Hunting Her Box Set

His hands find my hips and he grinds into me, teasing me with anticipation. “Who are you, Steph?” He holds my gaze, those eyes as questioning as his words.

“I’m a memory you’re going to treasure forever.” I grip his shirt and pull him forward, demanding more of his mouth.

I can’t get enough. Maybe it’s the way he scares me the slightest bit. The ferocity. The confidence. Or maybe it’s narcissistic, because his harshness kind of reminds me of myself. Either way, I’m scrambling for more.

I want. I want. I want.

I glide my hands under his shirt and place my palms on the warmth of his stomach. Another moan escapes me. The ripples of his muscles are like an ocean under my fingers, moving and changing as his hands slide down my back and squeeze my ass.

He’s so fucking strong, and I want that strength coiled around me, controlling me. I crave his temporary ownership. Instead of always being the one in command, in charge and under pressure, I want to be owned. To be a puppet instead of a puppeteer.

I claw at those muscles, working my way up his stomach and down his ribs. His masterful lips continue to overwhelm me, his tongue increasing its pace and severity.

My panties are wet, soaked, and my pussy clenches, demanding to be filled. I push my hands farther, learning more of him as I glide them around his back.

I’m about to release another moan at all the overwhelming perfection when my fingertips brush a hard object protruding from the waistband of his jeans.

He stiffens. I do the same.

He tries to recover by continuing the kiss, and I pull away, my fingers still touching the object that is undoubtedly a gun.

I wait for a response to all the questions going through my head, but he gives me nothing. No explanation. No apology. Only the lazy bat of his lashes over steely, lust-glazed eyes.

I inch closer and wrap my hand around the grip. He responds with the raise of his chin and the slightest narrowing of his gaze.

“Why does a non-violent man need a gun?”

“It’s a bad neighborhood.”

I incline my head, my heart beating rapidly in a mix of fear and arousal. I want to believe him—really, I do—but a lack of ignorance makes it impossible.

I weave my free hand around to sit on his chest, then shove him back while pulling the weapon from his waistband.

He goes with the flow, gifting me with a few retreating steps when we both know he could’ve tried to hardball his way out of the situation.

“A Walther P22? Nice.” It’s a serious gun. A seriously scary gun for someone who claims to avoid violence.

I eject the clip, shove it in my pocket, then pull back the slider. “Oh.” I release a sardonic chuckle. “And a live one in the chamber. Aren’t you a wealth of surprises?”

I guess it could be worse. The clip could be half empty.

He grins, but there’s no humor in the expression. “And you sure know your way around a gun.”

I shrug and lob the lone bullet his way. “Like you said, it’s a bad neighborhood.”

He catches the round without breaking my gaze, then again when I throw him the clip.

“Leave.”

“You’re kicking me out?” He scowls.

“You bet your perfectly sculpted ass I am.” He’s more like me than I realized—confident around guns, proficient in lies. I can no longer ignore the warning signs that highlight a dangerous man.

His jaw ticks, and those dazzling eyes are back in predator mode.

“Unless you want to play How Many Weapons Does She Have Stashed Within Arm’s Reach.” I grin. “That really is a fun game.”

“Fine.” He holds out a hand. “I’ll leave.”

I stare at his upturned palm and raise a brow. “If you’re waiting for a high-five, you’ve assumed the wrong position.”

“I’m waiting for my gun.”

“Well, then, it looks like you’re go

His hand falls to his side, fisting into a white-knuckled grip. “You’re going to throw my gun from a third-story window?”

The upward twist of my mouth isn’t friendly. “I hope you’re a good catch.”

He licks his lower lip, and I’m sure it’s supposed to be a threatening gesture with those squinted eyes, but I’m over here still drowning in the gushing wetness of my panties.

I want to hate-fuck him right now. Hate-fuck him so damn hard. Unfortunately, I realize my safety is more important than indulging in my deranged fantasies. And yes, it’s a seriously slow reaction I’m not overly proud of.

“Until next time.” His mouth has the slightest incline, an almost imperceptible grin, as he turns for the door.

“Oh, sweetie, there’s not going to be a next time.”

He glances over his shoulder and smirks. “We’ll see.”