Page 71 of The Butcher's Wife

“You’re still going to teach me to fight, too?” she asks.

“Eduardo’s bringing over smaller weights and a treadmill today.” I kiss the top of her head. “We’ll start tomorrow. Those fleas won’t know what hit ‘em.”

She slaps my arm, and I laugh.

“Pick one out and let’s see what you can do, Miss I Can Shoot a Gun.”

Her mom’s old engagement band glints off her fingers as she lifts a lightweight airsoft off the table and faces the end of the hallway where Eduardo and I set up a hazardous, homemade gun range made of plywood, nets, and paper targets shaped like men.

I hadn’t realized that I expected she’d be timid about this, or that she might back out when faced with the reality of this training, until I’m surprised by the effortless way she raises her gun and aims it down the hallway. Something stirs inside me at the sight of her looking so sure of herself.

She pulls the trigger, and the airsoft pellet tears through the paper target and hits the plywood behind with aplonk.

Her shot went wide, and her stance and grip could use a little work, but she did better than most people do on their first time. Déjà vu passes over me as I think to myself what a good hunting partner she’d be.

She squints down the hallway and frowns. “That was bad.”

“It was your first try.”

I step behind her and nudge her right foot a little wider. It’s not strictly necessary, but I press my chest against her back to fix her grip.

“Remember,” I murmur, my mouth brushing against her hair, sweet from her almond shampoo. “Trigger hand grips loose, and your support hand grips tight.”

She pushes her back against me, and I rest my hands on her hips as she shoots again.

“Good. While I’m gone, you’ll do just that, but about a thousand more times. Start up close and then try again with more distance as you hit the target consistently.”

“Are you leaving now?” She shoots again, truer this time.

Blood rushes to my dick. Is this the Annetta that’s been hiding underneath her obedient princess mask all this time? A coolly competent sharp shooter? And—I think back to last night—a hellcat in the bedroom?

“Yeah. As soon as Eduardo gets back, I’m heading out.” I pull her tighter against me, and she shoots again, missing the hallway entirely and embedding in the drywall. I laugh.

“You’re distracting me.” She doesn’t sound that upset.

I lower my head to the crook of her neck and kiss the delicate skin there. “Maybe you need a few distractions.”

She gasps as I suck at her neck. “You’re a lot more than a distraction, Dom.”

I chuckle against her neck. My hands drift lower, playing with the sliver of exposed skin just above her workout shorts.

“That’s exactly what I am.”

She lowers her gun, and I brush my fingertips along the underside of her arm in a light suggestion to keep her arms raised.

“That’s what youwantto be?” she asks.

“It’s what I’m good at.”

She gives a frustrated exhale. “Alright.” She spreads her legs a little wider and shoots off another pellet. It hits the dead center of the paper man’s heart, and my hips jut forward. “Then distract me.”

The failure of the hitman, of the Chiarellis, of her mom’s engagement ring on her hand as she fires off another round—it all slips out of my mind as I reach into her leggings—she’s not wearing panties—and slide my fingers against heralready wet clit. Desire slams into me, urging me to pump my fingers inside her, skip to the good stuff. Instead, I circle her clit and soak in the feeling of her body melting against mine.

“Arms straight,” I murmur into her ear.

She makes a valiant effort to straighten her arms and shoots.

“Put a finger in me,” she urges in a delicious demand.