Pulp Vignette

She leaned from the bed, sniffed the holster and gently pulled the gun out. She warmed it between her breasts.
"What the hell are you doing?" he asked.
"I was just sniffing the leather and I got curious." she replied.
"Curious?"
"And I decided the sad and lonely gun needed some warmth and maternal affection. I've always wanted to warm a pistol between my breasts . . ."
"Oh really? Tell me more," he said.
". . . and a few other places," she said, smoothing her slip.
"You are one wacky woman. Now can I please have the gun?" he said.
She slipped the warmed pistol between her legs.
"Oh I get it, You think the gun needs some of your special cologne. You're dangerous."
He reached down to find it and she was on fire.
"Be careful, don't slip," she whispered in his ear, then circled it with the tip of her tongue.
"Hey, I'm a professional," he said
He took her wrist and kissed the underside of it. She went slack, throwing her head back.
He grabbed her other wrist and pulled her forward, pressing his lips against her throat.
He lifted her up.
Thud.
The gun fell. He cuffed her.
"Darling, you're under arrest."