I turned and smiled. “Are you that good teacher?” I asked teasingly. His eyes flared at the smile on my face and humor in my voice.

“Too right I fucking am.” He came closer and took one of my hands. His palm and fingers felt rough in my own. He works hard, I thought. Worked with his hands. A sudden image of those hands on my breasts slammed into my mind. More memories followed—of his fingers cupping my behind as he thrust into me, of his fingers stroking along my core before slipping inside and making me scream.

My cheeks heated at the memory, and when I looked up, AK had closed in until he was just an inch away. His put his finger under my chin and lifted my face. “What’s got you blushing like this, Red?” He stroked that finger over my cheek. “Like all your fucking freckles have joined up.”

Avoiding the truth, I said, “I hate my freckles.”

It was a pathetic attempt at distraction, so I was struck mute when he leaned in even closer, his hot breath over my face, and said, “I fucking love them.”

I swallowed, feeling my nipples harden and my breathing become erratic. “You do?”

“Mm,” he murmured and stepped closer still. I had to stop a moan from escaping my mouth when I felt the bulge in his jeans harden. My breath hitched, and a slow grin tugged on AK’s lips. He brought the gun in between us and placed my hand on top.

I felt dizzy with heat as he stepped back. Hands on my shoulders, he turned me to face the targets on the trees. His mouth came to my ear as he stood at my back. I shivered. “Concentrate,” he said, his voice low.

I closed my eyes. “I . . . I am finding it difficult to do that with you this close.”

AK’s deep, rough laughter split through the air. He did not respond, but instead lifted the gun higher in my hands. He moved one of my hands to the underside of the gun and the other to a switch. “Trigger,” he said, guiding my fingertip along the smooth metal. “Barrel.” He ran his fingers over my hand that was placed on the underside of the rifle. He made sure the bottom of the gun was tucked under my arm. “Hold it firmly, like this.” He ran his hand up to my hair, guiding my head with his palm. Another glimpse of a memory flashed before my eyes. Me between his thighs, kneeling at his manhood. I swallowed, suddenly able to taste him on my tongue.

“You’re blushing again,” he teased, his lips scraping past my earlobe.

“I . . . I am remembering,” I confessed breathlessly. I allowed my mind to show me what came next. I had climbed on his lap and ridden him, slowly, back and forth, his hands roaming over my behind and thighs.

“Yeah?” AK growled.

“You and me,” I said. “Outside your home.” I turned my head until my lips brushed against his. I breathed and he breathed, sharing the same air, warm, then hot. “You took me.”

My chest was rising and falling in hard movements. AK chuckled into my mouth and licked along the seam of my lips with his tongue. I groaned at the feel, my breasts aching. “No, bitch.” Heat flooded my core as he said, “You fucking took me.”

AK dragged his nose along my cheek, and then carefully turned me back to face the trees. His hand guided my head downward until my eyes were looking through a lens on the top of the gun. His torso was flush against my back. I felt him everywhere. Within me, behind me, my senses breaching their capacity.

“Concentrate,” he ordered again. My back straightened as I tried to do as he asked. I blinked, seeing the tree targets up close through the lens. Taking my hand from the trigger, he brought it to a small black switch on the side of the gun. “Safety.” He pulled my hand back. The gun clicked, and he guided me back to the trigger. “Line up the cross in the lens with the bullseye—the center point—on the target. Wait until your hand is steady and take the shot.” I did as he said, then felt his hand tighten on my finger on the trigger. I let calmness run through me. “When you’re ready, pull the trigger.”

I counted to three and pulled down on the trigger. The loud bang of the bullet flying from the barrel caused birds to scatter into the sky around us. But I barely noticed due to the sudden pain in my shoulder. I stumbled back, and AK wrapped his thick arms around me to stop me falling. I gasped as I tried to breathe. “Welcome to the kickback,” he said and laughed dryly.

I blinked my sight back into focus, then looked straight ahead. I saw a bullet mark in the first tree, the one closest to where we stood. A laugh pealed from my throat when I saw that I had not hit the intended target—rather, I had taken a chunk out of the wood of the tree. The laugh poured from my throat, and water built in my eyes. I held the gun close to me as I tried to gain composure, but it was no use. I had not laughed like this in . . . I was not sure I ever had.

“Phebe?” AK asked, but I could hear the lightness in his voice. He relaxed his hold on me, and I turned toward him. He kept his hands braced on my back, as though he was not yet ready to let me go.

“The shot.” I snorted, which only made me laugh harder. “It did not even come close to the target.” I threw my head back as another wave of amusement hit me. My throat and chest ached from my laughter. When I finally managed to calm, I wiped my eyes and looked at AK. He was watching me with his lips pursed. I fell silent. AK stayed unmoving. Just as I was about to ask him what was wrong, he stepped forward and pushed me back against the tree behind us. My back scraped against the rough bark. He took the gun from my hands and threw it to the ground. Then AK’s lips were crushing mine, his tongue pushing into my mouth. I moaned as I tasted him on my tongue, the flavor of him familiar and so very wanted.

His hands ran down my sides and held me still. I felt his hardness against my stomach and heard his low groan, the vibration from his chest ricocheting through mine. My core became wet as he pressed himself against me. Then he broke away, breathless and muscles tense. “You need . . .” He caught his breath. “You need to fucking laugh more, Red. It looks real fucking good on you.”

My hands were shaking as they held his hard biceps. AK stepped back, then back again, ripping the tie from his hair. His dark hair tumbled forward as he picked up the gun from the ground. “Again,” he ordered and handed me back the gun. I wanted to protest. I wanted to leave the gun and bring him back to me, have his tongue and taste in my mouth. But then it occurred to me.

He had stopped.

No man had ever done that before in my life.