by Snow, Nicole
“I’m not violent! I just don’t like being defenseless!” And if I'm being honest, being able to do something so serious for myself like learn to shoot excites me to no end. I cross my arms over my chest and stick my tongue out at him. “Look, if someone shoots at me, I want to be able to shoot back.”
I’m practically vibrating, but he stills me with a single touch, his fingers clasping my chin gently and holding me in place. He looks down with that combined sternness and warmth that makes me want to melt for him and go completely belly-up submissive, weak to his every touch.
“The first goal when someone's shooting at you,” he says, “isn’t to shoot back. It’s to get the fuck out of the line of fire and to safety as quick as possible.” His thumb traces my lower lip, tingling my skin. “You deserve a chance to defend yourself if you need to. Let's be clear. I’m not training you to be a vigilante assassin.”
I lean into him, smiling slyly, and flick my tongue out against his thumb, tasting the masculine salt of his skin. “I’d make a really cute vigilante assassin, though.”
Heat kindles in his eyes, and his gaze dips down.
Right over the filmy, breezy, little babydoll dress I’d picked out when I’d thought we were going to dinner or a park or some other typical date night thing.
I can feel his eyes touching me, everywhere the dress clings, where my breasts rise against the lace edging the somewhat modest bodice, and where the hem rides up my bare thighs.
He’s raspy and heavy when he murmurs, “Don’t know where you’d hide a gun in there. But I'd find it, sweets.”
Holy hell. When he looks at me like that, my body burns, and I want to climb right in his lap.
I unbuckle my seatbelt, just so I can reach to brush my lips across his. “I could give you a few hints.”
But Riker doesn’t need me to give him any ideas.
Not the moment our lips touch and he takes my mouth with a growl, kissing me deep and rough, the hard, plunging rhythm echoing throughout my entire sore, throbbing body with the memory of what he does to me at night.
I’ve never known I could feel this way. This glowing, sated fullness. Like every part of me has come alive and I burn with this wonderful pulse centered between my thighs as his kiss leaves my mouth hot and swollen and wet.
He draws back only when we’re both panting, his fingers tangling a rough handful of my hair, his beard tickling my mouth as we rest brow to brow.
“Fuck, the things you do to me,” he rumbles.
“Good things?” I whisper, curling my hand against his chest. His heat bakes through the shirt, and I can’t help fingering the top button, the hint of thick, dark ink peeking past.
“Very bad things.” His fingers slip down, tracing my shoulder, coaxing sweet shivers in his wake. “Absolutely filthy things. Things I can’t do to you in the parking lot of a gun range without us getting arrested.”
“Then...” I lean into him a bit more, molding my body to his just because I love the way his eyes darken when I tease him, and they’re nearly black as I brush my mouth across his. “Maybe you should hurry up and teach me how to handle your gun so we can get home.”
Before he can take hold of me again, I unlatch the car door and slide out, dancing out of his reach and tossing a grin over my shoulder as he growls after me in warning, in amusement, in desire.
He plays at being so gruff, but really he’s so complex and subtle and nuanced. What seems like nothing on the surface can convey so many things with this man.
I love that he’s starting to let me see more layers, starting to let me understand him.
And I love that he cares enough about me striking out to find my independence to help me with that.
I want to stand on my own two feet. But there’s nothing wrong with some training wheels while I figure out how not to fall on my face, and Riker’s more than just training wheels.
He’s everything, in ways I don’t know how to define.
Plus?
This is going to be so great for my book.
He takes the lead as he steps inside the main building, and he spends a little time chatting with the man behind the counter, a guy named Brandon who Riker obviously has history with. It’s good to see him with people he’s friendly with in an environment he’s comfortable in.
Him and Brandon clasp hands, speaking with familiarity, chuckling as they talk over next month’s class schedule and certification tests. Then Riker gestures to me, beckoning me forward and directing Brandon’s attention toward me.
“Brandon, this is Liv,” he says, and only hesitates a half-second before finishing, “my fiancée.”
Brandon’s eyes bug out.
He’s older than Riker by about a decade, yet he’s fresh-faced and friendly with bright, warm blue eyes. Those eyes grow even brighter as he blinks at me, then grins.
“It’s sure nice to meet you,” he says, taking my outstretched hand and shaking firmly. He’s got a bit of a southern drawl, kind of like Enguard's resident giant, Gabe. “You getting on with Em?”
I’m surprised by the bluntness of the question. For a moment, I blink, faltering, before catching myself.
“Uh, I think you’d probably better ask her that,” I say, offering a rueful smile. “I love her to death, but she’s the only one who can tell you if she likes me. I just think she’s amazing.”
Brandon arches a brow, glancing at Riker with a knowing smile. “Damn, man. You really know how to find the smart chicks. But I didn’t even know you were dating anyone! Where you been hiding her?”
A chill runs up my spine. A question more literal than Brandon even knows.
Riker’s looking at me strangely, though. Not bothered by it. More like he’s seeing me for the first time.
I can’t quite read that look before he’s all easy warmth again as he lightly socks Brandon’s shoulder. “We kept things secret for a while. That's all. Until we were sure we were serious enough to tell Em. Didn’t want to disrupt things for her too much.”
“Makes sense, makes sense,” Brandon says. “So when’s the wedding?”
We both freeze. I nearly choke.
Riker and I exchange stiff, wide-eyed looks that basically say oh crap without saying a word. We’re so stupid. So oblivious.
How could we have planned out this whole cover story and not covered details like that?
Well...let’s be real.
We never expected this to be anything but me holed up in a room in Riker’s house. Never thought we’d have to explain anything to anyone besides a few nosy neighbors.
Riker’s as quick in his thinking as he is on his feet, though, and he recovers with a self-deprecating chuckle. “Haven’t decided on a date yet. I’m still trying to find her the perfect engagement ring, and then we’ll talk about planning the perfect wedding.”
“Don’t sleep on that too long, man.” Brandon claps Riker’s shoulder companionably, accepting the explanation easily, and I let out the breath currently making my lungs tight as a vise. “You don’t hold onto a girl like that with everything in you, she’ll slip away. C’mon, Liv. I’ll get you set up with the right safety gear, and then old Riker can give you your walkthrough.”
Slip away, huh?
It makes me wonder.
Even if we both said this could be more...how real is it, when we still have to lie like this to people every day?
But I keep my thoughts to myself as Brandon leads us into the back where there’s an indoor range with walled off booths and paper targets with human silhouettes printed on them.
It’s exciting when I’m fitted with a little pair of clear glasses and a pair of noise-canceling headphones. There’s a smell in the air, sharp and burning and dry, that I think I recognize as gunpowder.
Shots go off in the lanes to either side of us, rhythmic and confident.
Brandon tells me I need the gear because gunshots don’t sound the way they do on TV. Up close they can deafen you, and even do serious damage to your hearing over
time – and if you’re really trying to aim, you’re going to be holding the gun up close instead of flailing it around at the end of your arm like actors who’ve never handled a real gun in their lives.
“Watch out for the recoil,” he says with an almost sly grin as he turns to leave. I look after him in puzzlement.
“Recoil?”
“You’ll see,” Riker says. “I’ll make sure you won’t fall, but you’ll likely be sore once we’re done.”
I arch a brow at him. “You do remember we’re in a public place when you say things like that, right?”
Riker just grins – quick and unexpected. So feral and wolfish it sends chills right through me, then the most delicious feeling in the pit of my stomach. I keep discovering new sides to him, peeling away all these layers of protection to find the man underneath, and if I’m not careful...it'll happen.
I’m going to fall in love.
He distracts me with a warm hand on the small of my back, guiding me to look over several guns laid out on the shelf in front of us with a view beyond, out over the gallery.
I have no idea what I’m looking at, only that all the guns look a little different.
He points to each one in turn. “Glock 19. Ruger SR9. Sig P226. Beretta 92FS. What these all have in common is, they’re all nine millimeters. You know what that means?”
“Um...no idea, really.”
“That’s the size of the bullet. There're different standards for measuring bullet caliber, but we’ll stick with nine millimeters because they’re the most common and popular right now. Most military and police handguns use nine millimeter bullets, and most self-defense and street weapons do, too.”
I tilt my head back, looking up at him. He’s wearing safety glasses, too, and we both have our noise-canceling headphones around our necks. “So everyone who makes guns makes them for the same bullet size?”
“Yes. You’re not going to win any customers by locking them into your proprietary ammo. They need versatility, choice, and easy access. Now, which one do you want to try first?”
“That one!” I say, pointing at a sleeker, smaller one in silver and black. The others are all these long, intimidating black things that are all barrel, but this one’s more hilt and just looks more compact and tidy.
Riker gives me a penetrating look. “Why that one?”
“Well…I recognize it. It looks just like James’. And I think...” I twine my fingers together, biting my lip. I don’t want to give a stupid answer but I’m trying to be practical. “It’s smaller than the others, isn't it? I have smaller hands. I want to be able to keep a good grip on it when it fires, right? Or I could endanger myself or someone else. It’ll be easier to hold a smaller gun.”
Riker’s slow smile warms with approval. “Good answer.”
He picks up the gun I chose and turns it over, showing it to me. “This is the Ruger. It’s very lightweight, with a semiautomatic firing function. Means it's a good civilian gun because you have two safeties to deal with before you can fire, instead of just one. Harder to have a mishap that way.”
Then he does something to the hilt, and I gasp as the entire inside of it slides out.
“Oh!”
“Here's the clip,” he says, and turns it so I can see the bullet resting in the very top. “It’s also called a magazine. Rugers use a double-stacked type, so you can fit seventeen bullets in a single clip. If you run out of bullets, you just release the clip, slide it out, and lock a full one in.” He shows me by pushing the clip back in until there’s a click. “Clips can be reloaded with fresh bullets, but if you’re in a situation where you need to fire seventeen bullets, you don’t have time to refill a magazine. Better to have a spare.”
A chill tightens my skin. “I don’t want to be in a situation where I even have to fire one bullet. I just want to know what to do in case I have to.”
“That’s my girl.” I don’t expect him to ruffle my hair and kiss the top of my head the way he does, but it chases that chill away, leaving his soft, slow spreading warmth. “In an ideal world, guns would be nothing but deterrents. But since people will never be angels...let’s teach you how to shoot. Here.”
Then his arms are around me and I suck in a startled breath.
He’s just full of surprises today. Because I also wasn’t expecting to be wrapped up so suddenly in his strength and heat, pressing against my back, fully enveloping me.
I lean into him while he strokes his hands down my arms, leaving feather-fine trails of sensations, then clasps my hands and slowly fits the gun into them both.
I expect something heavy and metallic, but instead the handle feels like plastic or some other kind of resin, and it’s surprisingly light. Gentle fingers guide me, showing me how to hold it in both hands, folding one hand over the other, then nudging my index forefinger on my right hand to rest outside the loop thing in front of the trigger.
Loop thing? The trigger guard? Even if I was sure, it’s hard to remember words right now when his hot breaths wash through my hair, trickling down my skin to find the throbbing mark hidden under my hair. The same place where, last night, he’d held me down on my hands and knees and taken me like some kind of wild animal with his teeth buried against the nape of my neck.
“Keep it pointed away from us,” he tells me, angling our joined grips away and down, toward the floor.
His voice is deep in my ear, and I’m all shivers everywhere, sweet hot points all over my body pricking and pulsing. “Get used to how it feels. The safety’s on, so you can’t fire. But you should make it a habit to keep your finger outside the trigger guard. Only touch the trigger when you’re sure you’re ready to fire.”
I take a shaky breath and just tighten my grip, running my thumb over the back end of the gun, then the side. “There are a lot of little buttons and switches.”
“You’ll get used to where they are and what they do. The switches right above where your grip is seated on both sides are the manual safeties. They’re on both sides in case you’re a leftie, but you only have to release one. They keep it locked so you can’t pull the trigger. You have to push up.” He chuckles gently. “Don’t push it up now, sweetheart. Your hands are shaking. Please don’t accidentally shoot me in the foot.”
“I won’t!”
I might.
“I almost believe you.” His fingers stroke over the backs of mine in electric caresses. “The button closer to the trigger is the mag release, so you can eject a clip and snap a new one in. The rubber knob on the very back tells you whether or not the gun’s cocked with a round in the chamber. The extra lever in front of the trigger is the other safety, so it’s harder to squeeze the trigger by accident. Next up, breathing. Short, simple breaths. Inhale before you aim, lungs nice and full. Find your target. Then exhale, natural and calm. You want your lungs near empty before you pull the trigger.” He turns his head, beard dragging down my throat, and my knees nearly buckle. “Got it?”
“N-not really, but I’m willing to give it a try.” I turn my head.
Like this, our lips are almost touching. It’s like our breaths are kissing.
Maybe I shouldn’t be thinking about this when I have a weapon capable of killing both of us clutched in a death grip in both hands. “Show me?”
“Yeah. You won’t be able to hear me. Just follow my touch.”
I don’t quite get what he means until he pulls one hand away from mine and gently tugs my noise-canceling earmuffs up over my ears. Then all the sounds around me go muted behind a distant blanket of quiet.
He tugs his up, too. Even though I can’t tell what he’s saying, he’s still talking, his voice a low, soothing rumble that tells me it'll be okay. I can do this.
He clasps my hands in his again and guides my arms up to take aim at the target. His fingers tease at mine, showing them how to move. How to push the safety up. How to fit my forefinger against the trigger. And then a slow, careful squeeze.
Crack!
It goes off deafenin
gly loud even through the earmuffs.
The gun flings me backward, force reverberating up my arm until it’s shaking like a plucked guitar string.
I’d probably have fallen over, but instead I just rocket against Riker. His solid bulk catches me before I can shift more than an inch. Safe in his arms, my own still quivering, my hands feeling hot and tingly and weirdly numb, I stare at the hole punched in the black paper silhouette, my entire body crackling like a live wire.
“Holy crap,” I gasp. “Holy shit! That was so cool. So cool! I was like Uhura with a phaser.”
Riker gently takes the gun from my hand and sets it down, then tugs his earmuffs down around his neck before tugging mine down, too, looking down at me with an amused smile. “No clue what you just said, sweetheart, but I take it you enjoyed yourself.”
“Yes!” I bounce on the balls of my feet. “I wasn’t expecting it to throw me around like that.”
“That’s the recoil I was telling you about.” He gently brushes my messy hair back. “A bullet can travel at over one thousand, seven hundred miles per hour. That’s over two thousand, five hundred feet per second. The force it takes to push that shot forward that fast is going to push the other way, back at you, too.”
“Newton’s third law? For every action there's an equal and opposite reaction.” When he lifts both brows, I grin. “Oh, c’mon. I’m sheltered, but I’m smart. I took physics.”
“You are.” He chuckles and tugs a strand of my hair. “You want to try on your own or are your hands too numb? The shock can take a little getting used to.”
I probably sound way too eager when I gasp, “I want to try!”
“Let me show you how to aim.” He picks up one of the other guns – the Glock, I think he called it – and shifts to take up a stance in front of the target, feet spread and braced confidently, arms raised level with his shoulder.
“You sight down your dominant arm. We’re both right-handed, so sight down your right and angle your body accordingly. Using the trigger sight on the tip helps, but it’s your arm that'll guide you true. The left arm helps brace and hold your aim steady.” He lets go of the gun with one hand to pull the earmuffs up again, and nods toward me. “Ears up.”