The gun felt heavier in my hand than I expected. Cold. Solid. Dangerous. I liked it.

Mark stood behind me, his chest pressed against my back, his breath warm against my neck. His hands slid over mine, adjusting my grip on the handle.

"Relax your fingers," he murmured, his voice low and smooth. "You're holding it too tight."

Easy for him to say. My heart was pounding, and not because of the gun. Having him this close—after everything—was messing with my head. And my body.

I loosened my ...