Bullets & Bonfires

I roll my eyes even as I laugh. It’s so good to see her smiling and teasing. Happy. This is what I want for her every day. “I’d like you to be familiar with multiple weapons and you don’t have a pistol permit.” What I don’t say is that I feel today’s lesson is a priority in case Chad’s released from jail before her pistol permit gets processed.

Setting aside the threat of her ex, learning to shoot takes some skill and could be a good confidence booster for her. She’s been attending group therapy and now I want to show her my version of group therapy—a target with a grouping of bullet holes dead center.

We start with the spinners. They’ll give her the instant gratification of whirling around when she hits them, rather than having to jog out to check the paper after each round.

I pick up the gun closest to me. “This is a .22. Perfect for plinking, but it will also stop someone in their tracks. Might not kill them unless you get the right shot, but it’ll hurt,” I explain.

She takes it, weighing the weapon in her hands, studying each feature I point out.

“Ready?” I ask.

“Yes.”

She blows through a lot of ammo in a short amount of time. She’s laughing and having fun. Especially when she gets the little orange forest creatures to spin like crazy.

After she’s used every bullet, she sets the rifle down on the bench. “I like this one better because it has the scope. It’s so much easier.” She glances at the empty boxes of ammo. “I can’t believe we kicked two boxes.”

“You were having fun. Ready to try Vince’s shotgun?”

She pushes her bottom lip out. “There’s no scope on that.”

“I know. But I think you should learn how to use it. Plus, with birdshot, there’s less collateral damage because the pellets won’t penetrate through walls. And in a home defense situation, you can do a lot of damage with a shotgun in a short amount of time.”

She seems uncertain for a moment, as if she realizes we’re not just out here for fun.

“Think of how surprised Vince will be when he comes home and you can outshoot him,” I encourage.

Her eyes light up. “Ooo, yes. Let’s do it. Show me.”

I pick up the Remington 870. “This is a pump action shotgun. All the same safety rules apply. Always assume it’s loaded. Never point it at anything you don’t intend to kill.”

“Got it.”

While we’re out here for fun and because I want to boost her self-confidence, I’m glad she also takes this seriously.

“Safety is here.” I hit the release and pull the pump back to show her how to load it. “Keep the safety on to load the shells into the tube. Once it’s full, you’re going to rack a shell.” I take a second to show her each of the steps. “Push it forward with authority. Don’t short stroke it.”

She wiggles her eyebrows. “That sounds dirty.”

“Trust me, I don’t short stroke anything, sweetheart.” My voice comes out low and rough.

“Oh,” she purrs. “I’m well aware you’re all about the long and deep strokes.”

I close my eyes and groan. “You’re killing me.”

“Come on, continue,” she urges, all serious again.

“Pull the trigger, eject the shell, keep going until you’re out of shells. It’s that simple.”

“Got it.”

She takes a few shots at the metal gong my dad has set up about fifty yards out. It’s fun, but after a few minutes I notice her losing interest.

When she runs through the shells already loaded, I hold up my hand for her to stop. “Leave it open so you know it’s empty. I’m going to go grab something. Stay here.”

I return with the watermelons and line them up on a board about fifteen yards out.

“Wait, are we shooting them?”

“Yup.”

“Waste of good watermelon,” she mutters.

“I left one in the house for later.”

I stand back and watch silently as she picks up the shotgun and carefully loads each of the shells on her own, pleased she’s already comfortable with the process.

After taking her time, she aim and fires. The first watermelon explodes. Bits of green and pink flying everywhere.

“Holy shit!” She pumps her fist in the air and then blows the next three melons off the board.

“Good job.”

“Oh, sorry.” Her gaze drops to the ground. “I didn’t save any for you.”

The intense way Liam watches me sends a quiver of excitement up my spine.

“You’re sexy as fuck when you’re concentrating on hitting the target.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yes.” He hooks a hand behind my neck and draws me closer, giving me a deep kiss. After a few seconds he releases me and I sway on my feet.

“Help me clean up?”

We pick up the brass shell casings scattered around the area, take down the paper targets, and place the moveable targets into the shed. When we’re finished, I run into the house to use the bathroom, then meet Liam in the kitchen.

“Mom said she left steaks in the fridge if we wanted to grill outside.”

“Sounds good.” I rub my hand over my stomach. “I worked up an appetite.”

He flashes another simmering look my way. “So did I.”

I don’t think he means for dinner.

Together, we prepare the steaks and a salad, taking everything outside to eat at the table on the patio.

“Want to start a fire?” he asks after dinner.

Yes. Yes, I do.

While he lights the fire, I slice up the remaining watermelon and find a blanket. I carry both back outside with me.

“The lone melon that survived that massacre,” I announce, holding the bowl up. Liam chuckles and takes the blanket from my arms, spreading it a safe distance from the fire.

I kneel down next to him and feed him a chunk of watermelon. The cool juice runs down my hand, over my wrist and Liam chases the trail with his tongue.

“You’re getting me all wet.” The protest is weak.

He raises an eyebrow and draws a piece of watermelon from the bowl, holding it to my lips. “Open.”

I take it in one bite and he snaps, leaning in closer and gently brushing his tongue over the corner of my mouth. “Bree, Bree, Bree,” he murmurs, moving to my mouth. Kissing me over and over. He slides his hands under my T-shirt and strips it off, tossing it in the wet grass.

There’s a tug at my waist as he fiddles with the buttons on my shorts. “Bree.” His voice drops into the deep, commanding tone that quickens my pulse. “Get these off.”

I undo the button and he works my shorts down my legs and throws them on top of my shirt.

Nervous about being almost naked in his parents’ backyard, I cross my arms over my chest. He yanks me closer and slides his hands under my ass, lifting me into his lap. His fingers dig into my flesh urging me to wrap my legs around his waist, and bury my face against his shoulder.

Ohmygod his scent. Bullets and grass and burnt summer air. He smells like my Liam.

He falls back against the blanket, leaving me straddling him. His hands cup my breasts, thumbs brushing over my nipples, straining against the lace of my bra. “I like this,” he whispers. “I can see how hard your nipples are for me.”

Reaching back, I unhook my bra and drop it on the ground.

“Even better,” he groans.

Underneath me he tilts his hips, tipping me forward. His arms wrap around me and he rolls us until I’m completely covered by him. “Take your shirt off,” I demand. “I want to feel you against me.” My hands slide under his T-shirt, fingers trailing over hard muscle and hot skin. I help him drag it up and over his head.

“I need you, Bree.”

“You have me.” Does he ever. Wound tight and desperate to come.

The rough fabric of his shorts brushes against my bare legs as he undoes his fly, freeing himself.

I gasp as he slides my underwear out of his way and

slowly pushes his thick shaft inside me. My hips rock, angling for more. He presses in deeper, filling me. His hands slide underneath my shoulders and lower back, protecting me from the hard ground underneath us.

“So good.” He pulls back and slowly pumps in and out. Hip lips brush my jaw, stopping at the side of my throat where he places an openmouthed kiss, then gently sucks.

Under the weight of him, I thrash, working my hips against him. He lifts his mouth from my skin to stare into my eyes. “Need to come?”

“Fuck, yes. I’m so close.”