“Riley . . .”
“It doesn’t look real,” she says, standing closer to the table now and pushing the target back to look down at the gun, hearing me but choosing to ignore because she knows what I’m about to say—why the fuck are we just friends—and she either doesn’t want to have this talk with me or she’s not ready to have it.
I’ve had moments with Riley like this since she moved in, where she gives me a look or her touch lingers, and the second I notice or open my mouth to question what the fuck we’re doing, she does the same shit. She looks away or changes the subject. She acts unsure. And I don’t want to rush her. I don’t want Riley hesitating with me. I know what went down with her ex was a lot and she’s still feeling that, but fuck, it kills me. All of this kills me. Her getting close and then pulling away. Knowing how she tastes and the way her body opens and moves, under and above me, her shaking limbs and quiet desires. I’m not forgetting shit.
I get off on the memory of Riley while she sleeps in the next room. I fantasize about touching her and fucking her.
I am the worst friend this girl could possibly have, because that’s the last thing I want us to be.
“You know?”
Riley’s question jars my focus and draws my attention to her face. She’s looking at me over her shoulder. Her brows are lifted.
“I know what?” I ask, not following.
“The gun. It doesn’t look real.”
“Feels pretty damn real.” I shift to the edge of the stool so I can get closer to Riley and the table, then I pick up the gun and hold it out for her to see. “It’s not loaded. Here. Look.” I release the magazine, set that down, and rack the slide to show her the empty chamber. “You want to hold it?”
She reaches out. No hesitation. Not with this.
With me—when we get too close or look too long? Every damn time. But holding a firearm, Riley’s all in.
Go fucking figure.
“Can I? Just for a second.” She takes the gun from me and lets it rest in her hand, keeping her palm up. “Wow. It’s heavy. I didn’t think it would be this heavy,” she comments, curling her fingers around it and flipping it over to study.
I could make a joke about that—something heavy in her hand—but I don’t. Instead I slide my hand along the back of hers and move her grip. “Keep your finger off the trigger,” I instruct. “Only time your finger should be there is if you’re ready to shoot. Even if it’s not loaded, it’s a good habit to hold it like this. Okay?”
She nods, then lifts her arms and extends them out in front of her. “Like this? Am I doing it right?”
I grab her waist and twist her body so she’s standing at an angle. “Right foot back, like you’re ready to throw a punch. Don’t lock your arms.”
Riley follows instruction. She stands like a natural, and there’s no need for me to be keeping hold of her right now, but I do it anyway. My knees on either side of her, my hands on her hips and my chest pressing up against her back.
I inhale her shampoo and the soft floral perfume she uses and fuck me, no woman has ever smelled this good.
“Look at you,” I murmur beside her ear, watching the corner of her mouth twitch.
“Do I look good?”
“Dumb question, darlin’.”
Riley smiles. She lowers her arms. “Can I,” she looks back at me, teeth sawing across her bottom lip, “try and shoot it? Just once.”
“You can shoot it as much as you like.”
I load the gun with one round and run through how it fires and how she can aim for something, making sure she’s comfortable with everything before handing it over. After sending the target back out and getting our headphones on, I resume how I was holding onto Riley before, keeping steady at her back so she feels me with her.
If she’s nervous, I want her knowing I’m right here. That I’ve got her.
“Ready?” I ask.
“I think so.”
“Don’t worry about aiming. I just want you to shoot, okay? You do this and like it, we’ll load it again.”
Riley nods. I feel her body get into position before she extends her arms out in front of her. She holds there, breathing in, then out. Again. And once more. She knows to fire on an exhale.
And she does.
The gun goes off. I feel Riley’s body tense with a startle. I grip her tighter while my eyes focus in on the target she just put a hole through.
Dead fucking centered.
“Holy shit,” I murmur.
“Oh, my God!” she shrieks. “I did it! CJ, I did it!” Riley sets the gun down and spins around to face me. Her eyes are shining with pride and I’ve never seen a bigger smile on her face. “Did you see? I hit the target! I actually hit that son of a bitch.” She pulls her headphones down.
I do the same, laughing. “No shit. You’re a good fucking shot,” I tell her, smiling as she clutches at her heaving chest. “You all right?”
She nods quickly. “My heart is beating so fast,” she rushes out. “It’s pounding. Here. Feel.” Riley grabs hold of my wrist and brings my hand up to take the place of hers, pressing my palm flat against the space between her cleavage and her collarbones.
I quit breathing as her life races beneath my hand. Her skin is so goddamned soft and I’m touching her.
Fuck. I’m touching her.
“Do you feel that?” she asks me.
My lips part. A memory plays like a reel inside my head—Riley’s wide, stormy eyes holding me over her shoulder as I move inside her slowly. “Do you feel that? How fucking hard I am for you?”
I blink her back into focus. Do I feel that?
Fuck.
Blood runs warmer in my veins and I’m hard beneath my shorts and I’m so close to losing my fucking mind on this girl. To pulling her into my arms and touching her more and kissing her kissing her kissing her and fuck being friends. It sucks.
Why would anyone want this when you can have everything else?
“CJ?” she presses when I don’t answer her or the urges that itch beneath my skin. I can’t.
This is what she wants. Friendship. Touches that don’t mean more. And until Riley is showing me different, I won’t take it further.
I can’t. I care too much about her to fuck this up. Christ. I care so fucking much about her already. More than she knows.
Riley Tennyson got under my skin at that wedding and fucking stayed there.
So I pull my hand away instead of moving higher or lower or touching longer, bringing both to my face where I scrub up and then down. I grit my teeth. My groin throbs.
Fuck you. You should be used to this torture.
“Are you okay?” Riley’s sweet voice fills my ears before she’s getting handsy again with my thigh, and right now, with my dick threatening to punch through my zipper, I do not need her touching me.
“Fine,” I grate out, letting my hands fall away. “I just want to shoot. Do you mind?” I don’t mean to sound pissed off or angry with her, but I’m pretty sure that’s how it comes out.
Because for the first time since I met Riley Tennyson, I need her to back the fuck away from me.