“I know, baby,” he says calmly, feeding his hands up into my hair, his fingers circling through the strands reverently. As though I don’t have a gun to his head, ready to blow his brains out.
“I wanted him because he was good!” I gasp for air, my breath hitting his face hard. “I’d never lose what we made together. I’d never lose him because he was respectable. He was good. You made him bad like you! Like Jimmy!
His brows pinch in together, and he tilts his head, a ghost of sadness shifting through his gemstone eyes. “I didn’t make him bad, baby,” he says, with a remorseful shake of his head. “I’d love to play the villain for you. But. . . he just was bad. We all are.”
I splutter all over him, open-mouthed and sobbing. The black handgun in my fist shakes, vibrating against his temple. He doesn’t seem bothered that it’s there. He looks at me with loving empathy. “Why didn’t you kill Jimmy?” I yell, hating his loving, understanding gaze. A gaze without a glimmer of condescension or disdain. Not a shadow of disapproval.
“If I had, we’d both be dead,” he says.
“You won’t kill him because you’re just like him!” I scream. “You took me away from Akila. You got Perry killed. After all we went through. After all we shared! You took me! You were my choice, Bronson! I chose you! I wanted you. Then you do this. You ruined it all.” The truth swallows me whole. “They used what matters to me to control me. And now you are too. Just another handler to organise my life for me. It’s my fucking life. Mine!”
I look at the gun, my finger twitching on the trigger.
Reaching up, he quickly disarms me. My mouth flaps with uncertainty while he studies me, that same infatuation dancing through his gaze. The crazy son of a bitch is smiling. I nearly blew his head off. “Were you actually willing to shoot me?” he asks, his grin twitching to grow larger, to let a laugh expel.
I nod slowly because I was, but then shake my head violently because I also wasn’t. Unable to move or glance away from his piercing eyes, I stay frozen beneath him. So unsure what he’ll do or what I should do. What even happened? “Oh God,” I manage to say on a rough exhale. “Oh, God.”
He traps me with his intense gaze. The freckles in his eyes mimic burning green embers. As the gun in his hand moves slowly down my body, I inhale sharply.
I’m suddenly paralysed when he presses the cold metal to the fabric covering my pussy. My thighs clench around the hard barrel, trying to fend off the invasion, but that innate movement only works to increase its ominous presence. He uses the barrel to rub and part my folds. The material of my knickers moving into me with each stroke.
“You wanna play with my gun, baby?” he growls against my gasping mouth. I try to breathe, but it is as though he has a fist around my throat, a phantom feeling he controls with his mere presence. “He wants to play with you.” His other hand goes to the side of my face, his thumb resting just below my eye and his forefinger just above. “Keep these beautiful eyes on me. I want to watch them shine when my Glock makes my fierce baby purr.” I hold his gaze, words held captive alongside the air in my throat. “Remember to breathe, baby.”
I quickly release the breath inside me.
Moving the gun faster, he rubs the barrel back and forth through my folds. The cold metal is demanding and if an inanimate object could be angry, it is. Desperate whimpers leave me as I rock my hips up and down, joining the motions of the Glock.
Bronson growls as I press back against it, inclining my pelvis, feeling dizzy, feeling as though I am plummeting over the edge. Looking at him, at his mouth open and panting with excitement, at his eyes infatuated with me, I envelop the nape of his neck, holding him to me. His forehead meets mine, our lips brushing but not kissing.
“I was fucking selfish,” he whispers. “I want you. I want you slapping me across the face, hitting me with pans.” His voice is coarse and uneven while his arm moves between our bodies, keeping his rhythm. “I want you to be my beautiful distraction from this goddamn chaos I’ve managed my entire fucking life.”
I roll my head against the floor of the RV, moaning. “Bronson.”I’m reminded of that night at the lookout. Of how I seek pleasure when bad things happen.
Holding on to him, I let myself come apart. Every muscle inside me contracts, tightening and shaking all at once. My pussy clenches around nothing while the painfully aggressive shaft of the Glock continues to rub until I can’t take it. I release a loud, agonising cry, coming hard, my orgasm ripping through me to his unrelenting stimulation.
He pulls the gun away.
All my adrenaline drops away.
And my mind is suddenly mush.
Now, I look at him, not sure what to say or do. Not sure how I feel. It’s as though I am watching another person being pulled to their feet. Pulled from the RV. Lifted into the air. Cradled against a beautiful warm body.
I look around to see where we are. Straightaway, I recognise the house opposite and know we are at the Butcher residence. The manicured lawn is a blur of green as he strides forward, but I can tell it is different. Not wanting to think, not wanting any memories of the past few hours, I hide my head at the base of his throat.
“Afternoon, boys,” Bronson says as he passes two men. Butcher guards, I presume. They have always had them. Two at the front. Two at the back. One across the street.
When he steps inside, I’m taken aback by the white tiles that used to be black. Nothing seems familiar.
“Bron! Are you-Holy shit! Is that who I think it is?” I hear the unmistakable voice of Xander Butcher.
“Can’t stop to talk, little brother,” Bronson states, taking the steep steps two by two. I tighten my arms around him in case he loses his footing and we both tumble down them.
“What is she doing here, Bron?” Xander asks, a hint of concern in his voice, and that is so like him. “You didn’t do anything stupid did you?”
Bronson laughs softly. “Define stupid?”
“Kidnapping your ex-girlfriend,” Xander states, calling up from below us, his voice just finding us as we turn down a hallway.