard cock pressed against her ass—I’m pretty sure that would be against all safety recommendations—I give her some time to get used to the feel of the pistol in her hand.
“You ready to shoot that thing?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be.” She swallows hard, tucking a fly-away strand into her bun high on top of her hair.
I instruct her to, “Line up the barrel with the target.” She focuses on the silhouette with a target on its chest eight feet away. “Now, steady your aim, exhale, and pull the trigger.”
Her first shot is way off target, somewhere above the paper silhouette’s shoulder. It lands deep in the wilderness surrounding my property. She frowns, and I tell her to get back into position, and try again.
With a deep breath, she steadies her shaking hands, gripping the gun like I taught her, and pulls the trigger. This bullet lands much closer to that center target, and she releases a whoop of joy. And then she’s off to the races. She lets off three shots in a row. The last shot hits the bullseye, and it’s damn beautiful. Her face lights up with a smile after she realizes she released the perfect shot.
“You’re a natural.” My attention goes right to the pulse point at the base of her neck. Shooting for the first time can be a scary thing, invoking the flight or fight response, but after the feeling of danger has passed, there’s often a rush of serotonin—the feel good chemical. And if I were to guess, Georgia is in the grips of happy chemicals.
She turns around and the look she gives me is nothing less than hungry. No longer the reluctant gun-totter of ten minutes ago, her dilated pupils reveal she’s still on a high.
“That was fun,” she breathes. “Show me how to reload. I wanna do that again.”