Page 46 of Single Mom's Bodyguards
“Sean, don’t tease me?—”
I push in.
She gasps—head falling back, eyes fluttering closed.
Her heels dig into my back, her fingers fisting the front of my suit jacket. I drive deeper, until I’m buried to the hilt, and she’s choking on a moan.
“You feel that?” I whisper.
Her cheeks are flushed, warming. “Yes.”
“Good.” I start to move. The first few thrusts are slow, deliberate, meant to fill—not to tease.
She needs pressure. She needs presence. She needs to know someoneseesher. That someone is here, solid inside her. Bailey clings to me like I’m the only anchor she has left. “Harder,” she breathes, eyes wild, dress bunched around her waist, black silk rippling in the wind. “Don’t hold back.”
I don’t.
I snap my hips forward, burying myself to the hilt. She cries out—short, sharp, nearly a sob—and I know I’ve found the place where pain and pleasure blur into somethingelse.
“You’re not his,” I growl as I slam deep. “You wereneverhis.”
“No,” she gasps, meeting every thrust with her own. “I’m yours.”
That word? It hits different. Not just dirty. Not just possessive.
It’strue.
I grip the back of her neck, forehead pressed to hers, each movement shaking the ledge beneath us. Her fingers dig into my back through my jacket, nails sharp, body tighter around me with every snap of my hips.
The sounds she makes are raw. Not for show. Not for a performance. Just forherself. Ten feet away, the man who tried to control her is face down and silent. And she’s moaning under me like she owns the goddamn sky.
“This is what you need,” I pant.
“Yes.”
I reach between us, thumb circling her clit, fast and hard, and she breaks.
She arches. Her mouth opens but no sound comes out—just a long, shuddering breath as her orgasm takes her over. Her body clamps down on my cock, squeezing, fluttering, dragging me right to the edge with her. “I’m coming,” she gasps. “Sean—God?—”
I crush my mouth to hers, swallowing the cry as she pulses around me. The moment she starts to come down, I let go. Pleasure rips through me, violent and blinding, my release spilling inside her as I bury myself deep one last time. My hips jerk, and I groan into her mouth, hands locked on her thighs, heart hammering through both of our chests.
For a long moment, we just breathe.
She’s shaking. I hold her tighter. Her head drops to my shoulder as she melts against me.
The wind picks up again—cooler now, wrapping around us like judgment or protection, depending on how you look at it. Her dress is wrinkled. Her lips are swollen. My pants are still open. We look like a crime scene and a love story at the same time.
Bailey breathes against my neck, steady now. No shaking. No panic. Just us. I brush her hair back, kiss her temple. “You okay?”
She nods against me, slow and quiet. “Yeah. Better.”
I gently slide out of her, watching her wince at the sensitivity. I smooth her hair and rearrange her dress, carefully, like a gentleman who just railed her in public next to her knocked-out ex.
She laughs. Low and throaty. Wrecked. It’s the best thing I’ve heard in hours. “Romantic,” she teases.
“And classy,” I agree, zipping up. “Don’t forget classy.”
She giggles. Neither of us bothers with apologies. That was never going to be clean. But it was exactly what she needed.
