Leonardo
Itell the men at the shooting range to pack it up for the day, and their eyes linger on Eleanor before sliding off.
I shrug, and they scatter, knowing better than to ask questions.
The door slams, and it’s just the two of us now.
The dim light spills over the rows of polished guns, bounces off the concrete, and the smell of sweat and burnt powder lingers heavy.
She stands close, her skin like porcelain, holding the Glock with her slender fingers.
I lock the door behind me and let my eyes drag over her, soaking in the lines of her body and the dark fall of her hair. All I can think about is tasting her, owning her. She knows it, too, the way she meets my stare without blinking, a challenge and a promise.
Her skirt is sharp, hugging the lines of her hips.
It’s tailored and perfect, like everything she wears, like everything about her.
The blouse should look innocent, but on her it doesn’t.
Not in the way she wears it, and definitely not down here.
Her gaze moves with me as I step toward her, leaving a trail of fire across my skin.
It burns, that look, all the way to my bones.
The tang of gunpowder fills the air, and I’m drowning in it, drunk on her and everything about this place.
Drunk on the fact that she’s here, in my world.
I wonder if she knows what that does to me.
"I want you," I say, because I know she likes it honest. If there's one thing Eleanor Price appreciates, it's the truth, stripped bare and laid out like a newly polished emerald. We have that in common.
"Is that why you brought me down here?” she asks, her voice as smooth and cutting as the metal all around us. Her eyes stay cool, but I can see the heat simmering underneath. Eleanor doesn’t give in, doesn’t give anything, until she’s ready to.
I take one step closer. Her fingers curl around the gun, and it makes me wild. I imagine those fingers curling around me, and my mind spins. Seeing her here, surrounded by my world and looking like she belongs, makes me want to bury myself in her.
"That and a few other reasons." The words come out rougher than I intended, but I see her smile. Just the barest hint of it, just the suggestion, touches her lips.
I take another step, slow. She doesn’t move. She doesn’t even blink. The smile on her lips spreads wider, turns dangerous. Just shy of lethal.
"Maybe I wanted to see if you could handle the heat,” I say. She raises an eyebrow, like she’s daring me to say more. I almost do. I almost tell her everything that's boiling inside my head. Almost.
"I thought I already proved that.” She shifts her weight, her skirt riding just a hint higher. I’m ready to explode. She fucking knows it.
"Maybe I want more proof,” I say.
She raises the gun, points it at me, and my blood sings. Her skirt hitches as she closes the distance, presses the barrel to my chest. My hands go to her hips, and she’s on me. Her mouth is heat and violence, and the taste of her drives me fucking insane.
I push her against the concrete wall, greedy for her, fingers tearing through fabric to find skin.
Her blouse shreds like tissue, and I catch her moan in my mouth as my hands close around her breasts, thumb the tight pink buds until she’s breathless and burning.
I want her naked, panting, but she pulls back, a wicked smile on her lips.
She drops the gun, unzips her skirt, and it falls away.
There’s nothing under it but her, soft and wet, her scent rising above the smoke and sweat.
I want her raw and wild and reckless, but she makes me wait, teases me with her mouth just close enough to make me groan.
She brushes against me, a ghost of a kiss, and the scrape of her teeth on my lower lip is torture.
She’s going to make me beg, and I know it, know she loves it, the way she watches me with the kind of focus that gets me fucking hard.
"Christ, Eleanor,” I growl.
I tug at the button on my jeans, but she shoves my hands aside, drops to her knees.
My pulse hits the ceiling when she frees me.
The first stroke of her fingers sends my breath reeling, but it’s her mouth, hot and open and fucking relentless, that almost brings me down.
Her eyes stay on mine, challenging, burning, until I can’t take it anymore.
I pull her to her feet and kiss her hard.
Her taste, my taste, it all blurs together.
I’m lost in it, lost in her, as I push her back against the wall.
Her breath comes ragged as I hook her legs around my waist, slide into her with one rough, needy thrust. Her pussy is so hot and tight, I’m shaking from it, my entire body fighting for control.
I watch her come undone, desperate for more, her skin flushed and glistening. Her breath shatters and reforms in little gasps, and her nails dig into my shoulders. It’s perfect. She’s perfect, and she’s mine.
"Yes,” she gasps. Like that. “God, Leonardo.”
My name on her lips, every syllable she insists on saying every time, the sound of it when I’m deep inside her—it unravels me.
I drive harder, needing more, needing everything.
The pressure builds, white-hot, frantic.
I grab her ass, slam her into me until she’s close, so close, and then she’s crying out, coming around me. Her release is my fucking undoing.
She clenches around me, and it’s everything, the tight heat, the feel of her losing control. I bite back a groan, come hard and helpless, spilling into her as her heat crushes me, wrecks me. I hold her there, savoring the pulse of her pussy, and finally, finally let her slide to the ground.
Her blouse is ruined, but I’m still wearing my shirt, and I grin like a bastard as I pull it over my head and give it to her.
She slips into it, and seeing her in my clothes makes me want her all over again. I’d take her right there on the floor if she didn’t look so wrecked and perfect, but I give her a minute. Her hair falls loose now, and it’s wild. I love seeing her this way.
She’s laughing at me, shaking her head.
"I thought you brought me here to practice shooting,” she says.
"Nah. It was my turn to shoot.”
She buttons up, and the playfulness in her eyes softens a little, gets serious. She looks away like she’s weighing something, but I catch her chin, pull her gaze back.
"You don’t have to pretend with me,” I say.
Her smile is small, surprised. "Pretend what?”
"That you’re some kind of ice queen. That you don’t feel things, that you don’t burn for everything your father tells you you can’t have. I know who you are, Eleanor. I see you.”
It’s quiet for a second, like she’s not sure what to say.
Finally, she breaks the silence and fills the gap with words that sound a little like armor.
“I don’t feel things, Leonardo, not really.
I’m not like you.” Her eyes are sharp, deflecting.
“All I want is for my sister to be safe and free. That’s not exactly an emotion.
” There’s a moment where her gaze falters and her mouth curves into a bitter, small half-laugh that almost breaks my fucking heart.
I don’t let her get away with it. “Don’t be stupid,” I shoot back.
“I know better than that. Your feelings are deeper than anyone’s I’ve ever met.
You just push them down. Bury them.” My voice hardens around each word.
“You’re nothing like the facade you show the world, Eleanor.
I see through it, through this ice queen act you’ve got going on.
The perfect princess with perfect clothes and perfect manners. ”
She narrows her eyes at me like she doesn’t quite believe it. Like she doesn’t quite believe me. “You’re ridiculous,” she says, but there’s the slightest waver when she says it, a fracture in her resolve. A fracture I know is real because I put it there.
“The way you took care of Marco,” I tell her. “Kept him alive.”
She scoffs. “Didn’t realize you appreciated that.”
I won’t stop until she knows I mean every damn word. “The way you put yourself forward your whole life to protect your sister. The way you’re still doing it. You’re strong, Eleanor.” She shudders as I say it, like the word means something to her. “Stronger than anyone gives you credit for.”
Her eyes soften, and she reaches out, runs a hand over my bicep.
I tense under her touch, but I don’t look away, don’t let her look away.
“Who knew there was more than a cold-blooded killer beneath all these tattoos?” Her voice is soft, but I hear the damn truth in it.
I know this is the part where she lets herself be honest. “A big hard man with a soft squishy heart.”
The way she’s looking at me, like I’m something other than the wild card, like she’s searching me for something precious—it makes my fucking heart trip.
I laugh, cup her face. "That’s only there for you, baby,” I say.
It’s not like me to be sappy, but the way she smiles, the way her fingers find my chest and curl there like she never wants to let go, makes me feel like I’m the one winning.
It won’t last, this quiet moment. We’ll go back to fighting, to passion and fury, but right now, in the echo of the gun range, with my shirt hanging off her shoulders and my skin still humming from her touch, it’s enough.