Chapter 33 Eyes Forward While He Ruins Me
AMANDA
He’s behind me, so close that I can feel the heat from his body, and his hands are barely touching mine, but it’s enough to make my entire nervous system light up.
I stare at the target in the distance, at the bullet hole punched clean through the paper man’s heart.
It might as well be me.
Suddenly, I’m mortified by what I’ve told him. All that oversharing, all that emotional word-vomit about my mother and my ex-husband and my desperate need for approval. God, what is wrong with me?
“I’m sorry,” I start, my voice shaky as I try to rebuild the walls I just demolished. “I don’t know why I just… I shouldn’t have said all that. You didn’t ask for my whole sob story.”
“No.” His voice is right against my ear. “Don’t do that.” His hands move to the hem of my dress, fingers skimming along the fabric. “Don’t put the walls back up. Not with me.”
“Someone could see,” I whisper, but my voice is thin and useless.
“No one sees what’s mine,” he growls. “And you are mine.”
My fingers twitch on the gun, and I feel the vault inside me crack open. When was the last time I belonged to someone? When was the last time someone claimed me like this, like I was precious, like I was worth protecting?
I let myself sink into the idea of belonging to someone again. Just for a second.
I lower my gun to turn around and face him, but his hands stop me.
“No,” he murmurs against my neck. “Keep shooting.”
“I can’t.”
“You can. Keep shooting while I play with you.”
And then I feel it—the vibrator humming to life inside me, the sensation making my breath catch in my throat.
His lips find my neck, pressing soft kisses along its curve while his hands roam my body.
He knows exactly where to touch, exactly how much pressure to use, like he’s memorized every sensitive part of me.
I raise the gun with trembling hands, trying to focus on the target, but all I can think about is how he’s touching me, the way his mouth feels against my skin, and the way the vibrations are building inside me with every passing second.
I want to turn around. I want to see his face, kiss him, touch him back. But every time I start to move, his hands guide me back into position.
“Eyes forward,” he whispers, and I obey because I’m completely under his spell.
My hands shake, the Glock trembling like it weighs ten pounds more than it should. I fire anyway.
Pop.
The sound is sharp, obscene against the backdrop of his hand sliding up my thigh, pushing fabric aside.
His fingers stroke just above where the vibrator hums inside me, teasing me with maddening precision.
And for a fraction of a second, I worry that he might feel the raised cross-shaped scar on the inside of my thigh. The one I’d rather keep hidden.
But his words pull the worry out of me.
“Good girl,” he purrs. “Let me see how steady you are under pressure.”
I whimper.
Pop.
My arms are locked in place by willpower alone. The gun bucks in my hand as his fingers slip under my panties, barely brushing my clit. The combination—vibration and touch—is like dynamite to my nerve endings.
He strokes me slowly, like he has all the time in the world. Like this is just another part of his day—ruining me at a gun range, feeding his obsession, while I try not to collapse right here in front of him.
“You like this,” he says. “You like being played with while you perform. Filthy little thing.”
I can’t deny it. I don’t want to. I’m dripping, my panties soaked.
Pop. Pop.
The shots go wide. I don’t care.
His hand tightens around my waist, his other palm pressed flat to my belly, keeping me pinned. My legs shake.
“You’re close, aren’t you? So sensitive. So easy.”
“Please,” I beg, no idea what I’m asking for.
He reaches up, his fingers brushing the knot at the side of my waist, and starts to untie my dress. The sound of it slipping loose is soft. The air rushes in, cool against my overheated skin as the fabric parts, exposing the curve of my breasts and the slope of my stomach. I suck in a sharp breath.
“Chad,” I whisper, because it’s the only name I have for him, but he’s already pulled the top open, baring me to the waist.
“Look at you.” His voice feels dangerous. “You’re trembling for me.”
He drags his hand down my sternum, between my breasts. His touch is somehow rough and reverent at the same time. I feel the leather of his gloves and the edge of callused fingers.
“I want to see you,” he murmurs. “Feel you come apart with nothing between us.”
He spreads the dress further, slipping it down off my shoulders, letting it puddle at my elbows. I’m still holding the gun, but now I’m exposed. Standing in my soaked panties and heels, surrounded by the scent of gunpowder and the heat of him pressed up against my spine.
His hand slides down again, hooking the waistband of my panties.
“Say it,” he growls.
I tremble. “Say what?”
“That you want me to touch you. That you want to come for me. Like this. With your dress open and your gun in your hand.”
I could lie. I could pretend I have shame. But the vibrator is humming inside me, and his fingers are already tracing where I’m wettest, and God help me, it’s been so long since I felt anything close to this.
“Yes,” I whisper, panting. “Please—please.”
He pulls my panties aside first. But only to tear them down next, dragging the damp fabric down my thighs and letting them drop, forgotten, at my feet.
“Good girl,” he growls darkly. “Now, keep your stance. Don’t spill a fucking drop.”
His fingers slide inside me, bare, and I almost drop the gun. Two thick fingers, pumping slow and deep while the vibrator still pulses inside me. I’m spread open for him, knees weak, held up only by his body and my own fucked-up desperation.
Pop.
Another shot fires. I couldn’t care less if I hit the damn target.
He thrusts deeper, faster. His breath is ragged against my ear.
Pop.
I gasp, head tipping back against his shoulder as the pleasure builds, unbearable.
Then he stops.
“Spread wider,” he growls, and I do.
He reaches between my legs and pulls the vibrator out slowly. I whimper at the sudden loss.
Then he lifts it, uses his mouth to clean it off, and pockets it.
“You’re done coming on this,” he says, voice like gravel and sin. “You come on my fingers, my mouth, or my cock from now on. Nothing else.”
My whole body pulses at his words. Like he’s just flipped a switch in me I didn’t know I had. I open my mouth, but there’s no time to speak. His fingers plunge back inside me, harder, rougher, his hand soaked in my arousal, his pace feral now. Like the toy was holding him back.
It wasn’t real. He’s real.
“Keep going,” he commands. “Finish your rounds. I want to feel you lose it while you’re firing.”
I lift the gun with shaking hands, aim as best I can, and squeeze the trigger.
Pop.
His palm presses to my clit as he fucks me with his fingers, grinding deep and fast, no finesse left, just hunger.
Pop.
My body jerks. I can barely stay upright. I’m panting, moaning under my breath, so close it hurts.
“You want to come for me?” he growls, teeth scraping the shell of my ear.
“Yes,” I gasp. “Yes, please—please, I—”
“Come with the last shot.”
Pop.
That last shot is my undoing.
I shatter around his fingers, my whole body locking up as the orgasm crashes over me. I cry out, biting my own lip to stay quiet, my legs buckling beneath me. He catches me as I come, holds me upright while I ride it out, his fingers still thrusting, still coaxing every last tremor from my body.
When I finally collapse against him, he withdraws his hand and slides it up my torso, smearing my own release across my skin like a mark.
He brings it to his mouth, and I hear it. The obscene sound of him tasting me.
“Fucking sweet,” he murmurs against my neck as I come down from the high. “I’m not done with you. Won’t ever be done with you.”
His hands are gentle as he rights my dress, smoothing the fabric back into place as if nothing happened.
When I finally manage to turn around, he’s across the booth. Helmet on. Phone in hand.
Business as usual.
Like he didn’t just blow my mind while I held a loaded weapon.
Like he didn’t just make me come harder than I have in the better part of a decade.
I stare at him, this mysterious man who seems to know exactly what I need before I know it myself, trying to finish my safety check with hands that are still slightly unsteady.
And I realize I’m in serious trouble.
Because for the first time in eight years, I want someone to stay.
Not just anyone. Him.
I want to know what his face looks like. I want to wake up next to him and have breakfast and hear about his day. I want boring and domestic and real with this man who breaks into my apartment.
And I’m terrified of what that means.
The paper target swings forward behind me. I turn to look at it.
The shots are as scattered as I feel.