Page 95 of Quiet Protector
“Grayson…” I don’t know what Grayson replies in the earpiece in Brandon’s ear, but I hear cords being yanked out through the speakers above our heads before the room falls into resolute silence. A few seconds after that, Brandon says, “Thank you. I will.”
After a smile that curves my knees inward, Brandon removes the wireless device from his ear, switches it off, then dumps it in the drawer in the entryway table. My heart patters in rhythm to his polished shoes when he bridges the gap between us, then it breaks into a dangerous cantor when he signs, “You are so fucking brave, so strong, and so damn pretty.I have never been more impressed in my life…” his pause almost kills me, “…or turned on. Jesus, Melody, when you put Ophelia in her place, even Grayson got hard.”
I laugh. I can’t help it.“Grayson gets horny when the wind blows.”
“He does, but I don’t,”Brandon argues, stepping closer.“I thought I was broken.”He pauses again. This one is more to reflect than tease me. “I was broken. You fixed me. You resuscitated me and breathed life back into my lungs… and then you gave me back my son. I don’t know how I can ever thank you.”
The sob his praise lodged into the back of my throat rattles my vocal cords when I say, “You did it, too, BJ. You fought for this as fiercely as I did. I am so incredibly proud of you as well.”
His hands shake when he cups my jaw. He’s not scared. I’ve never met a man as strong as him. There are just too many emotions firing between us for a nonchalant response. “I want to kiss you.”
My tongue instinctively darts out to moisten my lips before they raise into a smile. “Then kiss me.”
An excited zap darts down my spine when he mutters, “I don’t think I’ll be able to stop if I start.”
“Then do not stop,” I reply without an ounce of hesitation, caught up in the sentiment fueling our exchange. Our adrenaline is high from our successful sting, but it has nothing on the mutual respect, admiration, and love we have for each other. The past few months were tough, but we were tougher, and we came out of it stronger.
As Brandon’s eyes bounce between mine, he replies, “I do not want to hurt you, Mellowy.”
I trace my index finger across the jaw of a man I’ll never stop loving. It’s stronger than it was when we were kids, more determined, but it’s still very much him. It still belongs to my Brandon. “You don’t know how to hurt me, BJ. You’re incapable of hurting me.”
When I step back, pulling out of his embrace, the euphoric gleam in his eyes fades to vulnerability. He has nothing to be worried about, nothing at all. I’m not going anywhere.
Not now.
Not ever.
Brandon’s chest rises and falls in rhythm with mine when I commence unbuttoning my shirt. He watches each pearl button pierce between the shimmery fabric before stalking the material soundlessly float to the floor. I’m still wearing a pleated business skirt, thigh-high stockings and a bra that’s more frumpy than sexy, but the way Brandon looks at me makes it appear as if I am naked.
Mercifully, it’s a heated stare.
After giving him time to absorb the tiny imperfections on my body he knows by heart, I sign, “Your turn.”
I wait and wait and wait, praying my wish to fall back in time works in my favor.
It’s answered brilliantly three heart-thrashing seconds later. After tugging his dress shirt out of his black trousers, Brandon undoes the top three buttons of his shirt before pulling it over his head. His impatience to get undressed forces a ghost-like grin onto my mouth.
It doesn’t last long.
It vanishes when I realize he’s wearing an undershirt.
While smiling at my childish stomp of disappointment, Brandon rips off his white t-shirt like it’s made out of tissue paper before signing, “Better?”
“Much.”
While chewing on his bottom lip, hiding his smile, Brandon’s eyes roam over my body as he signs, “Your turn.”
With my eyes on the crotch of his trousers that grows bigger with every millimeter my zipper descends, I release the clasp on my skirt, then shimmy it down my thighs. Hoping to give the impression of a mafia princess with money to burn, I brought lace-top stockings and a sexy boy-leg suspender package at a lingerie store earlier today while picking my powerhouse outfit.
Well, that’s what I’m planning to tell the IRS when I claim its two-hundred-dollar price tag on my expenses this tax season.
Brandon doesn’t have a chance in hell of hiding his smile when I kick my skirt to the side while signing, “I am really hoping you have grown averse to boxer shorts the past eight years.” I know he hasn’t, but it’s fun to tease him. His flaming red cheeks were one of the first things I noticed about him.
My eyes bulge out of my head when the lowering of Brandon’s zipper gives me a tiny preview of the cropped blond curls spread across his groin. Before excitement can take hold of every sense I own, his thumb releases the waistband of his Calvin Klein boxers, snapping them back into place.
I pout like a baby. “You are no fun.”
I’m lying. I’ve seen snippets of Brandon’s playful side the past few months, but it’s never had this depth, so I’m going to relish it as long as possible. He could never be accused of being cocky, but as he stands across from me without a care in the world, there’s no denying his confidence.
