Chapter Five

JUSTINE

 

I wake up to an empty bed, the heat of Campbell’s body lingering like a ghost in mussed sheets. Predawn light tapers in through the window, edging near silver. For once in my life, I hadn’t bothered to set an alarm. Maybe I should have, if they’re—

Movement catches the corner of my eye. A knot of tension in my stomach unspools when I realize Campbell is in front of the vanity, only a few feet away. They’re also not wearing anything but a white T-shirt, the cotton hem stopping right above the sharp frame of their hips. I sit up on my elbow to enjoy the view, tracing the subtle sculpt of muscle from Campbell’s calves to the backs of their thighs.

Their ass is incredible.

Smiling to myself, I cast off the blankets and climb out of bed. This early, the hardwood floor is warmed by the sun, and the whole property is soundless save for the occasional chitter of birds. I press against Campbell from behind to see what has them so busy—stripping down their pistol and piecing it together again.

“Good morning,” they murmur, voice a touch lower than usual.

“Good morning.” I kiss their shoulder blade, then loop my arms around Campbell’s stomach. “What time did you get up?”

“About an hour ago. You were out like a light.” They slide the magazine into place with a firm click, hands moving swift and automatic. “A dream woke me up, so I thought I’d get started for the day.”

I drift my palms down Campbell’s abdomen, one slow caress past the edge of Campbell’s shirt, where tight lines of muscle coalesce. “What happened in your dream?”

I don’t get an immediate answer. Campbell’s breath catches in their throat as I slip one hand lower, pleasantly surprised to find them very aroused. Heat answers in a bloom between my thighs—despite what we did in the painting room and the shower, I haven’t gotten much of an opportunity to touch them.

“I think you can guess,” they say.

A single stroke from my fingertips drives a strained noise from the back of Campbell’s throat. “I was right next to you in bed, Campbell.”

“You were asleep,” Campbell protests, although both hands go still around their weapon. “You looked so peaceful; I didn’t want to interrupt.”

That’s incredibly sweet, but also an opportunity for me to set a boundary. “Campbell, I want to state for the record if you ever want to wake me up to have sex, you can. I promise I won’t complain.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” they respond. Cupping them in the full breadth of my palm feels good—their next breath staggers, catching on the words to follow. “And if I want to throw you on the bed and have my way with you right now?”

My thighs press together in a tight, quivering line. “Do it.”

I know how strong Campbell is, but it’s another thing to have it proven with our bodies already together. A fluid turn breaks my grip, and their mouth claims mine with a deep, hungry kiss. Distantly, I recognize the push, but it’s a controlled fall, stealing my balance only for me to land on the bed with their weight bearing down. The next kiss is slower but no less passionate, Campbell’s teeth grazing against my lip when they break away and luring a moan out of my throat. Above me on all fours, the desire in their eyes is tumultuous as a storm.

“Say you want me inside you.”

The words are like gasoline, but it’s Campbell’s tone that turns a spark into a conflagration. A rush of raw lust answers inside me, hot and eager. “I want you inside me. Campbell, please—”

Their lips seek my own in another harder kiss, hands roaming over my body with possessive intent—breasts, stomach, thighs—rough enough to leave an echo of their touch behind as Campbell’s knees spread my own wider. They haven’t been this pent up since the day I wore the blue dress, and even then, a fraction of control lingered in Campbell’s movements, determined to make me unravel while refusing to come undone.

Not this time. Teeth skirt the pulse in my throat, and Campbell’s tongue runs a hot line down my collarbones until they take one of my breasts into their mouth and suck, hard. Their fingers work unerringly, delving through tangled curls to my pussy. One teasing stroke spreads building slickness across my folds, baring my clit, and Campbell immediately takes advantage with a slow, firm circle of their thumb. White-hot pleasure ripples from my core, hips jerking up to welcome the contact.

I shiver when their mouth leaves one breast for the other, nipples stiff and aching, exposed to the room after the relentless heat of their lips and tongue. Grasping at Campbell’s shoulders for encouragement only gets me so far. What are they waiting for, when I’ve already asked for it—

Campbell thrusts into me, forcing out a moan from high in my throat. I scrape my nails down their shoulder blades, leaving marks through thin cotton, and that hint of pain puts something primal in their eyes. I savor the stretch before Campbell’s rhythm takes my breath away, fast and deep as they can. When I try to wrap my legs around them, Campbell pushes my knee down against the bed, too strong to resist.

“Stay open for me, Justine,” they growl.

Fuck.

It isn’t fair what those words do to me, not when Campbell is maintaining their focus on my clit, pairing spikes of ecstasy with the blissful rise of them filling my pussy, over and over again. Every time I try to say their name, it breaks on another moan or whimper, breath catching hot and quick in my lungs. When I thrash, when I writhe, Campbell’s weight forces me down, making their claim all over again.

“I’m going to come,” I gasp, and Campbell’s smile is utterly wicked.

“I know. I can feel you.” They’re almost close enough to kiss, right out of my reach. “You don’t have to ask. Just take it.”

Even without permission, the visceral satisfaction in their voice would have been enough. I clench tight around Campbell’s next thrust, ecstasy turning the edges of the world a blazing white. They keep moving inside me, refusing to slow down until I’m panting underneath them, wide-eyed and utterly sensitive, wet enough to drip down my thighs. I can’t help but whine as the attention to my clit fades away, although another second of it might have made me scream.

Campbell’s slow withdrawal provokes a full-body shudder, as does seeing my slickness spread across their skin. Yet the fog of afterglow isn’t enough for me to miss the obvious, and I reach out to caress down the flexed line of their thigh.

“This was supposed to be about you.” Not that I mind being lovingly ravished, but it wasn’t why I invited them to bed. “You…didn’t orgasm.”

Campbell hesitates, one hand keeping my hips in place. Doubt plays across their face before it’s carefully erased. “Sometimes it’s difficult for me to do. Focusing on you is a lot easier.”

My brow creases. I don’t want Campbell giving up that kind of release because they think I won’t make the effort. “Difficult how?”

“In the sense of losing control.” They sit back on their haunches, a fine sheen of sweat making the white fabric of Campbell’s shirt cling in a few lovely places. “If I think about that too much, it just doesn’t happen.”

I sit up, too, a pleasant languor settling into my legs as I draw them underneath me. “Is there anything I can do to try to help?”

Campbell frowns. “What did you have in mind?”

There are plenty of options—it’s one of my favorite parts about sex—but one method is in the forefront of my mind. “How do you touch yourself? I bet I could give you a hand.”

They clear their throat. “I don’t. Not often anyway.”

“Oh.” Honestly, I wasn’t expecting that. “It doesn’t feel good?”

“I know my body well enough.” Campbell shrugs. “Getting off on my own time isn’t particularly exciting. And sometimes there’s…”

Slight discomfort passes through gray eyes, which is unusual enough that the pieces suddenly snap together. “Dysphoria?”

“Yes, although I’m not enamored of that word,” they admit, although their shoulders relax a touch. “It’s so technical, as if there’s something wrong with me, which there isn’t. Not on that particular spectrum anyway.”

“I don’t want to touch you in any way that makes you uncomfortable.” I move up onto my knees, making it easier to stay eye to eye. “But I can see how tense you are. If I can make you feel better, I want to try. Do you?”

After a moment of deep, considerate silence, Campbell nods. One hand falls between their thighs, staying slack before they experiment with a slow caress upward. Their breath hitches, eyes falling half-lidded. I can only imagine how much they ache after two days of having our hands on each other with no release. So I lean in closer, framing their limbs but not touching—yet.

“Keep going,” I say, taking delight at the slow flex of muscle in their forearm, tapering down to one of those perfect hands. “You know your own body, but do you know how fucking hot you look doing this?”

Campbell makes a choked sound, a frisson of desire and surprise, and their hand starts to move faster. I don’t miss that it’s the same one that was focused on my clit, that my own arousal is making them slick with every stroke. I carefully lay my palms flat against their shoulders, wary of any recoil, but Campbell bites their lip at the contact, muffling a groan.

“Don’t stop talking.”

I smile, fingers stroking across smooth cotton. That seems safe enough, providing contact without slipping to bare skin. “No one makes me feel the way you do, Campbell. Sometimes I wonder if I could talk you into fucking me the entire day, learning how much I could take before I have to beg you to stop.”

“Justine.” Campbell’s voice deepens on the second syllable, exertion spreading a flush of heat across their face.

“Would you enjoy that?” My knuckles draw a firm line down their sternum, to where their abs are flexed tight with the restrained urge to pump their hips forward. “You could do anything you want to me.”

“Yes—” They barely form the word, eyes squeezed shut. I know when Campbell is close, and they’re right on the edge.

It’s the perfect opportunity to lean forward, pressing my warm body against Campbell’s so I can whisper in their ear, “Let go for me, Campbell. I want to suck your fingers clean.”

They rasp a curse, hips jerking forward, and come undone with a few more swift strokes. Campbell collapses against me, drawing in hard, shaking breaths, and I slip my fingers around their wrist to make my promise true. Another groan leaves their throat as I kiss their fingertips, then take them between my lips. Salt and sex is a heady combination on my tongue, one that lingers until I can taste nothing but skin.

Releasing their hand with another kiss, I look Campbell in the eyes. “Feeling any better?”

“Much.” A slight smile rises to their lips. They look almost flustered, which I can’t help but enjoy. “You know, I was supposed to get some work done today. I had plans.”

“Are you going after that accountant?” I ask.

“I already sent a few messages to get his attention, but I don’t expect a response until tonight at the earliest,” Campbell says, the sated haze in their eyes sharpening to a glint of anticipation. “My plans are for you. There’s something I want you to learn.”

Considering what we were doing a second ago, I can’t help the heat that pours through my body at the suggestion. “Does it involve putting clothes on?”

“Yes.” Campbell kisses me, belaying any protest. “So come join me in the shower.”

I somehow resist the temptation to distract them under the water, if only because I need to be able to focus too. Campbell gets dressed in a pair of jeans and a midnight-blue shirt with a nice deep V, so I stick to casual, snagging a gray camisole out of my suitcase and loose, comfortable pants I like to wear while painting. I’m a little surprised when they put their holster on, but it’s probably in an assassin’s best interest to always be armed.

“Head out to the garden,” Campbell says as I follow them down the stairs. “I’ll be there in a minute, okay?”

Curiosity ties another knot around my mind, but there’s no point in asking questions when I can find out the answers for myself. “Okay.”

I step outside into the sun and take a deep breath. The subtle scent of lilies carries on the air, every pale flower surrounded by a riot of red poppies, each one vivid and rich. How long has it been since I stopped to appreciate a color and imagined how to mix it on a canvas? My old intuition is still there; I just have to rouse it again.

Past the flowers is a collapsible steel table Campbell must have brought outside earlier. The utilitarian design is out of sync with the rest of the house, as are the two open boxes of ammunition on top of it. I recognize the label as nine-millimeter—identical to their handgun—and the black pairs of earmuffs beside the boxes look solid enough to drown out a plane engine, much less gunfire.

The bullet I pry out of the box is small and cold, machined smooth. It must have come from the bottom of Campbell’s locked crate, stored away from the sun. Turning it over in my fingers, it’s hard to imagine that someone’s death rests inside, waiting for the right moment and a pull of the trigger.

“You don’t need to be playing with those yet,” Campbell says from behind.

Turning on my heel to look at them, my eyes widen. Campbell has a broad wooden tray in their hands, stacked high with fruit, cheese, and a pitcher of ice water. A freshly sharpened knife rests on the edge next to a spread of crackers studded with sea salt.

Campbell sets the tray on the side of the table opposite the ammunition. “I’ll make us a real lunch later, but it’s not a good idea to go shooting on an empty stomach.”

I quickly drop the bullet back in the box. It was suddenly heavy, an implacable weight dragging me down. “Shooting?”

“I’ll explain in a minute. Let’s eat.” They pick up the knife, giving its keen edge a quick examination. “What do you want first?”

Everything looks delicious, but I do have my favorites. “The strawberries.”

With any sense, I should have known Campbell would be good with a blade. Yet the assumption doesn’t compare to watching them cut something into perfect pieces, every slice clean and quick. A single drop of juice lingers on the knife when they set it aside, although I care a lot more about watching Campbell’s forearms work than the implement at hand. I take the offered fruit with a cracker and a silk-thin slice of cheese, and the first bite is good enough to interrupt my unerring focus on their body.

“Oh my God,” I murmur. “Where did you get all this?”

“Ulysse dropped off a gift basket this morning.” Campbell pours some water for both of us, then returns to dicing the fruit. “He said part of the deal for borrowing the house was taking some stock off his hand so he doesn’t have to haul everything to the farmer’s market.”

If that means fresh strawberries every morning served to me hand and foot, I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to leave. “When am I going to get to meet him?”

“The old man will introduce himself when he wants to,” Campbell says, amusement plain. “He’s a bit of a loner. But I’ve told him only good things; I promise.”

Between the two of us, we finish off most of the plate with ease, and I’m considering a doze in the sun when Campbell takes their handgun out of the holster and sets it down next to the ammunition. The sound knocks me wide awake.

“You said something about shooting?” I ask, eyes locked on the weapon. I’ve only seen it used once before, pointed at Richard in my house. At the time, I thought Campbell was aiming at me. My mouth goes dry at the memory.

“There’s a set of targets behind you,” they say.

I turn to look. Beyond the line of flowers I’d been enamored with, two steel stands hold up the targets in question. They’re old and sun-worn, their intersecting red circles losing luster the closer they fall to center. A triangle of bullet holes sits in the very middle, the metal puckered with an undeniable force of impact.

“If you’re around me,” Campbell continues, “you need to know how to use a gun safely.”

My voice feels far away. “How to shoot someone?”

“No, no.” They frown. “How to act when there’s a weapon in the room. Most people die from accidents, from misuse. If my pistol was suddenly in your hand, what would you do?”

Panic, probably. “I’d…I’d freeze.”

“Exactly.” The confirmation holds no judgment, and I relax by degrees. Campbell isn’t Richard; they won’t tear into me for not having the best answer. “Which could get you hurt. It’s not safe for me to be armed if you aren’t familiar with the basics.”

I’ve never thought about learning how to use a gun, even to defend myself. Growing up in New York taught me that they’re nothing but tools for violence, and often used against the wrong people. I know they aren’t Campbell’s modus operandi on contracts, but their familiarity with weapons is second to none. If I’m with them, it’s an inescapable factor of our relationship.

Better safe than sorry.

“Okay.” I can handle this. “So how do I start?”

Campbell gestures to the pistol. “By learning how to take this apart. Safety begins with knowing you won’t blow the chamber to pieces by pulling the trigger.”

Sensible. I’m also a lot more comfortable with the idea of dismantling the weapon in front of me than aiming it. “Maybe I should have been paying more attention to what you were doing this morning.”

Their brief laugh makes me shiver. “Well, that wouldn’t have been any fun at all.”

Campbell is more than happy to give a new demonstration, stripping down the pistol piece by piece and naming each one for me—sight, slide, muzzle, and so forth—until the gun is nothing more than a collection of parts, splayed out like a dissection. It mirrors Campbell’s knifework, an efficiency that hangs between beautiful and unsettling.

“This is a nine-millimeter semiautomatic.” Their finger brushes over the frame of the trigger. “The important detail is that it only fires one shot per pull of the trigger. Automatics keep spending bullets until either you let go or run out.”

“How do I reload?” I ask.

“Let’s put this back together, and I’ll show you.” Campbell takes a step away from the table, giving me room. “Do your best. If you start going in the wrong direction, I’ll let you know.”

They’re not baiting me. I have to trust that. This isn’t a test, something for a grade or certification, but the fear of disappointing Campbell eats at me, corrosive as lead. “Give me a second.”

They smile, real and open. “As long as you need.”

I test each piece in my hand, getting a sense of the heft and texture, the same way I did with the bullet. Everything is inert—simple bits of metal waiting to become a lethal whole—except for a faint chemical smell that lingers inside the barrel. After a deep breath, I start to piece the gun together, retracing Campbell’s steps in my mind.

When the frame locks together with a satisfying click, a notch of tension in my body eases, making it a little easier to breathe. The taut spring inside bends cleanly as I screw in the next piece, prepping a perfect line for the slide to connect. It slips into place in one smooth movement, and there’s nothing left but the magazine.

Campbell’s touch startles me, featherlight against my wrist. “You’re doing perfect. Now load it. One shot at a time.”

Their hands guide mine to feed bullets into the magazine, each one sinking deep as I push tight with my thumb. The last one stays exposed, bright copper against dull black; the rest disappear into the base of the gun.

“You’re incredible,” Campbell whispers, breath warm against the top of my hair. “That’s flawless. Are you sure you haven’t done this before?”

I did it. Relief punches a breath out of my lungs. “I…have very good muscle memory.”

“No kidding.” Their arms shift, hugging across my chest. The embrace is welcome, steadying me from the surprise of success. I’m a little dizzy. “Does this scare you?”

“Shooting something?” I ask faintly, but the question is rhetorical. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” I mumble. The fear is primal, the same way a horse bolts from fire. “Maybe it’ll change something inside me. That’s stupid, isn’t it?”

“It’s not.” Campbell’s arms tighten around me, a halo of comfort. “I’ll never force you to do anything you don’t want, Justine. If this is too much, say the word. I can teach you about trigger safety, and we’ll call it a day.”

If there’s anything I know better than fear, it’s resilience. The relentless and stubborn part of myself that has refused to break, no matter how bad things became. That unyielding foundation is why I hired Campbell instead of killing myself to escape. It’s why I’m here right now, in a beautiful place with a person who would sacrifice anything to make me happy. Surrendering because of old ghosts isn’t who I am—I won’t let it be.

“I want to learn,” I say firmly. “Show me.”

Campbell doesn’t ask twice, which I appreciate. Instead, they pick up the ear protectors, sliding one set over their head and offering the second pair to me. “Dreadfully unfashionable, I know. But you can go permanently deaf from a single shot without them.”

Wow. I didn’t know it was that serious.

Once I’m sure they’re on properly, Campbell guides me around the table to stand in front of the targets.

“You’re right-handed, so chances are that your right eye is dominant.” Their voice is faintly muffled, but I can still hear every word. “That’s the target we’ll shoot at too.” One hand slides down to my stomach. “Now move your right foot back a few inches, but keep your hips square and centered.”

After I adjust, Campbell’s palm presses in. “Brace here and bring up your arms, but keep your finger along the trigger guard. You never, ever touch the actual trigger until you’re ready to fire. Understand?”

“Got it.” Looking down the sights is strange, the world drawn down between two steel points. I want to aim at the bullseye, but Campbell gently pushes my left arm down an inch, urging my elbow to relax.

“When you fire, there’s kickback. It’ll hurt like hell if you’re tense when that happens.” Campbell’s touch fades, but they’re still an anchor from behind, keeping me level. “Before you shoot, breathe out. Don’t inhale until you see the shot land. Start whenever you’re ready.”

I exhale, and pull the trigger.

Even with protection, the sharp crack of the bullet echoes through my entire body. As the sound dissipates, I blink to rebalance my vision, drawing in a shaky breath. A new bullet hole is near the center of the target, an inch above the old grouping.

“Finger off the trigger,” Campbell says. “Lower your weapon.”

My weapon. Relaxing my hands is difficult, but I manage, finger on the guard and gun pointed at the ground.

“The safety is on the side.” Their fingers encompass mine, directing my thumb to a little button on the gun. It pops into a narrow groove. “There we go. Give it to me.”

I surrender the pistol without a word, still staring at the target. “I got really close.”

“Close?” Campbell turns me around with a push to the hip. When our eyes meet, their gray gaze is alight with satisfaction. “Justine, you have a great eye. Most first-time shooters barely plink the corner. You’re a natural.”

As I steal another look at the target, making sure it’s real, a smile rises to my lips.

Maybe I could get used to this.