Page 49 of The Bodyguard

Taking his time, he lavished each touch with an almost worshipful intensity, each caress and every heated kiss imprinting his claim upon her very essence. In his arms, she wasn’t merely seen or touched; she was desired completely, irrevocably his.

And when at last he shed his own clothes and positioned himself with deliberate grace between her thighs, she did more than merely acquiesce—she reached up, her hands fiercely cradling his face with a mix of bold determination and tender need.

His descent along her body was a deliberate voyage, his touch commanding yet gentle as he parted her legs with the languid ease of a man confident in his caress. As his lips met the petaled flesh of her labia, he delivered a lick to her clit, teasing and fleeting, drawing a sharp, electrified gasp from her lips. Her body hummed like a symphony of readiness, each note a testament to their shared desire. The scent of her arousal was an intoxicating perfume, heady and enveloping, threatening to drive him to the brink of madness.

He indulged without restraint, his tongue a passionate explorer, savoring the raw, intimate essence of her being. Her taste clung to him like a haunting melody, a sensory memory that echoed the ecstasy they created together. Her cries of pleasure were a symphony in their own right, each note a testament to the intensity of their connection. Her back arched, her body quaking and tensing as she reached her zenith, a deep, contented sigh escaping her lips before she melted into a pool of tranquility.

“I want this,” she declared with a resounding clarity that left no doubt of her intent.

A low, throaty groan escaped him as he pressed into her, each deliberate thrust measured as though crafting an intimacy that was both raw and inexorably profound. Their eyes locked in a shared communion of desire.

There was no haste, no rush, no brutish force—only the slow, blazing, deliberate claiming of a life together, an intimacy so raw and fervent that it left no space for pretense. Andi wrapped her legs passionately around his waist, her fingers gripping his shoulders in a fervent dance that mirrored the quiet, commanding power with which he moved within her. Their bodies intertwined in flawless rhythm, their breaths merging in a secret language too sacred for words, their connection a living, fiery entity forged from desire and trust.

He needed no further orders for her to come; her release was pure and natural—a shattering, silent explosion of passion, like relentless waves crashing mightily upon a storm-darkened shore. Moments later, Mitch followed suit, his whole being tensing as a guttural, rough groan resonated against her neck, his release a final, definitive exclamation that melded with her in a profound, undeniable union.

They stayed like that for a while. Tangled. Breathing. Silent.

Eventually, he rolled to his side and pulled her into his arms, her head tucked under his chin, his hand spread wide across her back.

Andi didn’t speak; she didn’t need to. For the first time, she felt it settle deep inside her—trust. Not the kind that came with obligations or expectations. The kind that came with choice.

She was his, and he was hers.

They drifted like that for a while. No words. Just the hum of the city beyond the glass, the rhythm of his breathing, the heat of his skin.

Then—gunfire shattered the silence, a jarring eruption that split the night like a thunderclap. A single, deafening crack pierced the stillness outside, reverberating through the air with an ominous echo. Andi froze, her breath caught in her throat, her body a statue of tension and fear. Mitch reacted in an instant, leaping off the bed with the grace and speed of a predator. His movements were swift and precise, crossing the floor with lethal accuracy, gun in hand, every muscle in his body coiled like a tightly wound spring ready to unleash its power.

He pressed a finger to his earpiece, his voice cutting through the tension like a sharp blade. “Status?” he demanded, his tone clipped and commanding.

The response was immediate, laced with urgency and tension. “One round fired. Testing the perimeter. Shooter’s gone.”

Andi sat up, her heart pounding violently against her ribs, each beat resonating through her chest like a drum. Mitch turned to her, his eyes steely and focused, a storm of determination brewing within them. “It’s starting,” he declared, his voice low and intense.

She nodded, adrenaline surging through her veins, her hands trembling as she reached for her jacket, the fabric cool and reassuring against her skin.

11

MITCH

The shot had come from the alley below, close enough to crack through the night like a warning, distant enough not to be a genuine threat. Which meant it wasn’t an attack. It was a test. A measure of his response time. Someone wanted to see how fast they moved, how hard he’d clamp down after the trigger was pulled.

Mitch stood at the loft window, barefoot and shirtless, his sidearm steady in his grip. He scanned the rooftops and the streetlights with a practiced eye. No shadows moved. No telltale flicker of a second shooter repositioning. Whoever fired the round was gone. Already cleaned up. Probably halfway across the block by the time he’d registered the crack of the shot.

He didn’t relax. He kept his gaze fixed on the darkened street below, measuring every shift in the wind, every silhouette behind the glass across the way. He let his body calm, his mind slow. Not to drop his guard—but to shift into precision.

Behind him, the loft was still. Andi hadn’t spoken after the shot. She’d gone silent as he moved, letting him sweep the perimeter, letting him lead.

This wasn’t going away; it was all part of the escalation. The hit hadn’t been for her. Not this time. It had been for him.

He turned back into the loft, stepping away from the window, and activated the secure comms line on his phone. The moment it connected to Cerberus, he didn’t wait for pleasantries.

“Langdon. We had a perimeter breach. Single round, no contact. South window, upper loft. Shooter’s already ghosted. I want a full trace run.”

The voice on the other end didn’t waste time. “Copy. Parameters?”

“Everything,” Mitch said, pacing into the kitchen. “Any digital signature in the last forty-eight hours around Donato’s schedule, GPS route, internal campaign cloud access, or personal devices. I want a forensic dive. Deep and wide. Full trace on her staff’s electronics—phones, tablets, watches, personal routers, even smart plugs. If it connects to a grid, I want it cracked.”

A pause.

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