V #2
“This is unbelievable.” Moore scratched his beard one-handed before shoving by and marching to the bedroom door. He stopped, turned, and took one step back in. “And so, what is this?” He motioned to us with both hands.
“Gunner is my guest,” I answered.
“Are you mad? He’s a wanted man .”
“I’m not defending his past actions, only speaking on behalf of those I witnessed myself.
” I didn’t actually know how to vocalize to Moore the true nature of Gunner’s visit.
This part of myself had been hidden for so long, denied for so long, afraid for so long, that it was as if I simply didn’t possess the necessary vocabulary.
So I reached into my coat pocket, retrieved Moore’s goggles, and took a few steps forward. “I can’t accept these.”
Moore stared at the gift, looked over my shoulder at Gunner, and scoffed. He closed the distance, snatched the goggles from my hand, and walked down the hall. “Don’t bother coming to the office tomorrow,” he said, opening the front door.
My heart sank to my gut. I’d damn well known how this situation would end, but I certainly hadn’t expected it to be due, at least in part, to jealousy. “Sir—” I called, hurrying after Moore.
But he slammed the door shut in my face.
I put my left hand on the door and felt Moore’s magic recede with every step until he’d reached the ground floor and there was nothing but empty air left between us.
I looked at the floor, and after a moment, I held both hands palm down and made a gentle sweeping motion upward.
The stagnant water followed my conductor-like movements and created a glimmering sphere of magical water.
It hovered at head level as I made a quick motion at a parlor window and a gust of wind threw up the pane.
I touched the water and jerked my hand toward the open window, and it shot out into the dark and snowy night.
I flicked my wrist and the pane was lowered with another carefully orchestrated gust.
I turned to the bedroom. Gunner had been leaning against the doorframe, looking comfortable sans suit coat, his arms crossed, with his eyebrows slightly raised as he watched my manner of cleanup.
He pushed off, strode across the parlor, and said, “Come sit, Gillian.” Gunner unbuckled his shoulder holster, took a seat on the settee—an ugly thing upholstered in an argyle pattern of greens and whites—then set the pistol at his side. He looked at me expectantly.
I sighed heavily, removed my coats and hat, hung them on the rack beside the water closet, and joined Gunner. I’d made to push the Waterbury out of the way, but Gunner took my wrist. “I’m only moving it.”
He shook his head and patted his lap with his free hand.
“Excuse me?”
“Sit,” he instructed again, tugging me closer.
“I’m not a child.”
“I’m quite aware of that.”
“Then why do you want me on your lap?”
Gunner smiled a very small smile, but it nonetheless warmed the icy lump freezing my gut. “I could explain, or you could learn firsthand.”
I really didn’t know what to say to that, so I awkwardly lowered myself to Gunner’s lap. He slipped one arm around my back to rest on my hip, the other on my thigh, then tugged me closer. I startled and put a hand around Gunner’s neck to correct my balance.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured. His hand on my thigh stroked up and down. “Thank you for what you did.”
I snorted and pinched the bridge of my nose. “ Thank you . For what? For putting a target on your back? For telling my director we’re fucking?”
“For never reporting me,” Gunner replied calmly. “You kept your word.”
I lowered my hand and looked at Gunner. “What am I going to do?” I asked, voice hitching at the end.
He didn’t answer, merely kept stroking my leg.
I shook my head, cleared my throat, and asked instead, “How did you know?”
“Know what?”
One hand still around Gunner’s neck, I hesitantly placed my other on his chest. The fabric of his shirt felt like nothing against my palm, but the heat of his skin underneath—I felt that. “Moore’s tendencies. Even I wasn’t aware.”
Gunner arched an eyebrow.
“Right. Of course. Survival instinct.”
Gunner wrapped his big hand around mine, squeezed, then threaded his fingers between my own. “The look on his face—it was a private hurt, not professional.”
“And?”
“And then he touched you. Casters are meant to avoid one another, are they not?”
“Well, yes.”
Gunner inclined his head in the smallest nod. “There you go. Although, I will admit, I was surprised to learn he was so brazen as to present you with a gift.”
My face flushed, and I was suddenly hyperaware of Gunner’s goggles still around my neck. “So was I.”
He twisted his hold to bring my hand to his lips, but fell short of kissing my skin. Gunner’s eyes narrowed a fraction, and he gently pried my hand open to study the latticework of scars along my palm and fingers. “Milo.” It wasn’t a question.
“I can’t feel anything,” I blurted out. I wasn’t certain if I’d not divulged this to anyone else because of a fragile ego, fear that if I acknowledged the physical setback, it’d become a fixed part of myself, or simply because lying was second nature, but as far as Gunner was concerned, I wanted to be honest about at least one thing.
He shifted on the settee, tugged my other hand from his neck, and held them both in his own. “What do you mean?”
“I can feel your weight and warmth,” I explained with a touch of reluctance. “But not… your skin.”
Gunner pressed his thumbs into the palms of my hands. “Is the damage permanent?”
I shook my head and whispered, “I don’t know. Maybe.”
Gunner moved his thumbs upward, slipped them under the cuffs of my shirt, and rubbed the underbelly of my wrists.
My breath caught on an intake. “I can feel that.” Christ, it was so intense, I swear I could count each and every ridge of Gunner’s fingerprints.
Gunner raised my hand again and pressed his warm lips to the delicate skin of my inner wrist. The rasp of stubble on his chin sent a shudder through my entire body that he could probably feel. He’d hardly pulled back before I grabbed his face and crushed our mouths together.
Every minute of every day, I had thought of this—of speaking with Gunner again, touching him again, kissing him again—and now it was happening.
When we were together, it felt as if we were pulling an ancient magic from the very fabric of Earth and casting a spell foreign to even the most learned scholars and architects.
There was a real and tangible magic between me and Gunner.
I didn’t know how it was possible, but there was no other way to explain this sensation—like I had a billion volts of electricity running through my veins.
Like a shooting star had nothing on me. It was incredible.
“I’ve missed you,” I whispered against Gunner’s mouth.
Gunner slipped a hand around the back of my head, his fingers threading through my carefully set and oiled hair. “You make a man do wild things, Gillian.”
I kissed him again. “Like what?”
“Like travel two days cross-country into a lion’s den to put a gun to the head of the state director for the FBMS because you’re the one bit of bounty I’m unwilling to share.”
“Bounty?” I repeated, attempting to sound indignant and failing miserably at it.
Gunner flashed his handsome, lopsided smile. “I stole you first.”
He drew me into another kiss, the tip of his tongue tracing the seam of my mouth before I opened to it.
His tongue dipped inside, pressed against mine, and somehow the tang of Black Jack made it more erotic.
I fumbled blindly with the buttons of Gunner’s waistcoat until he broke the kiss and leaned back to allow easier access.
I could feel him watching me, every stutter of my fingers, every flutter of my heart beating frantically in my throat.
I looked up and met Gunner’s concentrated gaze—his blue eyes nearly black, the pupils were blown so wide.
He liked this: my assertiveness and the show of physical prowess.
I was still, admittedly, quite na?ve in terms of finding my way around the bedroom with a partner.
Gunner was the only man I’d been with, and just the one time too.
So while I seemed to enjoy… well, everything he did because it was all new and all so good, I had to imagine Gunner’s tastes for pleasure had become more fine-tuned through experience. And the way he was staring at me….
I grabbed his tie and yanked hard. Gunner’s breath caught as he was pulled up against me. His eyes grew and both hands grabbed around my waist.
“Is this okay?” I asked.
“ Jesus Christ .”
Due to my own tendency to curse, often in such a brazen manner that the only folks who didn’t blink twice were air sailors or drunkards, I wasn’t insulted by Gunner’s blasphemy.
It was more that I was surprised by it. Contrary to sensationalist newspapers, Gunner really was, for all intents and purposes, a gentleman.
He lunged forward on the settee, took me with him as he stood, then settled me on my feet.
Gunner grabbed my arm and spun me on his way to the bedroom.
The room was still dark, still cold from the window having been open and the steam heat from the parlor not yet reaching this far into the apartment.
Gunner bumped into the bureau as he turned to kiss me again.
His hands were everywhere—a brief fondle through my trousers, encircling my waist once more in a manner that felt so boldly intimate, deftly unbuttoning my waistcoat and pushing it from my shoulders.
A sense of relief was bubbling over inside me.
I had hoped, after October, the experience of having finally been with a man would be enough to sate me for the long haul.
But instead, it had only made the yearning stronger.
More relentless. A necessity that overpowered my body, mind, soul.
And to be with Gunner again—to have him again—it was a thrill.
A happiness .