Page 143 of The Vigilante's Lover
She’s like the completion of a picture. The gold doorframe surrounds her in the blue negligee. The room is exquisite and formal, and she fits it as though it was all put here just for her.
The curve of her breasts is outlined by the sheer blue. I want to toss the gun and just take her, but I know what she needs, where we have to go to help her lose her fear.
“Why do you have that?” Mia asks. She tries to put a hard edge in her voice, but the waver at the end gives her away.
“You have a fear of guns,” I say. “We need to get you past that.”
“It’s a good fear,” she says. “Guns kill people. You said it yourself. There’s no antidote to a bullet.” She glances down at the handle. “Especially those.”
“It’s not my weapon of choice,” I say. And it’s true. “But we will have them pointed at us on a daily basis, in this line of work.” I lift the gun, remove the magazine, and clear the chamber. I set the bullets on the bedside table.
She comes forward with trepidation, watching the magazine as if it might leap back into the gun.
“Come sit,” I say.
She obeys me, propping anxiously on the edge of the bed. I double-check the chamber, then place the gun in her lap. Her eyes lock on to the gleaming metal. She doesn’t move to hold it.
“Give me your wrists,” I say.
When she looks up at me, her eyes widen at the length of dark pink rope in my hand. Then they go back to the gun.
I move to stand in front of her. She lifts her hands up. The gun starts to slide down her lap, and she yelps and lifts her knees.
“Good, good,” I tell her. I wrap the rope around both her wrists in smooth, even turns. Then I create a whipping knot between them. They are lashed together like handcuffs now.
Her eyes don’t leave the gun. I pick it up from her lap and pull on the end of the rope, lifting her hands above her head. The movement makes a delicious shift in her breasts, those pert nipples rising, straining against the blue film of the fabric.
I ice down my control and lash the end of the rope to the slats in the bed. She can escape this easily, if she chooses to. My job is to make sure she doesn’t want to.
I slide one hand beneath her and shift her to lie down on the bed. When she’s in a comfortable position, I trail my hand from her bound wrist, to her shoulder, then trace the curve of that lovely breast.
She sucks in a breath. I give her what she’s longing for, trapping that tight nipple between my finger and thumb. She moans as I roll it gently.
I lean down to take her lips with mine. She is eager, hungry, as we connect with mouths and tongues. While I have her attention elsewhere, Itouch the gun to her thigh.
She breaks the kiss, flinching from the chill. Her breathing speeds up against my mouth, her lips no longer moving. I bite her lower lip and tweak the nipple again.
She’s caught, I can tell, between the pleasure and the panic. But this is good. It means I can coax the terror away.
I let the gun trail down her thigh. She relaxes a little, but I can still feel the tension, coiled and ready to spring again.
Her mouth moves against mine. I linger for another moment, then slide down her jaw, her neck, and farther, to capture that plump nipple between my teeth.
She moans again and arches into me. I blow hot air over the fabric, heating it.
Mia lifts her hips, trying to establish contact between us down below. I smile around her breast. Such exquisitely sweet torture.
The gun slips against her ribs and she halts again. But it’s less of an intrusion this time, and soon she resumes rocking up against me.
“Good girl,” I whisper.
I need her skin, so I lift the nightie. When my mouth closes over her breast again, she lurches up, a cry escaping.
I move the gun lower and let it connect with her between her legs.
Her eyes pop open in surprise. She watches me and looks down, fascinated at what I might do.
She doesn’t show any fear of it at all now.
