Chapter 6
Chapter six
Megan
The pull between us has become unbearable.
It’s been three days since Aaron carried me into this cabin like I was something precious and dangerous all at once.
Three days of stolen glances that linger too long, accidental touches that aren’t accidental at all, and silences so thick they feel like they could snap at any second.
Every morning, I wake up in his bed alone, because he still insists on the couch, and find him already outside, shirtless and glistening in the dawn light, doing pull-ups or chopping wood like some kind of Texas myth.
Every evening we sit side by side on the couch, laptops open, digging into the corruption web, our shoulders brushing, knees touching, pretending it’s nothing.
It’s everything.
Today, the tension finally boils over.
Aaron decided it was time for me to learn to shoot.
“Self-defense isn’t just hand-to-hand,” he said over breakfast, voice low and serious, eyes fixed on his coffee like he couldn’t bear to look at me. “You need to know how to handle a firearm. Just in case.”
I raised an eyebrow, heart already kicking. “You think I’m going to need to shoot someone?”
“I think I’d rather you be prepared than helpless.” He finally met my gaze, those winter-sky eyes dark with something unspoken. “I won’t always be there to protect you.”
The words landed like a punch. I swallowed hard. “You’re always here.”
His jaw tightened. “Not forever.”
The unspoken question hung between us: What happens when the threat’s gone?
So here we are, at the private range behind the main compound. The air smells of gunpowder and dry grass. The sun is high, warm on my shoulders. Aaron stands behind me, his chest almost touching my back, arms caging me as he shows me how to hold the Glock 19.
“Feet shoulder-width,” he murmurs, breath hot against my ear. His voice is gravel and smoke, vibrating through me. “Knees soft. Lean into it.”
His hands slide slowly down my arms, guiding mine into position.
His fingers wrap over mine on the grip. His thumbs press against the inside of my wrists, steadying.
His chest brushes my back with every breath he takes.
I can feel the heat of him through my borrowed T-shirt, the hard planes of muscle.
“Like this?” I ask, voice breathy, barely above a whisper.
“Almost.” He adjusts my stance, one big hand settling on my hip, thumb pressing into the hollow above my waistband. “Weight forward. Shoulders relaxed.”
His cheek is against mine now, his rough stubble scraping my skin, his lips so close to my ear I feel them move when he speaks.
“Both eyes open. Front sight is sharp. Target slightly blurred.”
I swallow. Hard. My whole body is tuned to him, the heat of his chest, the way his breath fans across my neck, the low rumble of his voice that sinks into my bones. I can feel every inch where we touch, and it’s too much and not enough.
“You’re very hands-on,” I whisper.
His grip tightens, just a fraction. “Focus.”
I turn my head slightly. Our lips are a whisper apart.
His breath stutters.
For one suspended second, the world narrows to that almost-kiss. The heat of his mouth is so close I can almost taste it, the way his fingers flex on my hip like he’s fighting not to pull me closer.
Then he jerks away.
“Concentrate,” he mutters, stepping back like I’ve burned him. “Sorry.”
He stalks off toward the range house, shoulders rigid, hands clenched at his sides.
I stand there, heart hammering, skin tingling where he touched me, lips still buzzing from how close we came.
I give him two minutes.
Then I follow.
He’s on the porch of the small range building, leaning against the railing, staring at the horizon like it personally offended him. His back is to me, but I know he heard me coming. He always knows where I am.
I stop a few feet behind him. “You’re running.”
“I don’t run.” His voice is rough, strained, like he’s barely holding himself together.
“You are.” I step closer. “You’re running from me.”
He turns. Slowly.
His eyes are dark, stormy. “I’m trying to keep you safe.”
“From what?” I close the distance until we’re inches apart. “From Ramsey? From Tate? Or from you?”
He exhales through his nose. “All three.”
I reach up, touch the scar on his jaw softly. He doesn’t pull away.
“I feel it too,” I whisper. “The tension. The pull. I’m not imagining it, and neither are you.”
His hand comes up, covers mine against his face. His palm is warm, rough. “You’re not.”
“Then why are you fighting it?”
“Because once I touch you—” His voice drops to gravel, raw and honest. “I won’t stop. I’ll want everything. Every kiss. Every sigh. Every inch of you. And I won’t be able to think about anything else. Not the threat. Not the mission. Just you.”
My breath catches. “Maybe I don’t want you to stop.”
His eyes darken further. “Megan.”
I rise on my toes. “Aaron.”
He groans—low, broken—and then his mouth is on mine.
The kiss is slow at first, almost careful, like he’s testing the waters. His lips are firm, warm, tasting faintly of coffee and him. Then the restraint snaps.
His hands slide into my hair, fisting the curls, tilting my head so he can take the kiss deeper.
I open for him, tongue meeting his, a soft moan escaping me when he growls into my mouth.
His body pressing against mine is hard, hot, unyielding.
One hand drops to my waist, pulling me flush against him.
I feel every inch of him, every ridge of muscle, every scar, the hard length of his arousal against my stomach.
I whimper. My hands roam up his chest, over his shoulders, nails digging into the back of his neck.
He walks me backward until my back hits the porch railing. His thigh slides between mine, pressing just enough to make me gasp. His mouth leaves mine, trails down my throat, teeth grazing my pulse point.
“You taste so fucking good,” he mutters against my skin, voice wrecked.
I arch into him. “Then keep tasting.”
He kisses me harder, tongue stroking mine, hands sliding under my T-shirt, rough palms skimming my ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of my breasts.
I’m drowning in him.
Then suddenly he pulls back. Our breathing is ragged. He presses his forehead to mine.
“We can’t,” he says, voice wrecked. “Not while I’m protecting you.”
I make a frustrated sound. “You’re killing me.”
“You’re killing me,” he counters, but his hands are still on me, thumbs stroking slow circles on my skin. “But I won’t risk your safety. Not for this.”
I cup his face. “This isn’t just sex, Aaron. You know that.”
His eyes close. “I know.”
I kiss him again, soft this time, slow, promising. When we break apart, he takes a step away from me.
“Soon,” he whispers. “When you’re safe. When this is over. Then I’m going to take my time with you. Every inch. Every sigh. Every sound you make.”
My knees go weak.
I nod. “Promise?”
“I promise.”
We stand there, wrapped in each other, the tension still humming between us like a live wire, but now it has direction and promise. That’s enough for now.