Page 40 of The Bodyguard

At first, her inhales were tentative and uneven, each breath a shuddering echo of uncertainty. When he urged, “Again,” she drew a deeper, more determined breath, as if coaxing herself into unwavering resolve.

“You’re not in danger,” he declared, his voice a beacon of calm authority. “You’re in command—because you chose this.”

Another measured breath replaced the silence.

“You chose me.”

That declaration struck her with the force of an unseen blow; its truth stung her eyes, and they shimmered with tears born of its profound weight.

Stepping closer by half a step, he maintained just enough distance to assert his control, his presence an undeniable statement of power. “I want you to experience the exquisite surrender of control without fear. Not because you are weak, but because you’re strong enough to allow someone else to bear the weight—even if only for a moment.”

Her knees trembled, threatening to buckle as she struggled against the instinct to hold on to her protective armor, yet his steadfast presence kept her rooted.

“I see you,” he murmured, his low voice saturated with fervor. “I see every part of you—the tenacious fight, the blazing fire, the hidden fear. And through it all, I remain here.” At his command, she squeezed her eyes shut until he softly yet insistently said, “Look at me.”

When she opened her eyes, his unwavering gaze met hers—a look that declared, without a hint of intrusion, that she was exactly as she should be: cherished and protected.

“Good,” he murmured with a note of satisfaction. “Now come to me.”

Compelled by an inner surrender that pulsed like a newly kindled flame, she advanced until the gentle pressure of her chest met the firmness of his. He did not seize her with brash urgency; instead, his hand found its place at the back of her neck—a grasp both solid and reassuring, a silent promise of steadfast care.

“I’ve got you,” he repeated, each syllable sinking deeply into her, reverberating with the secure cadence of a promise.

In that suspended moment, she released not herself, but the perpetual struggle—the relentless need to maintain control, the compulsive burden of performing on strength alone. Leaning into him, as her bare skin brushed against the barrier of his clothed armor, she allowed herself the liberty of trust. His other arm slid around her, enveloping her with a fierce protectiveness. For a timeless, suspended instant, they remained intertwined, their breaths converging into a shared, steady rhythm. Her forehead rested against his chest, aligning itself to the consistent, comforting thump of his heart.

He was unyielding—a steadfast pillar amidst a relentless storm—and in his embrace, she found that for once, she could let go of the fight to lead.

Eventually, he guided her toward the bed, yet he did not merely lay her down. Carefully, he draped a soft throw over her shoulders, resembling a delicate shield, before leading her back through the loft to her plush couch.

Seating himself with deliberate grace, he then eased her between his legs, cradling her as if she were a precious treasure—not fragile, but resilient in its worth—as he helped her sink down and encouraged her to lay her head against his thigh.

Andi could feel his hard length pulsing, but he made no move to have her service him in any way. At first she was stiff and nervous, but then, gradually, her breath found a steady cadence as the intensity of his hold anchored within her a sublime, newfound surrender.

She didn’t speak for a long time. And then, finally, she asked the only question that mattered. “What happens now?”

Mitch didn’t hesitate. “Now I keep you alive,” he said. “And if you let me… I teach you what it means to feel safe.”

Andi closed her eyes. For the first time in what felt like forever, she believed he could… and that was even more frightening than anything else.

9

MITCH

Mitch was already awake when the sky cracked open with the first light of morning.

He stood at the window of Andi’s loft, arms crossed over his chest, shirtless, the quiet hum of the city below offering no comfort. He hadn’t slept. Not really. Not after last night. Not after watching her strip away every layer of defense—physical, emotional, political—and hand him her trust like it was a live grenade.

She’d fallen asleep sitting between his legs, her cheek pressed against his thigh, warm and naked beneath the blanket he’d wrapped around her, her breathing slow and even for the first time in days. It had taken every ounce of restraint not to scoop her up in his arms and carry her to bed, but he suspected that’s what she expected, and she deserved better than that.

She hadn’t spoken after that final question. ‘What happens now?’ But she hadn’t needed to.

Now… he protected her.

Now… he figured out who the hell was trying to destroy her from the inside out.

He pulled his encrypted phone from the kitchen counter and typed a single message to Cerberus’ primary digital operations team:

Request priority check: Surveillance signatures. Loop for trace echoes—digital, mobile, wearable. Possibly unconfirmed breach via comms layer. Suspect internal.

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