Page 42 of A Boy Is a Gun: Part II
His hand brushed mine, fingers strong and steady, and it was ridiculous how electric it felt.I couldn’t breathe for a second.He noticed—I saw the flicker of amusement in his eyes—but he didn’t call it out.He just let me sit in it.Let me want him.
“You’re dangerous,” I whispered, and instantly hated how breathless I sounded.
“Only if you want me to be.”His voice was low, steady, but threaded with heat.
When we stood to leave, his hand found the small of my back like it had been there a thousand times before.Too easy.Too natural.I felt my body lean into it before my brain could protest.Outside, the night air was cool, but I was burning.
By the time we got back to the building, my guard was down, and my pulse was racing.“Wine?”he asked, tilting his head toward his door.
I hesitated, then nodded.His place smelled faintly of cedar and something warm—sandalwood, maybe.Candles flickered in the background, soft music curling in the air.He poured the wine, but I barely touched it.
“You cook in silence or with a soundtrack?”I asked, taking in the open kitchen, the knives aligned like a promise.
“Always music,” he said, handing me a glass.“Silence makes me think too much.”
“And this?”I tilted my head toward the speakers.“Intimidation playlist?”
“Seduction playlist,” he corrected, then smiled when I rolled my eyes.“Kidding.Mostly.”
I wandered to the counter.A wooden board held shards of dark chocolate, figs sliced open like secrets, and a small jar of honey.“You plate snacks like a man with a plan.”
“I am a man with a plan.”His gaze dipped to my mouth, quick, betraying.“But I can be persuaded to improvise.”
I smiled.“Is that a challenge?”
“It’s an invitation.”
We clinked glasses.I still didn’t drink.He watched the way I held the stem, thumb stroking the glass like it might give up its own heat.He set his wine down first.
“What do you want to talk about?”he asked, leaning on the island, forearms bare, ink disappearing into the sleeve like smoke.
“Tell me something true,” I said.“Not the LinkedIn version.”
He pretended to think.“I like sharp things.But I prefer slow things.”
My eyebrows quirked.“Explain.”
He picked up a fig and dipped it lightly in honey.“Knives need precision.”He lifted it to my lips, a question without words.“People need patience.”
I opened my mouth.He fed me the fig, and the honey hit first—amber and warm—followed by the ripe, dark sweetness that made my tongue press to the roof of my mouth.His eyes were on my face like he was cataloging every micro-expression.It was unfair.
“That’s...indecent,” I managed.
“Good,” he said softly.
He wiped a dot of honey from the corner of my lip with his thumb.Didn’t move away.The air grew tight.“You always feed your dates fruit like a Greek god,” I asked, “or is this special treatment?”
“Special,” he said, not blinking.
“Because I’m new?”I laughed.
“Because you’re you.”The music slid down a key.He took the glass from my hand and set it beside his.“You haven’t had a sip.”
“I don’t need it,” I said.It came out lower than I meant.
He came closer slowly, like he was approaching a skittish animal he meant to tame.The candlelight found the edge of his jaw, the gloss at his mouth.My back touched the island.He didn’t crowd—he hovered, letting me feel the heat from his body before he touched me at all.
“Tell me to stop,” he said, a breath from my lips.
