Page 43 of Omega on Fire

"Everyone starts somewhere." Moses gestures toward an elevator door at the far end of the room. "Range is through here."

The shooting area is surprisingly state-of-the-art, sound-dampening panels, individual lanes with electronic target systems. He leads me to the farthest lane, setting the gun and a box of ammunition down on the shelf.

"First rule: always assume a gun is loaded." His voice shifts subtly, taking on a teacher's cadence. "Second rule: never point it at anything you don't intend to shoot."

I nod, trying to absorb everything as he walks me through basic safety, loading, and unloading. His hands move with practiced efficiency, breaking down complex movements into digestible steps. By the time he hands me the unloaded weapon, I'm less intimidated.

"It's heavier than I expected," I mutter, adjusting my grip.

"Most people say that." He steps closer. "Here, let me show you the proper stance."

Moses positions himself behind me, and suddenly I'm hyperaware of every inch where our bodies aren'ttouching. The nearness of him sends electricity skittering across my skin. He reaches around, arms caging me as his hands cover mine.

"Slight bend in your elbows," he instructs, his breath warm against my ear. "Don't lock them. Feet shoulder-width apart."

I swallow hard, trying to focus on his words instead of the solid warmth of his chest a whisper away from my back. The gun feels more natural in my hands with his guidance, and when he finally steps back, I almost sway toward him, missing the contact.

"Now we'll try with live ammunition."

He loads the magazine, explains the safety one more time, then steps back. I raise the gun, trying to remember everything he just taught me.

"Breathe," Moses reminds me. "Squeeze, don't pull."

The first shot startles me despite the ear protection. The kick is manageable but surprising, the power traveling up my arms. I fire again, and again, finding a rhythm. When the magazine empties, Moses presses a button that brings the target forward.

"Damn, Charlotte." Surprise colors his voice. "You're a natural."

I stare at the paper target. Not all my shots hitcenter mass, but they're far better clustered than I expected. Something fierce and proud swells in my chest.

"Let's go again," I say, unable to hide my smile.

We go through several more magazines, Moses occasionally correcting my form with light touches that linger longer than necessary. Each time his fingers brush my skin, heat blooms beneath the contact. By our third round, I'm hitting the target consistently.

"Try this," Moses says, stepping in behind me again.

This time when he presses against my back, there's no pretense of space between us. His body envelops mine completely, warm and solid. His arms wrap around, adjusting my stance though I no longer need the help. We both know it. This is something else entirely.

"You're doing beautifully," he murmurs, his lips close to my ear.

The timbre of his voice sends a shiver down my spine. I lower the gun, setting it carefully on the shelf. Something electric crackles in the air between us, anticipation, need, warning.

Moses turns me in his arms, his eyes dark withunmistakable hunger. He lowers his face to my neck, inhaling deeply.

"Charlotte," he groans, the sound vibrating against my skin. "You smell different today."

His lips brush the sensitive spot where my neck meets my shoulder. The touch ignites something molten in my core. I arch into him involuntarily, gasping when his teeth graze my pulse point.

"We shouldn't," I whisper, even as my hands clutch at his shirt.

"Tell me to stop, and I will." His voice is strained, his control visibly slipping.

Instead of answering, I rise on my tiptoes and press my mouth to his. The kiss explodes between us—not tentative, not gentle. His lips are firm, insistent. When his tongue slides against mine, I moan, clutching him tighter. He tastes like coffee and cinnamon gum, his scent wraps around me like a prayer, frankincense and myrrh flooding my senses.

Moses backs me against the wall, one hand cupping my face while the other grips my hip. His touch brands me through the thin fabric of my yoga pants. I bite his bottom lip, drawing a growl from deep in his chest that makes my knees weak.

"I've thought about this," he confesses against my mouth. "About you. So much."

I snake my hands under his shirt, desperate to feel skin. His abdominals tense beneath my fingers. "Me, too," I admit.

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