Creed (Unfinished Hero #2)(92)

When he did, I declared, “I hope I never, ever get used to you sleeping next to me. I hope I never, ever get used to waking up next to you. And I hope I never, ever lose thinking how every kiss you give me is pure beauty.”

I watched his eyes, still slightly sleepy, flare before he murmured, “Jesus, Sylvie.”

I held his gaze and warned softly, “You should always be ready.”

I caught a nanosecond of his brows drawing together before I flew backwards. Breaking from his hold, my quickness and momentum making it so when I hit my back, I could curl my legs and h*ps over and do a backwards somersault. I landed on my feet by the side of the bed. Reaching down, I grabbed the two Nerf blasters and a bunch of ammo packs I had stored under the bed. I tossed one toy gun on the mattress with some reloads before I lifted my gun and took aim.

I half expected Creed to balk. He said he didn’t play at work.

This would be totally unfun.

Luckily, the minute I lifted my fake weapon, he went back on this declaration. I knew it because his arm shot out, he grabbed the gun and rolled, disappearing with a loud thump on the other side of the bed.

It should be noted, he did all this before I even got a f**king shot off!

Shit!

He was good. Even at Nerf!

Wearing my undies and cami, I darted out the door, plastered my front to the wall by the side of the jamb and peered around, me and my gun.

A Nerf dart shot by me, so close I could feel the whiz of air kiss my cheek.

Shit!

He was seriously good.

I pulled back, fired off two blind, heard heavy footfalls which meant Creed was on the move, so I dashed down the hall to find cover.

I hit the living room and threw myself behind the couch. I shoved one reload into my panties, kept the other in hand and when I heard Creed coming down the hall, I lifted up, aiming at the doorway.

He hit it wearing faded jeans only partly done up and I immediately unleashed a hail of dart fire. One glanced off Creed’s shoulder, another off his arm before he returned fire and disappeared behind an armchair.

I ducked behind the couch, reloaded and got up to a crouch, peeking over the back, not seeing Creed. I straightened further, backing away, gun pointed in his direction as I headed toward the entryway.

I heard a, “Meow,” and spared a glance down at Gun who was sitting in the entryway looking up at me.

Her “meow” was not a “what the f**k are you doing?” meow. She was used to my whacky behavior. Although, I’d never had a Nerf fight in the house, my whacky behavior had run the gamut so she wasn’t alarmed. Her “meow” was a “when the f**k are you gonna feed me?” meow.

I looked back Creed’s way, still backing up as I muttered, “In a second, Gunny.”

“Meow,” she replied, unimpressed by the fake gunplay or the fact that her kickass Momma and a huge badass alpha were engaged in a Nerf fight. All she cared about was she was hungry.

“Promise,” I told her and saw Creed shoot from behind the armchair, moving in a crouch, gun up and firing my way.

One hit me in the stomach and I got off three shots of my own before I disappeared in the dining room.

“Gut shot,” I heard Creed call and he was right. If there were rules, which luckily there weren’t, he just won.

But I was having too much fun.

“I’m still standing!” I shouted back.

I zoomed to the kitchen, took cover behind the bar and had my gun up, braced on the bar, eyes to the doorway when Creed entered. Another hail of gunfire, from him and me, before he took cover behind the dining room table.

At that point, all hell broke loose. Nerf darts hitting the dining room table making papers fly, Nerf darts striking the bar and flying over my head. They were everywhere.

It got to the point I had no reloads and I knew Creed didn’t either because he’d stopped firing. As I scrambled around the kitchen floor to grab darts to refill, I heard Creed moving through the dining room, his treads fast and thundering.

Shit, he was on the attack.

Nerf done, we were going hand to hand.

Awesome!

I threw the gun aside, braced in a crouch and as he rounded the bar, I sprung up and launched myself at him.

I hit him dead on. Snaking one arm around his neck, one around his back, holding on and, upon taking my weight, he fell back a step. I rounded his legs with a calf and slammed in behind his knees, succeeding in taking one out. His big body pitched to the side, his arms curled around me and we went down to the kitchen floor, Creed’s shoulder slamming heavily into it, me slamming heavily into Creed.

Even as I moved to gain an advantageous position, I asked, “You okay?”

His answer was to roll me to my back, his weight on me.

He was okay.

He didn’t get the chance settle before I managed to buck him off and thus commenced the tussle. Creed didn’t hold back, I didn’t either and we were grunting and breathing heavily before I, not entirely surprisingly but also annoyingly, wound up pinned to the kitchen floor on my belly.

Shit!

“Give?” Creed asked.

“No,” I answered on a heavy breath, arching my back and cocking a knee to try to get it under me in order to lift up and use my weight to throw him off.

“Baby, you’re beat,” he informed me.

“No, I’m not,” I informed him, straining against his weight.