Page 29 of Unguarded

What I can’t decide is if I’m willing to stick it out for longer in order to protect her from whoever is stalking her.

As if on cue, a knock sounds on the door again. I reach formy pistol, keeping my hand on the butt of the gun before nodding to Brooks to look through the peephole. After seeing whoever it is, he opens the door.

“Delivery for Kitten?” a male voice says.

I stand, my hackles rising. Brooks steps aside to reveal a hotel employee holding a massive bouquet of blood-red roses, a note in his hand.

I don’t even realize what I’m doing as my hand slams around the guy’s throat, the roses crashing to the floor.

11

MONROE

It’s those hands—those rough, callus cowboy hands. I’ve only felt those fingertips on my calf muscle, but I’m imagining them in other places. I kick the covers off as my body temperature rises. I’m still half asleep, but I woke up with a tight, coiled desire in my core that was impossible to ignore.

My fingers slide under the waistband of my buttery-soft biker shorts. I find myself already slick with wetness.

Maybe I was dreaming about him …

The quiet, muscular, overprotective cowboy bodyguard enters into my vision without warning. I hold back a moan as I rub my index finger in a circle around the peak of my sensitive clit.

He’s so fucking tall and big and focused … always focused on me, on keeping me safe.

A wave of pleasure washes over me. I’ve never thought about a man like this. I’m yearning to be touched. It’s beenmonths since anyone took control of my body and years since I actually enjoyed it.

Oh my … I want my bodyguard to touch me.

The realization hits me like a ton of bricks. I don’t just want to fantasize about it. If he made a move, I’d be over the moon with my consent.

I continue to caress my clit, circling and brushing over it as the buildup rises to a breaking point.

I want him. I want his touch. I crave it. I cravehim.

I picture him in his black T-shirt and jeans, sneaking into my room in the middle of the night. It’s so wrong. So unprofessional. It’s wildly inappropriate, but I imagine him slipping through my door, cowboy hat still on.

He sets the hat down on the nightstand before peeling his T-shirt off to reveal taut, defined abs.

He watches me touching myself with that hard, hungry stare—with the cold, calculating eyes that scan the crowd in search of danger to protect me. This time, he scans the length of my naked body.

He slowly undoes his belt before sliding his jeans and underwear down. He stands in front of me, completely naked, with his impressive, hard length protruding out toward the bed.

He takes a step closer, placing his hands on the mattress, and my eyes trail over his corded forearms. The moonlight casts the perfect amount of light on the muscled planes of his biceps and abs. My mouth waters.

“What are you doing in here?” I breathe. My husky voice betrays my lustful thoughts.

He tilts his head to the side, eyes dipping down to study mybreasts. “You want me to leave?” His voice is scratchy, coated with clear, unbridled desire.

He wants me.

“No,” I say firmly, way too quickly.

My face heats, but I don’t think he can see it in the dark room. I continue to rub myself, the pleasure spreading throughout my body, infusing my bloodstream.

He leans forward, that callus fingertip reaching for me. “Move your hand.”

I gasp at the sound in my head; his deep voice, with his Southern accent, telling me what to do in bed so he can please me, sends me into a mind-shattering orgasm. The pleasure rolls over me in waves, and my nipples harden underneath his hoodie as I come from my own fingers.

I lie there for a few moments until the aftershocks of my orgasm dissipate. My fingers are still hovering over me, the sticky feeling tempting me to keep going, to feel it again.

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