Page 37 of Spring Break with a Bodyguard
“Quite a week,” I correct, looking down at my wrinkled housekeeping uniform—the costume that somehow became more authentic than the polished persona I’d cultivated for years. “I still can’t believe Preston wasn’t furious.”
“He was,” Javi says, glancing at me. “He just values results over methods. Always has.”
We fall into silence again as he turns onto my street, the familiar buildings of my upscale neighborhood coming into view. After the chaos of The Sandpiper, there’s something surreal about returning to my regular life, as if the past eight days happened in another dimension.
Javi pulls into my private parking space, cutting the engine. For a moment, neither of us moves, the quiet of the car a bubble of anticipation neither wants to break.
“So,” I begin, my voice softer than intended, betraying my nervousness. “I guess this is where I thank you for your protection services, Commander Conrad?”
He turns to face me fully, his expression serious but with a warmth in his gaze I’m still getting used to seeing. “Is that what you want? For me to drop you off and resume our professional relationship on Monday?”
The question hangs between us, like a line drawn in the sand. The responsible answer would be yes. The answer that wouldn’t complicate both our lives and potentially jeopardize his career would be yes.
But being sensible is the last thing I want to be right now. “No,” I say, holding his gaze. “That’s not what I want at all.”
His eyes darken, and he nods once, a decisive movement that sends a flutter of anticipation through me. “Then I’ll see you inside.”
The walk from the car to my front door feels simultaneously too long and too short, each step charged with a growing awareness of each other. I’m conscious of his presence behind me—the reassuring sound of his footsteps, the faint scent of his cologne carried on the evening breeze, the distinct feeling of being both protected and desired.
My fingers fumble with the keys, suddenly clumsy with awareness of Javi standing close behind me, the heat of his body radiating in the cool evening air. I’ve opened this door countless times, but never with such expectation of what awaits on the other side.
When the door swings open, I step into the familiar space of my townhouse—all clean lines and designer furniture, tastefully neutral and perfectly impersonal. I’ve never noticed how sterile it feels until now, after the chaotic warmth of The Sandpiper.
“Welcome to my real world,” I say, suddenly self-conscious as Javi closes the door behind us, the soft click of the latch sounding unusually final in the quiet space.
He stands there for a moment, security instincts still engaged as he scans the room, checking windows, sightlines, potential threats—the habits of a protector not easily set aside.
“Clear,” he murmurs, almost to himself.
And then he looks at me—really looks at me—with an intensity that steals my breath. Eight days of enforced distance, of stolen moments in supply closets, of professional pretense and careful restraint—all of it seems to collapse in the space between one heartbeat and the next.
“Javi,” I start, not even sure what I mean to say, just needing to break the tension that’s building between us like an electrical storm.
He crosses the distance between us in two strides, one hand coming up to cup my face while the other slides around my waist, pulling me against him. The trembling in my hands spreads through my entire body, but it’s no longer from the stress of the day—it’s anticipation, desire, and the overwhelming relief of finally allowing ourselves this connection.
The kiss that follows is nothing like our tentative first connection on my couch, nothing like our hurried moments at the café or the supply closet. This is unleashed desire, the full force of everything we’ve been holding back, yet tempered with a surprising tenderness that makes my heart ache.
My arms wrap around his neck as I rise on tiptoes to meet him, my body melting against his solid warmth. His hand at my waist slides lower, lifting me effortlessly against him as he backs me toward the wall. I gasp against his mouth at the sensation of being so completely surrounded by him, my feet barely touching the ground.
“Too much?” he murmurs against my lips, ever attentive to boundaries even now.
A laugh bubbles up from somewhere deep inside me—part joy, part disbelief that this is happening. “Not enough,” I whisper back, fingers threading through his short hair to pull him closer.
A low sound rumbles in his chest as he deepens the kiss, his tongue sliding against mine in a way that makes my knees weak. I’m grateful for the wall at my back, for his strong arms holding me up, because I’m not entirely sure I could stand on my own right now.
His lips leave mine to trail down my neck, finding a sensitive spot that makes me gasp. My hands move restlessly across his shoulders, down his back, feeling the controlled strength in every inch of him. When my fingers find the hem of his shirt, slipping beneath to touch warm skin, he groans against my throat.
“Teddy,” he says, my name sounding like both a question and a prayer. “We should slow down.”
But even as he says it, his hips press forward against mine, the evidence of his desire impossible to mistake. The contrast between his words and his body’s response makes me smile.
“Should we?” I ask, letting my nails scrape lightly down his back. “Haven’t we been taking it slow all this time?”
His forehead rests against mine, his breathing ragged. “I want to be sure. This isn’t just?—”
“I know,” I interrupt, bringing one hand up to touch his face, to make him look at me. “This isn’t just attraction or adrenaline or the thrill of breaking rules. This is us—Javi and Teddy—choosing each other. No assignments, no disguises, no audience.”
Something in his expression shifts, tension giving way to determination. “No turning back,” he adds, his voice rough.
