Page 39 of The Bodyguard

And for the first time… she believed it.

She didn’t know how long they stood like that.

His hand came up to cup her cheek with a possessive tenderness, a grip that spoke of unwavering determination, anchoring her so completely that shivers, like whispers of icy fire, raced down her spine—a sensation too intricate to fully articulate. Andi had never been one to surrender, neither with her heart nor her body. Yet, with Mitch, her flesh had betrayed her long before her mind could muster resistance.

Her chest heaved in rapid, almost desperate breaths, each rise and fall echoing the urgency of the moment. Every nerve in her body seemed to burst with vibrancy—not from terror, but from an electrifying, heightened awareness. It wasn’t fear of him that seized her; it was the deep, unrelenting hunger within and the chilling realization that he could claim every part of her with a single command.

His voice emerged low and deliberate, resonating with quiet power. “Go to the bedroom.”

Her breathing faltered, not because the words startled her, but because of the disarmingly calm authority they carried. She opened her mouth to question what was unfolding—a mix of wonder and trepidation—but before a syllable could escape, his gentle yet uncompromising tone silenced her.

“Don’t speak, Andi. Just go.”

Reluctantly, she turned, her steps heavy, as if dragging her forward through a haze of lingering doubt. She navigated the open loft with measured care, moving around the central island, her footsteps softly echoing off the polished hardwood as she approached the expansive entrance of her bedroom. For a heartbeat, she paused, caught in the suspension of uncertainty.

Behind her, Mitch followed—a constant, omnipresent force, never too close nor overtly imposing. “Inside,” he murmured, his voice a velvet caress laid over cool, unyielding steel.

She stepped into the room where shadows danced across the bed, the woven rug, and the textured walls, while the city's light streamed in through tall, arched windows. Standing timidly at the edge of the mattress, indecision tugged at her: Should she turn to meet him, or face the distant, enigmatic wall?

“Face me,” Mitch commanded, taking the decision away from her.

She obeyed. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, she turned, her eyes meeting his. An invisible impulse forced her to wrap her arms around herself, her fingers curling in a self-protective gesture. Though his voice had not raised, and he had not laid a hand upon her in anger, her skin thrummed with a trembling, anticipatory energy.

“Take off your clothes,” he said softly, yet with unwavering resolve.

Her eyes widened in startled surprise. “What…”

“That wasn’t a request Andi, it was an order,” he interrupted, his tone brooking no argument.

Her heart pounded violently, each convulsive beat shaking her core as her knees threatened to give way under the intensity of the moment.

“This isn’t about sex,” he continued, his words measured and deliberate. “It’s about trust. You told me you trusted me. Now, show me that trust.”

Her pulse thundered in her ears as she swallowed hard, caught between fear and desire. With a hesitant urgency, she let her jacket slip over her shoulders, the fabric falling gracefully onto the foot of the bed in a carefully folded heap. Next, she shed the delicate silk top, its gossamer thinness falling like moonlight down her arms, leaving her in nothing but the black lace of her undergarments. Her hands lingered uncertainly at her waistband, suspended in a moment of vulnerability.

Mitch remained motionless, a silent guardian in the charged space.

“Keep going,” he urged, his tone both gentle and firm.

Her fingers trembled as they fumbled with the subtle fastener of her jeans. With one fluid, determined motion, she liberated them from her body, folding them with a mechanical precision borne of necessity. When her hand reached for the clasp of her bra, a surge of hesitation gripped her.

“Slow,” Mitch whispered, his voice a tender command. “Don’t rush this. It isn’t a performance. It’s your choice.”

Drawing a deep, resolute breath, Andi unhooked the clasp as if severing an invisible chain. The straps slid gracefully off her shoulders, releasing their hold as the bra fell away, leaving her exposed to the cool reality of the floor.

The final barrier lay in the form of her panties, the most intimate garment of all. Not removed out of shame—far from it—but because with every piece undone, she felt her personal defenses dissolve, layer by painstaking layer, until she was not merely exposed but utterly, fiercely bare in every sense.

“Stand still,” Mitch commanded, his words slicing through the quiet with a penetrating authority.

Andi halted instantly, her body momentarily suspended in time. Her arms convulsed in a startled spasm, yet she did not try to shield herself, leaving every vulnerable inch exposed. As Mitch advanced, he began a slow, deliberate circle around her—each step resonating with a controlled, methodical intensity that mirrored the stealth of a predator. She felt the blistering heat of his gaze, not fueled by mere desire or casual appraisal, but bearing the weight of a fierce and possessive claiming.

Stopping directly before her, he leaned in, his soft murmur barely audible as he said, “You're shaking.”

“I know,” she whispered back, her voice trembling with the raw sincerity of her inner storm.

He refrained from offering comfort with a tender touch, instead standing resolute—a living monument of strength that anchored her in the present.

“Breathe,” he instructed, his tone imbued with a quiet command.

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