For the Thrill

by Nora Flite

  Fuck. I liked that.

  Putting the barrel down, I wiped my palms on my knees. “Any questions?”

  “Just one.” Marina smiled, eyes crinkling. “Can I please touch it now?”

  I motioned lazily at the pile. “Help yourself.” I wanted to act indifferent. I was a pretty good actor. Inside, I held my breath and bent closer the second she touched the first piece of my gun.

  Marina held the bolt up, studying it in the light. She sniffed it, then lifted an eyebrow. “Smells like quarters.”

  “Quarters?”

  “Just coins. That smell you get when you handle spare change.” Shrugging, she started the process of fitting things back together. It was an arduous task, but she amazed me with her memory. In front of me, she was patiently figuring out how to return the fragments into a useable weapon.

  Reaching for the bottle of oil, she wrinkled her forehead at me, silently asking for permission. In response, I handed her the rag.

  The concept of someone else cleaning my gun was... almost sordid. This dark-haired woman, my blackmailer, she curled around the deadly instrument and lovingly oiled the surface. My foot touched hers, and she didn't even blink. That was how focused she was.

  As for me? Watching her lube the barrel, gliding her fist all over the shaft... come on. The visual was practically pornographic. I could see the crevice between her breasts with the way she leaned, her lower lip tucked in her teeth.

  My jeans became my worst enemy. I shifted, trying to fit my erection somewhere less in the realm of pointy metallic zipper teeth. My throat was dry and I wanted a drink. That, or to let Marina's arrogant mouth quench me. “You need to click that in,” I said, reaching out to show her.

  I touched the gun, grazed her fingers. As if I'd stabbed her, Marina sat up stiffly. Those round eyes, their slightly angled edges, were stuck on me. Do you understand the fucking struggle I was dealing with? She was so close I could smell the spaghetti on her breath. If I stared hard enough, I could see my face in her shiny depths. I was a picture of furious, bone-deep ache. Marina was... distracting. Intoxicating?

  Fuck. I don't know. The woman was driving me mad. She smelled like sin, and she had a way of smiling that made me want to crush my lips onto hers and remove it. I wasn't sure what to do.

  If I shoved her to the ground—or the nearest wall—like I yearned to, it'd fill me with guilt. The goal was to get the location of the damn letter from her. Getting wrapped up in a warm body that I knew would soon turn cold, and by my own hand?

  This was torture.

  Letting her go, I dug my nails into my thighs. “You did that very well.”

  Her expression was sly; knowing. Did Marina understand how much I wanted to press her beautiful cheek into the couch and lick her from throat to cunt? No. Surely she'd be blushing more, if she did. “Thanks,” she said. Balancing the Ruger, she stared down the sight. “It was my first time.”

  “You're kidding.” Laughing uneasily, I rubbed my neck. “Fuck. Maybe you're a natural.”

  Marina lowered the tip of the gun. “You think so?”

  “Sure. How else could you be so good?”

  “Then take me out and let me shoot it.”

  Sliding my foot back to me, and away from her, I blinked. “What, right now?”

  Color danced in her eyes and energy flowed from her lips. The idea of firing my gun had Marina bouncing, barely containing herself. Holy shit, she was infectious. “It's not that late. Somewhere has to be open.”

  Let me explain my mindset. I was burnt out from not sleeping, on edge from being so close to a woman whose existence screamed 'fuck me until I scream' and 'yes, my tits are natural.' I wanted nothing more than to kiss her or to kill something. It's not great, having two extreme feelings warring inside of you at once. I don't want to know what my heart rate was.

  So, when Marina asked me to take her shooting—at seven at night—on a spur of the moment desire? Snatching the Ruger, I loaded the clip, clicked the safety on, and grabbed my keys from the counter so fast they dug into my palm. “Come on,” I said, already moving. “Where we're going is a bit of a drive.”

  ****

  New York is pretty spacious, once you get out of the city. The night air was clean and crisp, tickling my hair with the windows down. In the trunk was a bag full of items—including my Ruger.

  And next to me was the rest of the package needed for the evening.

  Marina had dressed in a black jacket, stark beside my grey one. Her wild hair was knotted back, the tail fluttering in the strong currents. The chill weather had put apples in her cheeks, but what we were about to do had turned her whole body into a furnace of excitement.

  Honestly, I was excited too.

  It had been eight months since I'd shot my gun.

  That would change tonight.

  Upstate was mostly forest. I knew the area, I'd grown up here. Jacob and I both had. If you went down the right—or the wrong—roads, it was quiet and empty. People left you alone. No one gave a shit what happened up here.

  This was often a problem when I was a kid... but now it was to my advantage.

  Pulling my car down a dirt path, I parked it beside a large cement building. It was run down, no windows and thorny bushes trying to eat the walls. Stepping onto the earth, gravel crunched and so did busted beer bottles. “Where are we?” she asked, staring at me over the top of the car.

  Popping the trunk, I snatched out my bag. “It's where I practiced with Jacob.”

  “Practiced?” Her nose tucked upwards. “You mean you guys trained your hitmen skills... here?”

  Grinning, I turned on my flashlight. “I know, it's no secret lair or big government facility.” Sliding my gun free, I held it at my hip. Climbing the steps, I leaned on the door and peered inside. It was possible homeless people or gangs had set up here. A cursory shining of my light revealed no one.

  I felt her hovering behind me. Setting the bag down, I hooked my gun in my belt and reached inside. “What's that?” Marina asked, her face doused in sharp shadows from my flashlight.

  Carrying the heavy, box-shaped item to the far wall, I fiddled with the wires there. “A battery,” I said. Seconds later, the white bulbs flickered to life on the ceiling. The illuminated room was a wreck; chunks of glass, condom wrappers glinting with their tell-tale metallic packaging.

  It was a single long room, graffiti decorated it haphazardly. On the far wall, the holes from old bullets made a destructive pattern. “You guys really practiced in here?” Marina blinked, eyeing me doubtfully.

  “Sure.” Kicking aside some rubble, I brought the duffel bag to the center of the room. There was a switch on the floor; my heel nudged it, the clothesline weaving through the ceiling rumbling my way. On it, there were two metal clasps. “For target practice, this does the job.”

  “It just seems a little... useless,” she mumbled.

  “What?” I asked, pausing as I strung up a paper target.

  She shrugged into her ears, gazing over the room suspiciously. “You're practicing to hit a target that isn't even moving. Isn't that optimistic?”

  Ah. Now I understood. “The idea,” I said, placing a box of ammo at my feet, “Is that your target shouldn't think they have a reason to run.” Flipping my gun in my hand, I offered it to her with the safety on. “If you get to the point that you have to chase someone down and try to shoot them, you've already fucked up.”

  Her eyes were fixed on the Ruger, no longer caring about what I said. “You're letting me shoot first?”

  “I want to see what you can do.” Stepping to the side, I pushed the switch and sent the paper drawing of a man's head and torso gliding back down the ropes. It stopped around three yards away. “Step up, I'll walk you through the process.”

  Though I could see her breath puffing in the February night air, Marina slid her jacket off. Beneath, she was wearing the same deep-cut, blue shirt from earlier.

  “Warm?” I asked her.

  Pure delight radi
ated off of her. “Yeah, I'm really excited to do this.”

  My thoughts were buzzing, daring to escape—but I didn't let them. I locked down my own revealing sentence, the one that claimed, So am I.

  She moved beside me, taking the weapon like it was made of brittle porcelain. Instantly, I reached out and forced her to point the muzzle at the floor. “First,” I said gently. “Finger off the trigger until you're ready to fire.”

  Marina slid her finger away, looking up at me patiently. A strand of hair, freed from the loose ponytail, trailed over her right eyebrow. “What's the next step?” she asked in a hush.

  “Well, it's actually the real first step.” Pointing, my fingertip brushed over her thumb. “Pull the bolt back, make sure you have bullets in there.”

  “You loaded it, I know there are bullets.”

  Arching an eyebrow, I sighed. “Unless you yourself load in the clip, always check.”

  The flicker of stubbornness she'd shown me was pushed down deep. Marina yanked the metal, exposing the chamber. Once she saw the bullets, she gave me a pointed look and slammed the bolt back into the Ruger. “Okay. Done.”

  My hands came down on her shoulders. She became ridged, startled by my grip. I ignored her reaction and turned her towards the target. “Face it like this.” Looking down, I saw how unstable her feet were. “And these,” I whispered, kicking her legs apart until she was braced on an angle. “Make sure you're not going to topple over when you fire.”

  I heard the sound of her swallowing. That, I couldn't ignore. “Got it,” she said quietly.

  Just like that, I was aware of her presence. Marina was under my grasp, her spine curving inches from my chest, her perky ass so close to my hips I only needed to rock forward to meet her. Her exposed neck beamed at me, oddly pale in the ghostly lights.

  Shaking myself, I gripped her elbows, guided her into the final position. “Now, click the safety off—yes, that tiny notch there. Lift the gun, stare down the sight until the three orange dots line up—very good.”

  She was listening, but I felt the tiny quiver in her breathing. I noticed everything, and Marina's anticipation was no exception.

  Against her temple, my whisper stirred her tiny hairs. “When you're ready to fire, don't pull the trigger. Squeeze your muscles, your entire hands, instead. It will keep you steady. Aim for the head, and remember. If this were real, you'd only have one shot.”

  My last line made her inhale sharply. The noise of the gun firing was muted, the suppressor saving our ears from an otherwise shattering explosion. This silent building near the woods, it would allow Marina to hear the untainted sound of success. You needed to know how loud you'd be when you fired, if you wanted to make sure no one else heard you.

  The paper 'fwicked' when the bullet sank in. The hole was low, near the shoulder—but she'd hit the target. That was amazing. “Oh shit,” she gasped, lowering the barrel and staring up at me. There was a galaxy in her eyes, begging me to go exploring. Her chest was flexing, waves of rich skin that glinted with sweat. She really wasn't cold, this girl was a boiler and firing her first gun had turned her up a million fucking notches.

  I thought, if I touched her, she'd scald me.

  What better reason to get burned?

  “Good job,” I said, unsticking my tongue.

  “I missed, though,” she noted. “He wouldn't die from that. He'd run, or call for help.”

  Nodding at the target, I frowned. “Chances are he'd shoot back. You'd be dead.”

  Marina looked away, not flinching like I predicted. “I need to practice more,” she said. I swear she was talking to herself.

  Reaching out, I took the Ruger. “I think we can fix your aim right now.” The gun was set aside, I lifted my hands. “Here, do this. Make a diamond shape with your thumb and pointer.”

  Frowning, Marina emulated me. We stood there, staring at each other through the gaps between our palms. I'm weird, but I kind of loved it. “Now what?” she asked, a tiny smile growing.

  Now I grab your thick fucking hair and see how my aim is when I shove my ridiculous hard-on between your thighs. Grinning so my teeth showed, I closed one eye. “Look through the hole at the target. Shut one eye, then the other. You should only be able to see the paper through—”

  “Oh!” she laughed, cutting me off. “I get it. Yeah, I'm seeing it with my left eye shut.”

  “Right eye dominant,” I answered. Dropping my arms, I handed her back the gun. “This time, line the sight up and shut your left eye.”

  Marina settled in, and when she slid her foot back, her hip touched mine. My cock pulsated sympathetically. “Alright,” she whispered. I observed how she inhaled, the way she naturally held her breath and tightened her tendons. My heart was pumping with energy, already expecting the outcome.

  That time, the bullet whistled through the paper man's skull.

  “I did it!” she cheered, eyes so big they could pop. Staring up at me, Marina's flushed cheeks begged me to turn them more red. I'd never taken anyone shooting. Jacob and I had learned together, neither of us was a teacher to the other.

  If I'd done this with another woman, not Marina, would I be aching just as bad?

  “Are you okay?” she asked, lowering the gun to her waist.

  Not at all, I thought bitterly. Closing my hand over hers, I endured her pulse like a punch to the jaw. “My turn,” I rasped.

  Marina stepped back, concern clouding her eyes. My heel slammed into the switch, sending the target flying all the way back to the far wall. Ten yards, as far as it could go. She'd only fired two shots, I had another eight to work through.

  My lungs flared, arms raised, leveled and steadied. The encompassing drive to feel the weapon spasm, ejecting its fatal passenger, stole my mind away. I was centered, but in reaching this place, I dipped my toe into the river that craved to drown me in temptation. A place that was leagues below my rational, but fuck, I knew what it meant to go there.

  Once you swam in the river of depravity—of murder—you had two choices.

  Swim some more.

  Or drown.

  If you swam, you might one day reach the other side. Jacob called it freedom. After eight months, I thought it was a barren prison. The rapid, tugging current was so much more thrilling.

  Bang. The first pop. I knew the bullet would pierce the target between the eyes. Bang. Perfection, I nailed it a hair's whisper to the right. Each time I fired, the explosion rocked my core. My cells sang to me, and my bloodlust teased me by becoming real lust.

  Shooting a target wasn't like killing someone.

  But my imagination was vivid... and I saw a human face with every shot.

  When the bolt jutted backwards from the gun, I knew I was empty. Truly empty.

  “Kite?” The way she said my name, it was a hook in my gut. “Kite, are you okay?” Turning, I saw the mixture of emotions on her face. Puffed lips, shiny eyes, and her coffee skin gleaming with her own heat. Where she was, just inches away, could she feel mine? “Is something wrong?”

  “Yes,” I breathed out. “Something is very fucking wrong.” With me, with you, with the whole fucking world. This woman who had slammed into my life, hammered her way in and demanded I take up her plight. Marina, the brave and cocky and ultimately foolish girl.

  I was supposed to kill her one day. But right then, I wanted to bathe in her existence.

  If she was stupid, well. I was the biggest god damn idiot out there.

  Her eyes flashed. “Kite?” That time, my name was an omen. The river dragged me way down, and I let it take me under. Dropping the gun, I curled my hand behind her long neck and yanked her towards me. Her gasp tasted like bliss and cocoa.

  Kiss me back, I thought, crushing my lips on hers. Let me know you want this as badly as I fucking need it. Maybe that was impossible. The black hole in me was blaring, claiming it could never be filled. No one knew this sensation like I did. No one could.

  Her teeth clipped my tongue; my lower lip. A hand wre
nched in my hair, forcing me away from her face. Panting, I looked into her eyes and prepared myself for rejection. Of course, if you think that meant I'd back off, well. That wouldn't be possible. Drowning doesn't stop just because you beg for air. Marina was my oxygen.

  “Why,” she breathed out. It was a statement. Feverishly she watched me, still clinging to my scalp.

  Her breasts were smothered against me, and I pressed her close to suffocate my brain even more. “Because I want you.” It was a sparse explanation. Yes, I wanted Marina. On paper it made sense; she was beautiful and sensual, she held her own and holy hell was she sexy shooting my gun.

  There were a million reasons as to why I wanted to kiss her puckered lips.

  She didn't blink, she gripped me fiercely. “No. Why do this when you know it won't last?”

  My mouth fell open, words failing me. Through my decadent lust, I realized what she meant. Without stating it outright, Marina was cryptically making it clear she knew we had no future. Did she suspect all along the plan we had for her, or was she saying she didn't expect to live through her goal of playing hitman?

  She wanted an answer. I didn't have a good one. The pad of my thumb ran over her lips, thrilling me with how plump they were. “Nothing lasts. That's reality.”

  A tremor went through her body. In the depths of her ebony pupils, the puzzle of her mind told me she disagreed. In a split second, she said so much with her simple look that I came close to stopping my crusade if it meant I could get inside her brain.

  Marina didn't give me a chance. Closing the distance, she kissed me so hard it took us to the floor. Beneath us, brass shells rolled and clinked. In spite of my fog, my own words were digging in painfully. Nothing lasts forever. Did I really believe that? What a bullshit answer.

  Soon, I forgot what the question had even been.

  Marina wriggled beneath me, fighting to get her hands under my shirt. I understood the sentiment, my fingers hooked under the hem of her blouse. Ripping it upwards, I watched how it clung and squeezed her tits together until they overflowed in her bra. Two fingers crept to her spine, popping the strap. “Fuck,” I breathed out. In the dim lights, her nipples were a dusty, canyon rock red. The swell of her chest called to me, muffling any compliment I had ready on my tongue. That tongue was too busy licking the tips of her impossibly flawless breasts.