by C. S. Poe
“I’m not a child.”
“I’m quite aware of that.”
“Then why do you want me on your lap?”
Gunner smiled a very small smile, but it nonetheless warmed the icy lump freezing my gut. “I could explain, or you could learn firsthand.”
I really didn’t know what to say to that, so I awkwardly lowered myself to Gunner’s lap. He slipped one arm around my back to rest on my hip, the other on my thigh, then tugged me closer. I startled and put a hand around Gunner’s neck to correct my balance.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured. His hand on my thigh stroked up and down. “Thank you for what you did.”
I snorted and pinched the bridge of my nose. “Thank you. For what? For putting a target on your back? For telling my director we’re fucking?”
“For never reporting me,” Gunner replied calmly. “You kept your word.”
I lowered my hand and looked at Gunner. “What am I going to do?” I asked, voice hitching at the end.
He didn’t answer, merely kept stroking my leg.
I shook my head, cleared my throat, and asked instead, “How did you know?”
“Know what?”
One hand still around Gunner’s neck, I hesitantly placed my other on his chest. The fabric of his shirt felt like nothing against my palm, but the heat of his skin underneath—I felt that. “Moore’s tendencies. Even I wasn’t aware.”
Gunner arched an eyebrow.
“Right. Of course. Survival instinct.”
Gunner wrapped his big hand around mine, squeezed, then threaded his fingers between my own. “The look on his face—it was a private hurt, not professional.”
“And?”
“And then he touched you. Casters are meant to avoid one another, are they not?”
“Well, yes.”
Gunner inclined his head in the smallest nod. “There you go. Although, I will admit, I was surprised to learn he was so brazen as to present you with a gift.”
My face flushed, and I was suddenly hyperaware of Gunner’s goggles still around my neck. “So was I.”
He twisted his hold to bring my hand to his lips, but fell short of kissing my skin. Gunner’s eyes narrowed a fraction, and he gently pried my hand open to study the latticework of scars along my palm and fingers. “Milo.” It wasn’t a question.
“I can’t feel anything,” I blurted out. I wasn’t certain if I’d not divulged this to anyone else because of a fragile ego, fear that if I acknowledged the physical setback, it’d become a fixed part of myself, or simply because lying was second nature, but as far as Gunner was concerned, I wanted to be honest about at least one thing.
He shifted on the settee, tugged my other hand from his neck, and held them both in his own. “What do you mean?”
“I can feel your weight and warmth,” I explained with a touch of reluctance. “But not… your skin.”
Gunner pressed his thumbs into the palms of my hands. “Is the damage permanent?”
I shook my head and whispered, “I don’t know. Maybe.”
Gunner moved his thumbs upward, slipped them under the cuffs of my shirt, and rubbed the underbelly of my wrists.
My breath caught on an intake. “I can feel that.” Christ, it was so intense, I swear I could count each and every ridge of Gunner’s fingerprints.
Gunner raised my hand again and pressed his warm lips to the delicate skin of my inner wrist. The rasp of stubble on his chin sent a shudder through my entire body that he could probably feel. He’d hardly pulled back before I grabbed his face and crushed our mouths together.
Every minute of every day, I had thought of this—of speaking with Gunner again, touching him again, kissing him again—and now it was happening. When we were together, it felt as if we were pulling an ancient magic from the very fabric of Earth and casting a spell foreign to even the most learned scholars and architects. There was a real and tangible magic between me and Gunner. I didn’t know how it was possible, but there was no other way to explain this sensation—like I had a billion volts of electricity running through my veins. Like a shooting star had nothing on me. It was incredible.
“I’ve missed you,” I whispered against Gunner’s mouth.
Gunner slipped a hand around the back of my head, his fingers threading through my carefully set and oiled hair. “You make a man do wild things, Gillian.”
I kissed him again. “Like what?”
“Like travel two days cross-country into a lion’s den to put a gun to the head of the state director for the FBMS because you’re the one bit of bounty I’m unwilling to share.”
“Bounty?” I repeated, attempting to sound indignant and failing miserably at it.
Gunner flashed his handsome, lopsided smile. “I stole you first.”
He drew me into another kiss, the tip of his tongue tracing the seam of my mouth before I opened to it. His tongue dipped inside, pressed against mine, and somehow the tang of Black Jack made it more erotic. I fumbled blindly with the buttons of Gunner’s waistcoat until he broke the kiss and leaned back to allow easier access. I could feel him watching me, every stutter of my fingers, every flutter of my heart beating frantically in my throat.
I looked up and met Gunner’s concentrated gaze—his blue eyes nearly black, the pupils were blown so wide. He liked this: my assertiveness and the show of physical prowess. I was still, admittedly, quite naïve in terms of finding my way around the bedroom with a partner. Gunner was the only man I’d been with, and just the one time too. So while I seemed to enjoy… well, everything he did because it was all new and all so good, I had to imagine Gunner’s tastes for pleasure had become more fine-tuned through experience. And the way he was staring at me….
I grabbed his tie and yanked hard. Gunner’s breath caught as he was pulled up against me. His eyes grew and both hands grabbed around my waist.
“Is this okay?” I asked.
“Jesus Christ.”
Due to my own tendency to curse, often in such a brazen manner that the only folks who didn’t blink twice were air sailors or drunkards, I wasn’t insulted by Gunner’s blasphemy. It was more that I was surprised by it. Contrary to sensationalist newspapers, Gunner really was, for all intents and purposes, a gentleman.
He lunged forward on the settee, took me with him as he stood, then settled me on my feet. Gunner grabbed my arm and spun me on his way to the bedroom. The room was still dark, still cold from the window having been open and the steam heat from the parlor not yet reaching this far into the apartment. Gunner bumped into the bureau as he turned to kiss me again. His hands were everywhere—a brief fondle through my trousers, encircling my waist once more in a manner that felt so boldly intimate, deftly unbuttoning my waistcoat and pushing it from my shoulders.
A sense of relief was bubbling over inside me. I had hoped, after October, the experience of having finally been with a man would be enough to sate me for the long haul. But instead, it had only made the yearning stronger. More relentless. A necessity that overpowered my body, mind, soul. And to be with Gunner again—to have him again—it was a thrill.
A happiness.
Determined to not behave as cluelessly as before, I immediately unbuttoned my collar and cuffs when Gunner broke the kiss. I tossed them to the floor, yanked my tie free, and unbuttoned my trousers. I felt less mechanical this time and, if only because I was no longer thinking with just my head, more seductive. But I suspected the dark was a great source of my empowerment.
My hand fumbled and snapped the brace over my shoulder when Gunner laid bare his own chest. His braces hung at his sides, and his trousers were slung dangerously low on his slender hips. The hard planes of his chest, the fine black hair traveling south from his navel, his perfectly sculpted arms….
Gunner slid his hands under my braces and pushed them from my shoulders. “You look like you need assistance,” he stated.
“Smelling salts.”
“Come again?”
“Seeing you like th
is. I need smelling salts.” I pressed my palm to his flat abdomen to stress my point.
Gunner got down on his knees before unbuttoning my shoes. He looked up at me while tugging my trousers and drawers down and helping me step out of them. “Like how?”
“You’re teasing me.”
“A bit, yes.” Gunner ran his hands up my bare thighs, leaned close, and bit the skin. “Do you want me to stop?”
I swallowed but still felt as if I were choking. “N-no. Never.”
Gunner put his mouth on my prick and swallowed its length with what seemed like shocking ease. I cried out and knocked into the bureau with a start. Gunner managed to keep his hands on my hips, preventing me from landing on my backside. I grabbed the back of his head, but couldn’t figure out if I was trying to push him away or press Gunner forward.
“C-Con—” I bit my tongue short of saying Gunner’s name. He didn’t need to know how often I thought it, whispered it, when I was alone in the dark with nothing but my hand and memories.
Gunner pulled off with a wet, obscene pop. He stared up at me, face stoic, eyes alight. “Say it.”
I could have asked.
Told him to clarify.
But I knew.
“Constantine.”
Gunner got to his feet, his movement fluid like a cat, the rumble in his chest like its purr. He towered over me, cupped my face in his big hands, then leaned down to whisper against my mouth, “Again.”
I swallowed. “Constantine.”
He kissed me, and I could feel his smile—taste it, even. Gunner maneuvered me to the edge of the bed, and once I’d sat, he stepped back and finished unbuttoning his own shoes and shucking off his trousers. He took my shirt, as I’d just removed it, threw it somewhere into the dark, and used his long, wiry build to push me down. And then it was like a pinwheel—a whirligig—a kinetic art display of skin and hair and teeth and tongue that even those impressionist fellows in Paris wouldn’t be able to accurately portray on their canvases.
I dug my fingers into Gunner’s back. He growled, thrust against me, and bit my neck in response. The pressure, the moist heat, the exposure—it was a chaos my body reacted to without permission, without thought. I yelped and bucked my hips against Gunner’s. Gunner let up on my neck, kissed the sting, then took my jaw into one hand. He was so gentle, so intimate, when he held my face.
“Have you been with anyone? Since Arizona,” he added for clarification.
Thankful for the dark, now more than ever, that hid the flush I felt ignite on my cheeks, I said, “No. That is—I’ve been busy.”
“Busy.”
“I’m a federal agent.”
“Yes, you are.”
“There’s always crime.”
“Always.” He didn’t smile, not exactly, but those blue eyes caught the bit of light spilling in from the hall and they shone like buffed and polished gems. Gunner sat up on his knees and asked, “What would you like?”
I followed his motion onto my elbows, took in the definition of his chest and the black hair I itched to run my fingers through, the muscles of his thighs, and erect prick that was, astonishingly, my doing. My mouth was dry, and I felt I had to peel my tongue off my palate just to speak.
“There’s—” I cleared my throat. “There’s Vaseline in the nightstand.” I tilted my head just a little to the left in indication. “I bought it the other day.”
Gunner leaned over me, opened the drawer, and removed a tin. He sat back, popped the top off, and dipped a few fingers in. He set the tin aside while rubbing his fingertips together, smearing the Vaseline. Gunner moved closer, nudged my legs open, kissed me, and pressed a slick finger to my backside.
I jumped, broke the kiss, and smacked Gunner’s nose with my chin. “Oh God. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s fine.”
“Are you okay?”
“Perhaps we should try something else.”
“What? I just—no. I want this.”
But Gunner had narrowed his eyes, and those tiny wrinkles in the corners spoke volumes. “I don’t think you’re ready.”
“I’m twenty-nine-years old,” I protested.
“Age is irrelevant.”
I clenched my jaw and ground my teeth so hard, it hurt. I could feel tears pricking my eyes—the sort associated with frustration, anger, humiliation. “I’m not incompetent, Gunner.”
“I never said you were.” He leaned over me, took my jaw, and held tight when I tried to wriggle free. “If you’re so nervous you jump at a finger, it won’t be good. For either of us.”
“What use am I, then?” I snapped. Gravity got the best of one tear, and it followed the contour of my cheekbone before dripping into my ear. “Please. Just do it.”
Gunner’s expression was like someone had broken the glass surface of water by skipping a stone across it. He tightened his hold on my jaw and gave a little shake. It didn’t hurt, but it certainly wasn’t tender anymore. “Don’t insult yourself. And don’t insult me.”
I didn’t know what to say. Even if I had, I was afraid to speak and hear my voice crack. If I had thought, only moments ago, this night couldn’t be much worse, I’d certainly managed to find the last intact seam in my life to unravel.
Elemental bullets on my streets.
A new gangster looking to take me out.
An enraged boss likely cleaning out my desk that very moment.
And now this.
Gunner released his hold, grabbed the Vaseline tin, and stuck his fingers in again. “Not all men enjoy the sensation,” he said, quite simply. “Others need time to work up to it.” He stroked my flagging length with a greasy hand, and my eyes about rolled out of my head.
I was stiff and breathless by the time Gunner let up. I opened my eyes and watched as he reached behind himself. “Wh-what are you doing?”
With his free hand, Gunner guided mine to his prick and released a held sigh as I touched him. “I’m rarely allowed an opportunity to indulge,” he said, voice thick and low and so unbelievably attractive. “The men I sleep with—”
“Passing ships,” I corrected.
Gunner smiled lightly. “That’s right. They’ve got a certain image of me. A certain expectation.”
I felt myself blush at those words. Hadn’t I thought the very same of Gunner? In Arizona, when I’d belatedly realized his tendencies were a mirror of my own, I had mused on the notion that no person would dare whisper terrible things about Gunner. Because he was so dangerous. So masculine. So… not me.
But then… what did that even mean? Because I was not the ideal physique of a man, had I assumed something about myself too? Convinced myself that, should I ever have the opportunity to sleep with a man, I could only experience one thing? That I would be expected to assume such a role? And why did I relate such an act of intimacy as something I deserved, not because I should be so lucky, but because I was less?
Gunner wasn’t less.
He was everything and more.
“You enjoy it?” I asked.
Gunner lifted up, leaned over, and kissed my mouth. “Want to try?” he asked by way of answer.
I gulped for air and managed a curt nod.
That smile was back on his face. Gunner told me to stay on my back while he put a knee on either side of my body. I was more than happy for him to remain in control of the situation, because even with this change, I still had no practical experience, only animal instinct.
“What if I—” I gasped as Gunner bore down, and that tight heat about pushed me to the brink then and there. “—h-hurt you?”
“You won’t,” he whispered.
I dug my heels into the mattress and grabbed Gunner’s hips hard enough that he hissed. “Sorry,” I said, managing not to choke on my own tongue.
“It’s okay, dear.” Gunner sat and began to rock. The muscles in his long, lithe body uncoiled and flexed, and he was so elegant, so fluid, so remarkable. He pried my hands from his hips and dragged them up his taut stomach, making
certain my wrists rubbed against his body. “Touch me.”
“Christ Almighty,” I swore through clenched teeth. I reached for his pecs and dug my fingers into skin and hair as Gunner kept pace. “So good. So good. So—fuck.” Gunner did something with his muscles—clenching them around my length so that my vision tunneled, my belly tightened, my balls drew up. “Oh God.” I brought my hands down, dragged my fingernails along his flanks, and watched him suck in a sharp breath. I started to move my hands around Gunner’s backside—it had been automatic—but I came up short upon realizing what I was doing.
Gunner leaned forward, brought his mouth to mine, and kissed me before saying, breathless, “It’s okay, Gillian.”
I don’t know how that one comment seemed to overcome my inexperience and inhibitions. Perhaps it was the certainty with which Gunner spoke, or the way my name sounded on his lips in the midst of sex. Or maybe it was nothing more than my entire adult life being denied this experience—this opportunity to be dominant with someone who seemed to fully believe I could be—and with someone who appeared to enjoy when I let this part of me out.
I swallowed as I grabbed his firm globes of muscle in both hands. Gunner’s breath was hot and heavy against the side of my neck. He began to kiss and bite and suck the skin just below where my collar usually rested. My breath caught, voice cracked, and I thrust my hips up.
The sound Gunner made, I thought I’d hurt him. But he reared back and stroked his prick hard and fast. “Again.”
“Are you—”
“Gillian,” he demanded, and his voice had an edge of desperation.
“Sorry.” I raised my hips—once, twice, and on the third shove, I felt every muscle in my body go rigid, my toes curl, and then I was spending with a force like a thunderstorm raged inside me. I heard Gunner’s breathing hitch, then a warm jet landed on my stomach. I opened my eyes—when had I closed them?—and stared at his face.
His forehead was damp with sweat, strands of raven-black hair clung to it. Gunner’s lips were parted as he breathed heavily. He leaned over me once more, kissing my mouth, my cheek, my jaw, my ear. “How was it?” he murmured.
“Incredible.”
