Page 68 of The Vigilante's Lover

Mia takes a step back into the bathroom when she sees the gun.

I wait for her to ask about it, although I have to stifle a visible reaction to her appearance in that sheer bit of fabric. I’ve seen Mia in a lot of states of dress, ripped nightgown, naked in ropes in a field, and wearing a red thong and nothing else in a barn.

But this?

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, I touch 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.

“You like that?” I ask. I push it harder against her, feeling it engage between the folds, pressing her panties into her skin.

“You’re crazy,” she says.

“Mmmm.” I lift the gun a little, then let it slide inside the top edge of the blue satin.

She takes in another breath. The metal is warm now, heated by her skin. I press it into her a little harder, letting it engage with her body.

She moans. “This is so messed up,” she says.

“I think I’ve made my point,” I tell her. I begin to withdraw it from her.

But she tightens her knees. “Do it,” she says. “I want to push boundaries with you.”

My entire body responds to this and it’s all I can do not to rip off the panties and thrust inside her.

But I tighten my jaw and do as she asks, peeling her panties down with the barrel of the gun.

Her gaze is riveted on it. I touch her myself to make sure she can handle this. Her body rises up to meet my fingers as I slide inside. She’s so wet. And vibrating with need.

Now I’m the one who feels the anxiety as I press the barrel gently against her skin. Jesus. I hadn’t pictured going this direction.

I glance up at her, the blue negligee pushed high and exposing her body, her arms tied above her head. She watches me with desire and wicked delight. “Nervous?” she asks.

I slide only the tip of the barrel inside her. I’m so damn erect I feel like I’m going to explode. She’s pink and wet and the blue metal going into her threatens to send me over the edge.

She spreads her knees wide and lifts up. Hell, I can barely manage this, slipping the barrel back out and letting it enter her again. Her body quivers with the movement. She isn’t watching any longer. Her chin is high, her body tense. I can tell she’s moving toward orgasm.

I can’t take it any longer and pull the gun away, shoving it across the bed. I enter her in one swift stroke.

Her body heaves against me, rocking. She’s moaning and crying out and mixing up my first name and my last. I hold on to her hips, driving into her, relishing the feel of her convulsions around me.

We move together, the world completely erased, then I empty into her, my body flush against hers. I wrap my arms around her back and clasp her to my chest.

The ropes hit my head and I realize she’s gotten them loose. Her arms come down and clutch at me.

I hold on to her, and her to me, until our bodies settle. I kiss her neck.

“You got over it,” I whisper into her ear.

“I did,” she says.

For the first time in over a year, since before Ridley Prison, before the night I killed Singer, and before I knew what a traitor I had allowed into my heart with Jovana, I actually smile. A real, genuine, non-sardonic, actual smile.

Shit. I think I’ve fallen in love with this woman.