Then I realized that a second gun was pressing against my belly button.

He realized that his own gun was pressing nothing but a satchel, propped inside the door.

The gun was pressing me no longer; but the voice repeated a warning.

How can I concentrate while guns press me?

Tyburn's guns were still pressing the glass, waiting for its invisible edge to pass them.

The gun didn't press into his side so hard now.

By the time she did, she was recognizing something else, a gun pressed against her, muzzle first.

The Bear's gun is pressing harder now, jammed against his skull.

At his brief call for fire, the guns that were already set up simply pressed the firing button and went into reload.

They were banging those into the satchel, too, when Margo realized that a gun was no longer pressing her.