Starting that night, Andrew knows you’re the one. He may not say it out loud, but he acts like it – which means no holding back, no room for debate, no arguments.

It starts with your car.

Predictably, it craps out for the final time when you’re about to head home from a volunteer shift at the animal hospital. You have to call Andrew to pick you up, which, of course, he does without complaint or question, even though you see a dried spray of blood across his neck and a fresh set of bruises over his knuckles that signal he was on a job. He gave you a number for a burner he always carries just for you, specifically so that you can reach him even if he’s working.

You have to listen to Baz chewing out Andrew once you’re home, both of them shouting at each other about responsibility and family and all sorts of things that you know Andrew’s brothers have always used to get under his skin.

Andrew's solution to the problem is elegant.

Instead of taking your car to the shop for you the next day, he clears out your belongings and hauls it straight to the junkyard. The satisfaction he feels watching the sad old brown sedan get crunched into scrap is immense.

When Andrew returns home in a brand new, shiny, deep navy blue SUV with tinted windows and a smooth brown leather interior, you know right away that it’s yours. He takes your keys from the hook by the door and clips the fob onto them as he walks up behind you in the kitchen where you’re wrapping up making dinner. “I’ve got no problem with Baz going in on me for you, but I’m not taking shit from anyone over that disgusting death trap ‘90s Chrysler.” He presents the keys and says, “Take it for a test drive. If you don’t like it, we can go and get something else.”

You snicker and roll your eyes. “I’m sure whatever you picked out for me is perfect, babe. Let me finish cooking; we can pack it up and take my new toy down to the beach to eat.”

With a little smirk, he pockets your keys and wraps his arms around your waist. “What are you making?”

“Adrian and Deran dropped off this gorgeous corvina from a bunch they caught this morning, so I’m just doing a little side salad thing with some corn, mango, avocado, jalapeno. Nothing crazy. Wanna make sure you taste all the sweetness of that fish.”

“Making the most of that weekly farmer’s market trip, I see,” he murmurs, smiling as you present him with a spoonful of the mouthwatering, tangy but sweet but spicy side for the fish. After moaning in your ear, he teases, “God, how did I get so lucky?”

You turn to catch him in a kiss, enjoying the light flavor left behind on his lips, and joke, “Well, you did just buy me a car that I assume has about five zeroes after the first digit.”

A car which, it turns out, you absolutely love. It drives smooth and quiet and there are so many features that it feels more like being chauffeured around than driving. And, when you Google the make and model later that night, the first result is for ‘safest luxury cars on the market this year.’ You roll your eyes but can’t help smiling to yourself. Andrew will always take care of you in any way he can.

'Taking care of you' is Andrew's main concern; that much is clear when you get home from a friend’s bachelorette party so late it’s practically early again sometime in the spring, nearly a year since you met him. Andrew’s waiting up in the bedroom the two of you have both called home now for a few months. He’s already had a shower, sitting on the bed upright and shirtless, and there’s a fresh split in his lip. He’s covered in blotchy bruises darker and newer than the latest set you’ve gotten familiar with since his most recent job.

The moment you’re in the bedroom, he stands up and pulls you tightly into his arms. You drop your purse on the floor and let yourself fold into him. The scent of his woodsy aftershave and the feel of his bare skin on your face as you settle into the crook of his neck.

You murmur into him, “Bad night? I didn’t think you were working.”

“Not working,” he replies gruffly. His hands go from your mid-back down further, resting finally at the top of your ass, tenderly holding the curve beneath your skimpy dress. “Just some bullshit I had to take care of.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not right now.” Andrew pulls back just enough to latch his lips with yours. When you stretch onto your toes automatically, lips seeking more from him and hands twining in his still-damp hair in a way that’s somehow become routine in his previously chaotic life, he sighs into you. Everything relaxes when it’s simply you and him. “Right now, I just want you.”

“You have me,” you assure in the middle of kissing him deeper, breathless as he tastes the lingering whiskey on your tongue. As he noses along your neck, always waiting for your permission and certainty, you groan, “Andrew, please.”

“Please what?”

“Get me the hell out of these uncomfortable clothes.”

He gives you a playful frown as his eyes rake over your outfit properly for the first time. In the small black dress, too-tall strappy heels, and pricey glittering jewelry, you’re positively scrumptious to him. Every piece screams ‘look right here’ in his mind. “But I like this outfit.”

“Well, fine.” Knowing that all he needs is to be distracted, you climb onto the bed on your knees, letting the dress hike up as you spread your knees to give him the view of your ass and pussy. As you look back over your shoulder, knowing full well that the black lace scrap barely covering your wet folds will tempt him beyond belief, you tease lightly, “You’ll just have to fuck me while I’m still in it.”

Andrew’s already stepping out of his boxers as he closes the space between you, pumping his cock enough to get himself good and hard. He reaches forward and tugs back the barely there thong just to snap the elastic back against your ass. When you jump slightly at the sweet sting of it, he chuckles. His first two fingers slip underneath the soft, worn lace of the gusset and find your slick folds. “Jesus Christ, you’re already such a mess for me.

“Can’t help it,” you whine as he starts to play with your clit, his touches light and gentle. “Love you too much.”

“God, I love you, too, angel.” He groans as he yanks your hips back flush with his to get you to grind against him, “The only thing on earth I want right now is to cum in that pretty pussy.”

Hearing the earnest desperation in his tone, you roll your hips and gasp, “Use me, Andrew. Take me however you need.”

His hold on your hips tightens. “You mean that, sweetheart?”

“You have no idea how much.”

“Good girl,” he growls as he smacks your ass hard.

You gasp and moan at once while your flesh turns bright pink. Then he grabs your underwear hard, the fabric stretching and breaking underneath his strength. When you hear a long rip and then the soft sound of them hitting on the floor, you admonish, “Andrew, that’s one of my favorite pairs!”

He grunts almost apathetically as he buries his face between your legs from behind, “I’ll take you out tomorrow and buy you ten more.”

Any response either joking or serious is torn from your throat as his tongue finds your clit. He wraps his arms around your thighs and tugs you to the very end of the bed, flipping his body around so he can get his whole face between your legs without making you get on your back. He laps at your pussy like it’s the only thing that could possibly steady him. Like it’s the elixir of life and the fountain of youth and without it he’d be rotting away.

You don’t know it, but that’s really how it is for Andrew. The unique taste of your pussy coating his tongue turns his brain off like nothing else. He’s borderline addicted. Frankly, going down on you feels downright selfish to him. All you know is how fucking good it feels when he’s ‘selfish.’ He’s spent so much time wrapped up in your thighs now that he knows exactly how to make you cum in about two minutes flat – which means he knows exactly how to slow it down.

You’re on the edge of collapse when Andrew pulls back slightly, softening his tongue, slowing his pace, letting you rut down against him like an animal in heat with how badly you want to get off. The pathetic little whine you give him at being denied your simple pleasure makes his cock throb with need. Being the one who gets you to make sounds like that will never get old. Not for him.

He doesn’t edge you the way he does some nights, making you wait through four or five rounds of getting you worked all the way up before bringing you back down again. Tonight, he can’t resist his need to feel you as you lose yourself, so he only edges you once. The reward of your thighs clamping around his ears is delicious.

Andrew groans as you cum, unashamed of the way your juices coat his mouth after being assured a hundred times that he fucking loves to taste that fresher rush of wetness that comes alongside your orgasm. He’s absolutely convinced he could make you squirt, but you’ve been too insecure to let him really try. He’ll take whatever he can get when it comes to making you feel better than any man before him has.

The moment he’s certain you’ve gotten every morsel of pleasure from the orgasm that you can (and not a moment sooner), he slips out from under you and lines up his cock. You hiss out at the first contact of his tip sliding along your slick folds. At the sound, Andrew tenderly caresses your ass and checks in, “This okay? Don’t wanna hurt you if it’s too much too soon.”

“Give it to me,” you moan as you feel the stretch of his cock’s head at your entrance. “You always take care of me.”

“Damn right,” he snarls as he sinks hard inside of you. That must not be deep enough for him, though, because he shoves your shoulders down into the bed and hikes your ass up so he can push in further. “There we go. That’s my perfect girl.”

You’re whimpering over and over as he ruts inside of you, the stretch absolutely perfect. You’re wet and swollen from him getting you off and every nerve ending is alight with him. The fluttering of your walls around his cock has Andrew moaning and breathing hard within moments, perfectly content with having you.

Then he notices something. You’re whinier than usual, louder, squirmier. Your toes are curling and your eyes and pinched shut so tightly and you’re grasping at the sheets hard. Your pussy is a vise around him and every gushing sound is like an angel’s harp to him.

Then you wail, “Right there, baby, please.”

And he knows this is the one.

Andrew reaches around your body, one hand on your clit, the other pressing down on your lower abdomen, intensifying every sensation inside of you. He feels impossibly deep and impossibly targeted, his cock’s head right against your G-spot. Pressure builds inside of you. Real pressure, not just the kind that comes whenever you have sex. It feels like a dam on the edge of bursting. When you realize how much it feels like you’re actually going to pee all over him, you squirm nervously and start to speak.

But he knows you well enough to know what you’re about to say, so he cuts you off prematurely. His voice is dominant, controlled, intense. No room for disobedience. “Don’t fucking hold back.”

You whine, “But it’s- it’s too- I really think I’m going to-”

“Trust me,” he reassures, slowing the pace of his cock but keeping it just as deep, just as demanding, just as hard. “Just relax for me. Don’t fight it. Let it feel good.”

You practically weep, “I don’t want to make a mess.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No, shit, no. Don’t stop; please.”

“Then you’d better make a fucking mess for me,” he orders. His hand presses hard against your abdomen to the point where he can feel the bulge of his own cock when he presses into you.  “Need you to cum around my cock, angel.”

“I’m- I don’t know if I can-”

“Come on, sweetheart, I know you can. Your body wants to, but you’re trying to fight it. Just listen to me talking.”

His gravelly, masculine, urgent voice is the thing that puts you into a kind of horny trance, your mind loosening up as your body yields to him. You stop focusing on the warm, confusing, divine sensation building inside of you and instead concentrate on your boyfriend above you, talking you through it, rambling the way he does when he starts to get close.

“Fuck, wish you could see yourself the way I see you right now. You’re perfect. You’re so fucking gorgeous like this. So sexy. You’ve got no idea just how hooked on you I am. Jesus Christ, I can’t believe you’re really mine.” All of a sudden, he feels you begin to clamp down and hears the sharp cry you can’t help releasing. Andrew praises, low and serious, “There you go. That’s it, sweetheart. That’s it. Stay right here with me.”

The orgasm slaps you across the face hard enough you think for a half second you might lose consciousness. Everything goes neon bright and silent. Your whole body rolls, every muscle tightening up and releasing in agonizing order. You can’t think and you don’t want to. You’re floating up and slamming down at once.

And, all along, it’s Andrew telling you how loved you are, how flawless, how beautiful.

 You’re only very vaguely aware of Andrew coating your insides because this is the kind of orgasm that puts you in a hazy, warm, cozy headspace like looking back on a perfect vacation. Your vision swims with pleasure and you don’t care about anything at all for what feels like ages.

When you resurface fully, you’re wet. You’ve collapsed onto your front and the sheets beneath you are soaked in a small puddle directly under your body. You look behind you and Andrew’s got your wetness dripping down his thighs. His cum is leaking out of you, yes, but this veritable storm has to be all you.

Your cheeks flame so red it borders on painful as you take in the scene around you. “Oh my god, shit, I’m so-”

“No.” He leans down, flips you over, and kisses you. Both hands on either side of your face. Holding you tight. “You’re so hot, baby, I promise. That’s the hardest I’ve cum in years. You just go shower and I’ll change the sheets, alright?” As you lazily nod and let him help you to your feet, he chuckles, “And I’m investing in a mattress protector because, Jesus, I’m definitely going to make you do that again.”

The blush only gets worse.

When you’re done showering, returning to a freshly made bed with the spare set of linens, Andrew’s reclining on his side with an ornate wooden box about the size of a thick textbook in his hands. “I got you a present.”

Tugging on one of his shirts and a pair of your comfy panties, you joke, “If I’d known that, I wouldn’t have given in to distracting you with sex so quickly.”

He grins as you join him on the bed, still toweling off your hair as you perch between his legs. “That’s why I didn’t mention it earlier.”

You roll your eyes and nudge him. “What the occasion?”

“That’s complicated.” Andrew straightens up, hands you the surprisingly heavy box, and says cautiously, “You can open it now, but don’t freak out.”

He’s earned another eye roll from you. “That’s basically my trigger phrase for freaking out.”

“Shit, yeah. Sorry.” He runs a hand through his hair, pinches the bridge of his nose, and starts, “Just…things have been a little tense lately with this family that runs drugs down in the tourist traps.”

Quiet as you look over his mess of bruises with fresh eyes, you ask, “That’s who hurt you tonight?”

“I hate to say it, but you should see the other guy,” he chuckles, but you don’t take the bait to laugh. Andrew touches your cheek gently and sighs, “Look, I’m fairly sure they’re harmless at the end of the day, but I want you to be able to protect yourself when I’m not there.”

You swallow hard and nod. The weight of the box feels ominous now. “Is this what I think it is?”

“Yes.” Seeing your nerves, he brushes your hand with his thumb and murmurs, “I’ll teach you how to use it, okay? Nothing to be scared of. It’s just a tool like anything you use out in the garden or to fix things around the house.”

With a slow, heavy nod, you open the clasps of the box and take in the handgun. Being with Andrew, a sneaking part of your brain always figured you’d end up with one of your own – after all, the collection in Andrew’s locked safe in the attic is pretty extensive – but the moment being here feels surreal. Scary.

It’s not like anything you’ve seen before. Andrew’s guns are all matte black, militant, intimidating. The kind of thing you’d expect from an action movie – or, well, a criminal enterprise. But this one is custom, plated in white with pearlescent grips and gold details, something a sleek and sexy Bond girl would carry.

All you can manage to get out is, “It’s…pretty.”

He shrugs and replies, “I thought it’d feel a little more like a gift than a necessity that way. Go ahead and pick it up; it’s not loaded or anything.”

You do as he says, hands shaking slightly. You’ve never touched a gun before. You’re surprised by its weight, maybe a pound, and how sturdy it seems. Which is silly. Of course it’s heavy and sturdy; it’s a metal killing machine. But it feels intuitive, too, like something you could get comfortable holding. Andrew’s chosen well; it doesn’t seem like too much for you. Along the base of one of the grips, you notice a delicate script of three letters.

Running your thumb over the calligraphy, you ask him, “What’s the engraving mean?”

He swallows thickly and suddenly seems much more shy than you’ve seen him in a long time in your relationship. “Ah, it’s your initials. Just a little personalization.”

“My initials?” Confused, you examine the three letters, two of which match up. The last, though, is a ‘C.’ “But my last name doesn’t start with- Oh.”

Your eyes widen as you stare down at that letter, realization dawning wonderfully through your veins and heart.

Cody.

The ‘C’ is for Cody. As in ‘wife of Andrew Cody.’

A weapon is a permanent purchase, so he added a permanent title to it. You look back up at him. His eyes are unsure but expectant, hesitant but hopeful. You answer every unspoken question in his expression with a simple smile. “It’s perfect.”

You never expect to actually have to use the gun. You go through the licensing process (well, the version the Codys do), let Andrew take you out to a range to learn to use it properly, and accept his gifts of three different purses with concealed-carry holsters to make him feel secure with your safety. But, after that, you expect to keep it in said holsters, knowing you’d only ever pull it out if you genuinely felt your life was in immediate danger.

Then that time comes. A Friday night out with the girls has turned into you walking to your car down a single block alone. That walk has triggered a man who’s been casing you all night without your knowledge. And, before you know it, you’ve fired a loud, harsh, reverberating pop into the city’s darkness, embedding a bullet deep in the upper outer thigh of a man you don’t recognize. You point the weapon at his forehead and make him scramble into an alley and out of site.

With your free hand, you dial Andrew’s emergency number. As always, he picks up not even the whole way through the first ring. You speak before he does: “I- I need your help.”

“I’m on my way.” You hear him get up, turn the TV off, and grab his keys. He checks your location and asks, “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

“No, but- Um. It’s…complicated.”

On the other end, you hear his truck roaring to life. “Tell me.”

Looking down the line of your arm and the barrel of the gun, you stammer out, “This- this guy grabbed me and he tried to- he was going to- so I-” You swallow hard and cringe at the blood pooling around your shoes. At the stance he’s taken in front of you, hands behind his head, trying to appease you. “I shot him.”

Andrew’s voice is frantic, which is new. “You shot someone?!”

“I had to! He- he was-”

Your words shatter into tears again.

At that, Andrew’s tone goes warm and intimate. “Stay calm for me, angel. I’ll take care of everything. Is he dead?”

“No, he’s- Fuck, I’m- I’m holding him at gunpoint.”

“Okay, good. We can-”

“Good?!”

“Trust me; that’s better than the alternative.” He lets out a long breath and tells you firmly, “Just hang on for a minute; I’m almost there.”

A few moments later, you hear the roar of Andrew’s truck down the block, way over the speed limit, running reds based on the amount of honking that follows close behind. His headlights illuminate the street and then he parks crookedly in front of the alley, blocking any possible view of the situation unfolding.

Andrew’s drawing his own gun from his belt as he approaches, assessing the scene. When he sees that you were being serious and it wasn’t someone’s attempt at a compelling trap for him to walk into, he lets out a sigh of relief. Relief. His presence starts to calm your fried nerves, if nothing else.

After reaching your side, Andrew trains his own gun on the man who’s cowering and shaking on his knees and then tells you, “You’re alright, sweetheart. Everything’s okay. I’m here now. Go ahead and put your gun away.”

You breathe shakily and tuck the pistol back in your purse. The moment it’s away, you’re finally able to let your body relax. You fall down to your ass, leaning against the brick wall behind Andrew, and catch your breath in shaking sobs.

After a minute of letting your breaths even out, Andrew cocks the gun and demands quietly, “What happened?”

The night tumbles from your mouth: “I was just walking back from the restaurant and he came out of nowhere. He grabbed me and- and I never would’ve fought back if I thought he was just going to rob me or something. Like you taught me. But he knew my name. He said it. He said he knew I was Pope’s girl.”

Andrew nods – slow, measured, mean. He cracks his neck in one harsh motion. Then he says, “Good job. You did the right thing.” He turns his attention to the man in question and asks, “Now, who the fuck are you and who do you work for?”

He’s shrinking under Andrew’s steel glare, knowing that his appearance has just made the odds he gets out alive drop dramatically. “I- I was sent by the Pauls. They just paid me to send a message. I don’t know shit about anything else, I swear.”

“That’s the family I was telling you about,” Pope – because he’s Pope right now, not your Andrew – informs you gruffly over his shoulder. That’s all he says, though, before turning back. With an annoyed huff, he clarifies, “You idiots were going to use her to get to me?” He drops lower, leaning his hand on his knee like he’s speaking to a misbehaving child. “That’s not very nice.”

“I just take the orders, man, I didn’t have any-”

Andrew’s gun raps pointedly across his cheek, leaving a mean gash. “Wasn’t looking for your input.” He pushes his finger harshly into the bullet hole that your gun’s left in his outer thigh. “How about this? I’m going to show you how it makes me feel when my girl gets threatened, and then you can go and tell your buddies that they’re more than welcome to come to me directly with their problems. Let them know that she’s off limits.”

And the beating starts.

Even a few feet back, blood sprays over your previously cute jeans and top when Andrew begins punching over and over, using the butt of his gun to break bones in between hits. He doesn’t stop the barrage of merciless violence until the man spits out three of his teeth into a ruddy splutter and goes unconscious.

Slowly, you stand and wipe blood from your face, stare down at the battered man beneath you, barely wheezing out thready life, and expect to feel fear break through the adrenaline now that you’re completely out of harm’s way. Now that you’ve watched your boyfriend beat the pulp out of another human being after you put a bullet in his leg.

But the thing that appears instead is something like pride.

Because, right now, Andrew’s looking at you like he wants to marry you. You don’t know that’s what the look means, but it is. He’s looking at you like you’re his whole future, like he can truly picture a life with you, like you’re his other half. He doesn’t say that now. Not yet. Instead he tucks his own gun back inso his belt, pulls you under his arm, and murmurs, “Let’s get you home and into a bath. You did good.”

“I did?”

“You kept yourself safe and then you trusted me enough to clean up after you.” He rubs your arm affectionately and assures, “You did perfect.”

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