The next morning, the sun was harsh, but the air between them was harsher. Max stood behind her on the practice range, his large hands guiding hers as she lifted the sleek black pistol.
"Don't fight the recoil," Max murmured, his breath hot against her ear. "Absorb it. Make the weapon an extension of your arm."
He shifted his weight, his thigh pressing against hers, grounding her. The distance was a distraction she both hated and craved. It took her back to the yacht, the salt air, the moonlight, and the way his hands had felt on her skin when there were no guns between them.
"You're thinking about the yacht," Max teased, his voice vibrating through her shoulders.
"I'm thinking about my aim," she lied, though her heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs.
"Liar," he whispered. He tightened his grip on her hands, helping her sight the target. "Focus, Ruby. If you want to burn the world down with me, you have to be able to hit the matchstick."
