Oh my god I’m losing it.
I pull my phone from my pocket and sneak a few pictures. How can I not? I mean…just look at him.
There’s a reason I love me a good military romance. There’s just something about a guy wielding a weapon to protect his woman that drops the panties.
Dex’s confidence and competency in all things American hero are what wet dreams are made of. This right here is why I always paired my Barbie with G.I. Joe instead of Ken.
Unlike when it was my turn, he does both rounds before bringing it back. Then, displaying the thirteen-year-old-level maturity every man never grows out of, he holds the paper in front of him, beaming at the two tiny holes—barely larger than the bullet—in the paper.
“Okay,” he says. “We know you can shoot when you have time to prepare and aim, but more likely than not, you’ll have to shoot on instinct.”
Warm hands take me by the hips, reversing our positions again. It takes considerable effort to focus on what he is saying and not on how his hands are large enough that his fingertips touch at the small of my back.
“This time”—his arms bracket my body as he loads a fresh magazine into my gun—“I want you to pick this up like you’re grabbing it on the fly and shoot your would-be intruder.”
Ooo, look at those forearms.
His forearms? Look at how well he handles his…equipment.
Speaking of equipment, do you feel that? That’s not an extra Glock in his pocket, if you know what I’m saying. *waggles eyebrows*
Hold on, let me speak her language. ‘What’s the issue, dear? Why are you holding back from such a man?’
Can we stop dancing around the subject by quoting lyrics from Frozen? Listen, Madison…do the math. You are in the back corner of the range. Dex is hot and you need to get laid. The risk of getting caught having sex in public only adds to the hotness. Take off your shorts and do him already.
Most people say they have voices in their head, and if Jiminy wasn’t enough, I also have the privilege of my characters weighing in from time to time. That last one? That sounded suspiciously like the one Becky inspired me to write.
Seconds pass before I’m able to untangle the synapses in my brain enough to follow his directive. I lace my fingers, crack my knuckles, and shake out my hands.
Inhale.
Exhale.
I got this.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
My breathing is erratic as the paper makes its approach.
“Damn, Tink.” Dex whistles through his teeth. “It’s a good thing you only keep your taser under your pillow.”
My shots may be more spread out, but all seven hit the chest.
“Again,” he instructs.
The target is replaced and sent back down the line.
I load the 9mm, set it on the counter, wait a beat, then pick it up and empty the magazine.
This process repeats a dozen times before Dex halts me with a hand on the shoulder.
“Now I want you to do it with mine.” He hands me a SIG Sauer P226. It is also a 9mm, but the grip handle is longer and the gun itself is slightly bigger than my own.
The recoil on both guns is low, but after firing more than two dozen rounds in such quick succession, my arms are getting fatigued.
“Now this.” I eye the MK23 suspiciously. Both the SIG and this .45 caliber are weapons I know are in his arsenal with the Navy, but I also know he has to leave them at the armory when not on missions. “They’re your dad’s,” he says to answer my silent question. “He wanted me to have what I was used to.”
“So why are you having me shoot with them?” I point to the suppressor and laser sight attached above the barrel.
“Because if for some reason you are closer to my weapon than your own, I need to know you are comfortable with it.”
I note how he doesn’t say anything about being able to handle it. The subject has never been up for debate with him.
Is that why I haven’t fought him being here?
Between the added weight and awkwardness of the suppressor, the fatigue in my muscles, and the minor increase in recoil, my shots still hit the target, but they are sloppier.
“Here.” With the headphones covering my ears, it makes hearing his instructions difficult, so he maneuvers my body instead.
Hands skim the backs of my arms, every hair rising in the wake of his calloused fingertips. He curls his fingers around my elbows, pressing to lift my arms an inch higher before continuing on down my forearms.
His front molds to every inch of my back, his knees bumping against the backs of my thighs, which clench at the familiar bulge resting on the top curve of my ass.
He shifts a headphone back, his stubble scratching along the shell of my ear and setting off all kinds of tingles I shouldn’t be feeling.
“Like this.” He adjusts my hold around the grip of the gun, curling his own hand around mine.
There’s a low rumble in my ear so I know he’s still speaking, but I’m lost in the subtle feel of the muscles pressed against me and the scent of the ocean invading my senses.
Once he’s done maneuvering me like I’m his puppet, he shifts the headphones back in place and straightens.
I expect him to retake his spot at the back of the stall, but he doesn’t. Instead his hands drop to my hips and he keeps his position behind me. He gives me a squeeze, telling me to shoot, but every cell in my body is too consumed by his nearness to focus on anything else.
What am I supposed to be doing?
Oh, right—shooting.
I roll my shoulders back, not thinking of how he dips his fingers into the front pockets of my shorts.
I activate the laser sight—if I’m going to have toys, might as well play with them—ignoring how his thumbs run across my waistband.
I work to control my breathing, letting the scent of salt and sea ground me instead of making me turn around to lick the curve of his neck.
There’s nothing I can do about my erratic heartbeat; the damn organ hasn’t maintained a regular pattern since Dex invaded my house days ago.
One beat.
Then another.
Inhale through the nose.
Exhale out the mouth.
Pop! Pop! Pop!
I lower my arms after I empty the magazine. Dex doesn’t move. With the exception of placing the gun down, neither do I.
Umm… *scratches head and looks around* Do you guys know what’s going on?
Shh. Let them have this moment.
Anyone else think it’s unfair we aren’t actually real? Because holy crap I wish I could take a picture.
For reals, this is total Pinterest-worthy material right here.
Ooo, I hope she writes me a hot cop to bang.
Shit! I’m totally going home to write a cop into a WIP.
Yeah, gurl! Get it. Think of all the dirty possibilities. I mean…handcuffs!
I shake my head, chuckling to myself. If anyone knew what really went on inside my head, they would be fitting me for a straitjacket and reserving a padded cell.
I let my characters debate and brainstorm, twitchy for my keyboard.
Back and forth Dex traces figure eights on the part of my midriff exposed by the hem of my shirt, my stomach muscles contracting with each pass underneath my belly button.
The color drains from my fingertips as I dig them into the metal counter, grounding myself in place instead of turning around and throwing myself at Dex.
Badum-badum, badum-badum, badum-badum, badum-badum.