Page 88 of The Bodyguard

“You sure?” he asked.

Andi nodded and knelt on the soft rug in the center of her bedroom, the warm glow of the city curling through the windows behind her. The open space was quiet, hushed, intimate. Mitch stood a few feet away, still half in shadow, his gaze locked on her like she was something sacred.

She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. She just lifted her chin and held his eyes, waiting.

He moved slowly, deliberately—his hands going to the hem of his shirt, dragging the fabric up over the hard lines of his torso. The muscles she’d mapped with her fingers a hundred times flexed as he pulled it off and dropped it to the floor. His jeans followed, unhurried, until he stood in front of her, bare and unashamed.

Her breath caught.

He was already hard—thick, flushed, heavy with want—and when he stepped closer, she tilted her face up to meet him, lips parted.

“Open,” he said, voice low, firm.

She did.

He slid his cock past her lips with slow, controlled intent, one hand curling into her hair as her mouth wrapped around him. She moaned softly at the first taste—salt and heat and him—her tongue moving instinctively, reverently.

He didn’t thrust. Not yet. He just held her there, still and open, his fingers stroking her scalp, his cock resting heavy on her tongue.

“You’re perfect like this,” he murmured. “On your knees. Mouth full. Mine.”

Heat bloomed low in her belly. Her hands came to rest on his thighs, steadying herself as she gave in completely to the rhythm he set. And when he finally moved—deep, slow, unrelenting—it wasn’t just pleasure. It was worship.

She continued to pleasure him until he pulled back. “That’s enough,” he said. “I want to come in that sweet, tight pussy of yours.”

Andi arched up an eyebrow. “It’s your pussy.”

Mitch grinned. “You’re right. It’s mine.”

“Damn straight.” Andi rose from her knees and then stood on her toes and kissed him—slow, deep, sure.

His hands came up, cupping her jaw, his thumbs brushing the hollow just beneath her cheekbones. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. Everything they hadn’t said in front of the crowd—every brush of loyalty, every vow of protection, every broken piece of them rebuilt in silence—it all lived in this moment.

Andi exhaled, resting her forehead against his.

“This city doesn’t know it yet,” she whispered, “but it’s ours now.”

Mitch’s voice was rough. “It always was.”

She laughed once—quiet and surprised. “You going to be okay not being the guy with a gun in his hand every minute?”

His mouth curved slightly. “I’ll still carry. Just maybe not for work. Fitz is looking forward to a lucrative contract from the city ensuring the new mayor’s safety.”

“That’s good,” she said, lips brushing his. “Because I’m still going to piss people off. You’ll probably need it.”

Mitch’s smile deepened. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Outside, the city pulsed. She didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, but she knew who’d be there when it came. And for now, that was enough.

The loft was different now. Not because of the victory, or the champagne stains on the rug, or the way the skyline looked softer through the windows—like even the city had finally exhaled. It was different because Mitch hadn’t packed again. She watched him, taking in his calm, measured stillness that always set her nerves on fire.

She crossed the room, crawled up on the bed, stretching out invitingly. It wasn’t just lust, it was something else. Something that felt like peace. Like permanence. He crossed the room without a word. Slow. Deliberate. When he stopped beside the bed, her body lit up before he even touched her.

“Mitch,” she whispered.

His eyes were dark, heavy with something deeper than hunger. Worship. That’s what it felt like.

“I love you,” he said, low and soft.

---