Page 60 of The Bodyguard

“I need you,” she breathed, her voice barely a whisper.

“I own you,” he declared, his voice a dark promise.

She cried out when he licked her—one long, relentless stroke from her entrance to her clit—and then did it again, her fingers clawing at the wall, her knees trembling.

When he stood, he didn’t bother with undressing. He unzipped, freed himself, and rubbed the head of his cock through her slick folds until she was shaking with need. Then he drove into her with a single, savage thrust. Andi gasped, her head dropping forward.

“Look at me,” he demanded, his voice a guttural snarl.

She turned, her eyes wide and wild, meeting his gaze over her shoulder.

“I want you to remember,” Mitch growled, his fingers digging into her hips as he pounded into her. “Every time you think about stepping into danger without me, I want you to remember this. How it feels to be mine.”

“Yes, Sir,” she panted.

He thrust harder. Deeper. One hand snaked around her throat from behind, controlling her, possessing her.

Her legs gave out, but he caught her around the waist, his other hand supporting her as he relentlessly drove into her. She came with a shattered cry, her body convulsing. But he didn’t stop. Not until he pushed her over the edge a second time, then followed with a groan, coming deep inside her with a final, punishing thrust.

When he pulled out, she sagged against the wall, her breath coming in ragged gasps. He caught her before she could collapse, lifting her into his arms and carrying her to the couch, sitting down and settling her in his lap, her face against his neck, her body curled into his. Neither of them spoke for a long minute.

Finally, he tipped her chin up, forcing her to look at him. “You belong to me,” he said, his voice rough with something deeper than command.

Andi stared at him, and then she nodded. Not a word. Not an argument. Just a quiet, certain yes.

For one fleeting moment, the world outside the loft didn’t exist. Not the cameras, not the campaign, not the bullet that had shattered the night hours ago. Just her, curled naked in his lap. Just him, wrapped around her like he could hold the danger at bay.

But he couldn’t.

Mitch knew it even as he pressed his lips to her damp temple. Whoever had pulled that trigger hadn’t missed by accident. They’d sent a message.

Andi was safe—for now. But he couldn’t keep her in his arms forever. And when the next shot came, he knew… they’d aim to kill.

14

ANDI

Andi woke aching in every possible way—her body sore, her muscles tight, her throat dry. And her heart? It was a mess of confusion and certainty she wasn’t ready to untangle. The loft was quiet, the hum of the city outside just background noise, but inside, everything had shifted.

Sunlight filtered through the east-facing windows, catching on the exposed brick. She blinked once, then twice, trying to remember how long it had been since she’d felt this kind of tired—not politically tired, not burned-out-campaign tired. No, this was the kind of tired that came from surrender. From fire. From being stripped bare and rebuilt by hands she couldn’t stop thinking about.

She reached for the pillow beside her. Still warm. Mitch had already gotten up, but not long ago. Her body ached in the best kind of way—thighs sore, her hips marked from his grip, her lips slightly swollen from the way he’d kissed her like she was the only thing that could keep him sane.

Last night had been a line in the sand. A turning point. She’d seen the edge he kept so tightly leashed. She’d tasted what it felt like when he let go. And she’d reveled in every second.

But now, with morning creeping in and no sheets tangled around her to shield her from the real world, the loft felt smaller. Tighter. Every footstep echoed. Every breath carried weight.

She dragged herself out of bed and moved through the space on autopilot, pulling on her favorite oversized, slouchy sweater, which was loose knit, and came to her knees. It wasn’t his, but she’d seen the way he looked at her legs. She left the bedroom, headed toward the kitchen. She needed coffee and a reset. Preferably in that order.

Mitch was already up. Dressed. Black T-shirt, button up Levis, pacing in front of the window like a panther waiting for a reason to strike. He didn’t look at her when she entered, but she felt the awareness in his body, the way he tracked her without turning. Always aware. Always ready.

“You slept,” he said, still facing the glass.

“Eventually.” Her voice came out scratchier than she expected. “You didn’t?”

“I never do when someone puts a bullet through my night.”

Andi didn’t answer that. She just went to the counter and poured herself a cup of coffee. The silence stretched long. Not tense—but charged. Like the air was still humming with the echo of last night’s storm.

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