Page 17 of Escorting the Bodyguard
My whole body locks.
“Shit,” I mutter, glancing toward the nightstand. “I don’t have one.”
The words feel like a death sentence. My cock throbs against her ass, and I’m about to lose my fucking mind.
She reaches blindly, opens the drawer. We both stare at the crinkled foil square sitting in the back corner like a lifeline.
“Thank fuck,” I breathe, snatching it up.
“We’re using it.” There’s relief in her voice, too.
“Fucking right we are.”
I rip it open and roll it on fast, my body practically vibrating with the need to be inside her.
“This okay?” I ask, voice rough.
She nods, voice breaking. “Please.”
I line up again, rub the tip through her wetness, and slide in slow. Inch by inch. Her body clenches around me like a vice, and I have to grit my teeth to keep from losing it right then and there.
“Jesus, Gemma,” I breathe. “You feel—fuck.”
I start to move. Deep and slow at first, every thrust dragging a sound from her throat that I feel in my bones.
I watch the ripple of her ass with every stroke, hands locked on her full hips as I drive into her. She pushes back against me, greedy for more. Her moans sharpen. Her hands clutch the sheets.
“Harder,” she gasps. “Don’t hold back. I can take it.”
I grip her tighter and give it to her. Deep, punishing strokes that make her cry out with each one. Every thrust unspools something in me I didn’t mean to give—need, possession, something close to worship. I bury it. Just keep moving.
Sweat slicks our skin. My control starts to unravel. I reach around and rub her clit, tight circles in rhythm with every thrust.
She screams my name as she comes again, body convulsing, pussy pulsing around my cock.
And that’s it. I drive into her one final time and let go, spilling into the condom as my body breaks open.
The room goes quiet, the only sound our unsteady breathing. I ease out, tie off the condom, and toss it in the trash before lying down beside her.
She turns toward me, slow and sleepy, fingertips grazing the hem of my shirt again. The softness of it—of her—makes something catch in my throat.
I go still.
She’s reaching for comfort. Touch. A little closeness. And I want to give it to her—God, I want to. But that’s exactly the problem.
Because if I do…I know what happens next.
She’ll see the scars. She’ll ask what they mean
And then she’ll know. About what happened. About who I couldn’t save.
And once she knows, she won’t look at me the same.
I don’t deserve her trust. Not when I failed when it mattered most.
This is already more than it was supposed to be. I care more than I should. And if I don’t put space between us now, I’m going to ruin it.
“I’m gonna check the cameras,” I say, my voice flat.
