17. Greta #2
“Not bad for a first shot,” Iron Jack says. He keeps his arms around me and pulls down on the hammer on top of the Colt. The revolver spins and another bullet drops into the chamber.
I feel like a cowboy, standing in the dusty street of an Old West town. “This is kind of fun,” I tell him.
“I thought you might like it. The classic guns are less threatening, since we’ve seen them in old movies without a lot of gore. The sleek, newer ones carry the weight of how they’re used. You ready to try again?”
I nod and peer down the sight. I think I moved at the last second and that messed up the shot. I line up the sights on the label and hold my breath, determined to keep the aim aligned.
But I can tell when I pull the trigger that I flinched again. The shot goes into a tree behind the makeshift shelf.
“It takes some practice. You want to drop the next bullet in?”
I press my thumb on the hammer. It’s harder to pull down than I thought it would be.
“Do it with grit,” Iron Jack says. “Like you’re ready to pin the bad guy between the eyes.”
I laugh but press with a little angst behind it, and this time the revolver spins and the cartridge drops into place.
“Exhale as you squeeze,” Iron Jack says. “That gives your brain something to think about other than the expected kick.”
I line up the sights and exhale as I pull the trigger.
The shot grazes the side of the can sitting next to the pickle jar, knocking it over.
“You got the bad guy’s sidekick,” Iron Jack says.
I laugh. “One more.”
“You got five more in the chamber.”
“Okay, we’ll run them out.”
I fire more quickly after that, and on the seventh shot, the pickle jar shatters to bits.
“You did it!” Iron Jack says, stepping away. “Take that last shot without me there. Remember to brace for the kick.”
I nod. I’ve felt the movement each time, even though Jack absorbed it.
It’s different standing alone with the gun outstretched in front of me. I feel like a badass, a woman on a mission in a thriller flick. I peer down the sights at a battered can of Guinness.
“You look so fucking hot like that,” Iron Jack says. “You opposed to a little outdoor nudity?”
“Shut up and let me aim,” I say, but I’m already feeling hot. Sex and guns. I’m starting to understand the appeal of an MC.
I stare down the sights, exhaling as I squeeze.
The Guinness can flies into the air.
“Fuck, yeah,” Iron Jack says. “My baby is a natural.” He sweeps me up, his face buried in my chest.
I feel so high, up in the air in the forest, lifting in Jack’s arms, the gun in my hand.
Alive. Really alive.
It’s like a drug.
“I want it,” I tell him. “Fast. Wild. Right here. Can I hold the gun while you do it?”
He laughs. “Look at you.” He lifts the Colt and opens the revolver. “No ammunition. Not that I’d care if you shot me as long as you scream when I fuck you.”
This makes me laugh. I can’t imagine a sentence like that being uttered in my former life.
Iron Jack throws me over his shoulder, which is clearly his favorite move, and we head into the trees. Then he sets me down with my back to a thick, smooth trunk.
He runs his hands up my sweater, sliding under my bra. “I would take all eight bullets for you,” he says, and his mouth lands on mine.
We kiss like the guns are aimed at us, like this is our last request. I wrap my arms around his neck, the heft of the gun comforting in my hand.
He tastes like danger and adrenaline. I’m rushing with it myself.
The air is cool and heavy with the coming rain. The wind picks up, sending the branches clattering against each other.
“Can I see you naked in this forest?” Iron Jack asks.
“Yes.”
He pulls the sweater up and over my head, tossing it over a branch. The bra swiftly follows, sliding down the end of the gun. Seeing the pink lace cross the metal barrel sends a rush through me.
He unfastens my jeans and shoves them down, lifting one leg, then another, to push them over my sneakers. Good thing flare bottoms are in style. They go right over my shoes.
Jack takes a step back. “I want to look at you in nothing but panties in the woods.”
I should feel self-conscious or uncomfortable, but I don’t. A streak of brazen heat bolts through me, and I slide the gun inside the lace edge of the panties.
“Fuckkk, if we sold a poster of you like this, we’d never work another day in our lives.”
I have to laugh. “Uncle Sherman would shit a brick.”
He closes the distance between us. “And I’d have to kill every man who saw you.” He clasps a breast possessively. “This is mine.”
Is it? Do I want it to be?
I don’t think about it again because he’s kissing me. He eases the panties down to my ankles and works his way down my body, leaving a hot, wet trail on my neck, nipples, and waist.
Then his tongue slips inside me as he grabs an ankle to spread my legs more widely.
He works me there, and I clutch his head with both my free hand and the one with the gun.
Looking down at him, my skin, his golden hair, and the danger in his leather cut and my gun, the high feeling returns. I start to clench around his tongue dizzyingly fast.
He sucks on the nub, and I cry out to the feeble light above the trees. This is living. Really living. These people do whatever the fuck they want. Live by their own rules. Die by them.
When Jack stands, he’s unbuckled his pants and released his cock. He lifts me up by the waist and I settle down on him, wrapping my legs loosely around his hips.
He raises me up to where he’s barely inside me anymore, then draws me back down. God, it makes me so lightheaded, the pleasure, the movement, the outdoors.
He leans back, heaving me up and down on his hips. He’s in so deep, maybe deeper than he’s ever been, crashing inside of me.
His throaty groans break the quiet of the forest. I hang on, my arms around his neck, our bodies slamming together again and again.
I think he’s going to come, but then he clasps my butt and grinds me against him, moving in slow, tight circles.
The pressure activates my clit and I’m rising again, my body tightening around him.
He works me slowly and carefully, his brown eyes on my face. “Come for me, Little G,” he says. “Let it all out.”
I hold tight and grind down on him, working with him, feeling the blossoming of the orgasm.
When the cries begin, his grunts grow with them. Then I’m coming and the warmth of him is rushing inside me. I want to laugh with the release of it all. The gun, the effort, the sex.
What are we doing? How will I survive giving it up?
Iron Jack presses his face between my breasts. He holds there long enough for me to wonder if he’s feeling something, too.
“You okay, Jack?” I ask.
He pulls away. “I’m fucking awesome.” He kisses each nipple. “Fuck, you’re beautiful. God damn.” He lifts me away and carefully sets me down. “You want to do one hot, nasty thing for me?”
“Beyond what we just did?” I lift an eyebrow.
“I want you to cut through some vines with that knife we brought.”
“Um, sure. Is that what gets you off? A woman wielding a blade?”
“If you’re naked when you do it, hell yeah.”
“Oh.” My first urge is to say no. It’s one thing to strip down for a tryst in the woods. But to cut vines? For this man?
But I look at him, his cut over his bare chest, bulging muscles, and the most earnest expression I’ve seen on him, and a surge of power flows through me.
This is unlike any dynamic I’ve ever experienced.
And I’ve found his real, true need, the primal one.
Something stripped down to basic human urges. Sex. Nature. Survival.
And something inside me is rising to meet it.
I feel like I could do anything, clear a path in a jungle, hunt my own food. Nothing in my easy, cushioned upbringing or privileged, soft life so far has felt as good to me as this.
So, I say, “I’ll do it. Show me how to hold the knife.”
We trade the gun for the blade, and the first time I slice through a wild vine, feeling the air on my cooling skin, I know it’s not just him who’s getting hot in this moment.
This is the wildest thing I will ever do in my life, like I’m from some other era before civilization, free and fierce, like an angry goddess raining vengeance down in raw, naked fury.
I love every damn minute of it.