11. Stella #2
“Tristan.” I turn to face him fully, and I can feel what’s happening on my face.
He sees it, too. His expression is starting to shift from concern to confusion to something I can’t name.
“I shot an actual bad guy with an actual gun I picked up off the ground. I didn’t freeze or panic.
I didn’t have to hold a rabbit to calm down. I just did it.”
“Yes. You did.”
“I’m kind of amazing right now.”
His mouth falls open before it snaps shut.
“I’m serious,” I insist. “I picked up an actual freaking gun and pointed it at a man twice my size, and I pulled the trigger and hit him. On purpose. Okay, mostly on purpose. My eyes were a little bit closed, but the intent was there.” I’m talking fast now, the words almost overlapping as they tumble out of my mouth.
That’s how I get when the energy has nowhere else to go.
“Do you understand what this means? I’m afraid of straws, and I just shot a guy. ”
It’s not enough. All of this energy has to go somewhere.
So I climb across the center console.
It’s not graceful. The gearshift is in the way, and my knee hits the dashboard.
I’m pretty sure I honk the horn with my elbow, but I make it into his space, and my hands are running over his shoulders, and my mouth is on his mouth before he can finish whatever reasonable, measured thing he might come up with.
He doesn’t fight it either. His hands find my waist, and he pulls me the rest of the way over until I’m in his lap in the driver’s seat of a black SUV, kissing him like my life depends on it. The adrenaline has to go somewhere, and this is where it’s going.
“You—” he tries between kisses. “You just shot a man—”
“I know,” I whisper, grinding against him where he’s getting hard. “It’s doing things for me. Stop talking.”
He stops talking.
His hands slide up my back, and mine go to his belt. I’m not tentative about it this time. There’s no fumbling or nervous fingers. Apparently, shooting a man in the leg cures performance anxiety. That’s not something any therapist has ever suggested, but maybe they should.
“Wait a second.” He pulls back just enough to look at me. I see him trying to be the responsible one, trying to pump the brakes. At the same time, his hands are gripping my hips, and he’s hard against me, and his pupils are blown, and the responsible thing is losing.
“Don’t you dare talk me out of this,” I warn as I get his belt open, finally. Button, zipper. He helps, lifting his hips. And then he’s in my hand and the almost-pained sound he makes goes right through me. Thank god the windows are tinted, because this is not suitable for public viewing.
“Here?” he manages through gritted teeth. “In the parking lot?”
I stroke him once, twice, until his head drops back against the headrest. “Nobody can see.” I rise on my knees, and his hands catch the waist of my leggings, dragging them down my thighs as far as the tight space will allow.
It’s not very far, but it’s enough. He pulls my panties to the side because there’s no room for finesse and neither of us cares.
“You’re soaked,” he mutters when his fingers find me. His voice has that growl in it that makes my whole body clench. “Is this what gets you wet? Shooting a guy?”
“You get me wet. The shooting was just… oh god…” I lose the rest of the sentence when his thumb presses against my clit. “Foreplay. Very unconventional foreplay.”
“I’m pretty sure you’re out of your mind.” That doesn’t stop him from guiding me down onto him as he says it, with one hand on my hip and the other braced against the seat. When I sink onto him, the moan that comes out of me fogs the tinted windows.
The steering wheel is behind my back. My knee is wedged against the door.
The center console is digging into my shin.
None of it matters because he’s inside me, thick and deep.
I’m moving on top of him with my hands braced on his shoulders, and the adrenaline that was screaming through my veins ten minutes ago has found exactly where it wants to go.
“Fuck,” he breathes while he grips my thighs, guiding my rhythm. “Just like that. Ride me just like that.”
So I do. The SUV rocks with every thrust, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I’m aware that anyone walking past this vehicle knows exactly what’s happening inside.
Do I care? No. Do I stop? Hell, no.
His mouth finds my neck, my collarbone, then slips between my breasts where my shirt has been shoved up. His hands are everywhere—hips, waist, ass, pulling me down harder on him.
“I can feel you getting close,” he groans against my throat, his breath across my skin. “You’re squeezing me so tight. Come on. Give it to me.”
“I—” My fingers dig into his shoulders. “Oh god, I’m—”
“That’s it. Come all over my cock. Right here in this parking lot.”
It hits me like a freight train. Fast, enormous. I bury my face in his neck to muffle the sound because apparently, I have some standards left, even if they’re minimal. He follows seconds later, hands clamping on my hips, pulling me down one last time as he groans my name into my hair.
We stay like that for a minute, breathing hard, tangled together in the driver’s seat in a parking lot at two in the afternoon.
His forehead is against my shoulder, and my heart is trying to escape through my rib cage.
Somewhere inside the pharmacy, people are having a completely normal day.
Meanwhile, here I am, redefining my relationship with firearms.
“That was...” He makes a sound that might be a chuckle. “I need you to not develop a habit.”
“A habit of what? Shooting people?”
“Shooting people and then...” He gestures vaguely at the current state of affairs in the driver’s seat.
“But it was hot, right? You have to admit it was a little hot.”
“It was a little hot,” he admits.
“I knew it.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late. It’s fully in my head,” I happily confirm. “I’m going to think about this every time I see a gun now. Is that weird? It’s probably weird.”
“We need to go.” He’s trying to be serious, but he’s failing. That almost-smile is starting to creep its way across his face. “I need to call Dorian. The guy you shot is one of Castellano’s guys.”
The name doesn’t mean much to me, but the way he says it tells me it will. “Is that bad?”
“It’s complicated.” He shifts me gently off his lap and back into the passenger seat. “We’ll talk about it at home. Are you okay? For real?”
Am I? I should be falling apart, right? Every manual ever written about people like me says I should be spiraling into the worst panic attack of my life right now.
Instead, I feel like I could run through a wall. “I’m okay,” I confirm. “Actually, I’m kind of great.”
He only shakes his head and puts the car in drive before pulling out of the lot. I spend the ride looking at my hands. They’re completely steady now. The girl who can’t hold a carton of milk when she sees a mullet just put a bullet in a man, and her hands are steady.
I don’t understand myself. I’ve never understood myself. But for the first time, I think I might actually like whoever the hell I am.