My hands find their way around his hard, muscled back, grasping for purchase as he takes the kiss deeper. Harder. I meet his tongue with mine, relishing the sound of his deep, male groan.
“Tell me again,” he grates in my ear, a firm command that makes my nipples hard. “The three types of gunshot wounds, Violet. Nice and slow.”
“Non-penetrating,” I say on a groan, as his fingers find the hem of my shirt and gently lift it. I feel the warmth of his touch on my belly, then one finger grazes the curve of my breast. He flickers a thumb over my bra-clad nipple. My body’s used to his touch. My hips jerk.
He nods. I think I know what he’s doing.
“Perforating.” Strong fingers slide past the elastic of my leggings, past the silk top of my panties, and dive between my legs to do their magic. I open my legs and moan, surprised at how wet I am already. I shouldn’t be. He knows how to play my body, how to work it to climax in any way he knows how.
“Good girl. And the last one?”
I close my eyes. “Penetrating.”
Thick fingers plunge into my core, jerk upward, and I cry out from the sudden stabbing thrills that explode through me.
He’s done wicked, dirty things to me in here, and it seems he’s nowhere near finished.
“I fucking love to see you come,” he growls in my ear, his hand cupped possessively around my pussy, which is still spasming. I breathe hard, then softer, slumping against him. I’m barely aware of where we are or what we’re doing when he slides into one of the straight-backed chairs at the back of the range which we keep for guests and tugs me onto his lap.
It’s been precisely seven weeks and four days since we rescued his sister Skylar from a vindictive serial rapist. It feels much, much longer.
I’ve left my day job and moved into Cain’s house in Salem, a large, rambling estate where many of his employees live. He treats them to the lap of luxury, as he should. They run a top secret, clandestine organization that charges top dollar. Their clients pay more for a job with Master Enterprises than most people ever earn in their lifetime. Tonight’s security detail, for example, runs a cool million dollars.
“Got a present for you, baby,” Cain whispers in my ear.
“Cain—”
“‘You shouldn’t buy me so many things’,” he finishes in a high-pitched voice. “‘Stop spoiling me. I don’t need all these things’.”
I mutter under my breath. But when he nestles a heavy, large, solid black box onto my lap, I close my mouth. My heart beats a little faster.
“What’s that?” I whisper.
“Open it and see.”
My hand shakes when I slide my finger along the edge of the box top and gently lift it. I lean against his large, sturdy frame to help still the trembling, but it doesn’t work. I’m shaking. I don’t handle expensive gifts well, and something tells me this one’s not cheap.
I don’t deserve it, I think to myself, whatever it is.
He wouldn’t like it if he heard me saying that.
“It’s way too big of a box for jewelry and way too small for a car.”
His low, manly chuckle makes me smile.
“You don’t want a car, baby. Even I know that. You want a truck.”
Not just any truck, I want the gorgeous Toyota Tundra 4WD with the Rockstar Rims that sits in his driveway. The gorgeous force of nature with thirty-eight-inch mud terrain tires and black rawhide leather interior with blood-red inlay. Swoon.
I lift the lid, and my jaw drops open. I can’t breathe for long seconds, my eyes water with tears, and my nose tingles. There’s a lump lodged in my throat. I don’t trust myself to speak.
“You deserve it, baby,” he whispers in my ear. No. No one deserves a masterpiece like this, and most definitely not me.
“Is this the Wilson?” I whisper.
We were looking at high-end handguns the other day, and when my eyes fell on the Wilson Combat Tactical Supergrade, I almost lost my mind. It’s absolutely gorgeous, handcrafted from carbon steel, the premier in defensive handguns.
Gunmetal gray with silver details, it’s solidly built yet somehow lightweight. The handle’s decorated in a pattern that looks like sunbursts. Every detail is finely crafted perfection.
“I had this custom made for you, baby.” Of course he did. Cain doesn’t do cookie-cutter. “Takes eight rounds. Four-pound trigger pull, starburst grips, five-inch carbon steel slide.” He goes on about the details, front sight something something, blah blah blah. I’ve got guns that I absolutely love. Some that have become like friends to me, comfortable in my palm and ready to shoot. But this… this was custom-made for me.
“It’s lightweight, beautiful, and deadly,” he says.
“You do say the most romantic things.”
I feel his stubble across my cheek when he kisses me, and while a thrill shimmers through my body, I’m focused on the stunning weapon I hold in my hand.