Page 8 of The Bodyguard Affair
“How about you? I take it you’re a dog person?”
“In a way. I never had one of my own, either. My sister and I begged my parents for a dog every year at Christmas. But they always said it was too expensive. Then, when we could afford one, it was ‘too much work.’ ‘ Too much responsibility.’ We got betta fish instead. Those colorful ones,” she says, her tone tinged with latent disappointment.
I laugh. “Ah, the good ol’ starter pet.”
She shrugs. “My sister always forgot to feed hers and clean its tank, so I ended up taking care of both of them. Not that they lived long. Poor M. Sea Hammer and Swim Shady.”
I dip my chin. “Rest in peace. Great names, though.”
While she unpacks the groceries in the kitchen, I sit a distance away on the floor and try to coax Lars out. Andi hands me a slice of marble cheese, which works like a charm. Lars inches out from under the table just far enough to gobble the cheese from my palm. I expect him to take it roughly, maybe even bite me. But he takes it gingerly, just barely brushing my palm with his lips before backing away to safety underneath the table, hitting his head in the process. After he devours the cheese, he inches out a little farther, nudging my hand with his big wet nose for more.
Andi hands me another cheese slice, which brings him out from underneath the table entirely.
“He likes you,” she says, watching as Lars tentatively sniffs my lap, in search of more cheese. “Make yourself comfortable. I’m going to, um, freshen up,” she informs me, her voice going higher.
“No rush,” I call over my shoulder, while dodging a sloppy kiss from Lars.
“Sorry for the mess, by the way.” Her voice is slightly muffled by the wall between us. “I moved in last month and haven’t had the time to unpack.”
I pan around for the mess she’s referring to. There are a couple boxes stacked in the hallway, a half-drunk glass of water, a notebook, a laptop, and some crumpled paper on the coffee table. Nothing out of the ordinary for a writer. “You’re one of those people who apologizes for mess when there’s zero mess, aren’t you?”
“You don’t think this is messy?” she calls from the bedroom.
It looks clean to me, nondescript even. Off-white walls, plush cream carpet. All the furniture is also of the neutral variety, no fluff, no patterns or designs. She hasn’t put up any artwork, personal photos, or vases or candles on her shelves or tables like you’d usually find in a woman’s place, not to stereotype. At the very least, she does appear to have a hefty dead bolt on the front door. The same can’t be said for the sliding glass door. The lock latch looks broken. There’s only a wooden stick wedging the door closed, which looks like the snapped end of a broom handle. The locks on the windows also leave a lot to be desired. I could probably bust them open with one hand. At least she’s on the top floor.
“I’ve seen worse,” I tell her through the wall. “Your place is very clean. I mean, aside from the half-put-together desk,” I say, eyeing it in the corner near the sliding glass door, which leads to a small, snowy balcony. It looks like an IKEA desk, with only one side assembled.
“Ah, yeah. I ordered it because it said easy assembly. It is not, for the record. And I’m pretty good with instructions usually. Shit. I totally forgot to boil water for the pierogies.”
“Oh, no worries, I’ll put them on. Just—uh…” I attempt to get up, but fail. I don’t know what I do, but at some point, Lars decides I’m an okay human and plops his massive body into my lap like a baby. He’s asleep, heavy, his warm head resting on my chest. I feel bad moving an inch. He seems comfortable.
Andi comes out in a tank-top-and-shorts pajama combo, which accentuates her curves. Shit. Her long hair, which was previously in a bun, now cascades down her back in thick waves. It’s lighter when it’s down, with some blond highlights framingher face. She’s really fucking stunning in an understated kind of way.
And then there’s her body. Small waist. Slender, soft legs. As she walks toward me, it becomes clear she’s not wearing a bra. A zing fizzes through my chest, traveling lower, landing somewhere highly inconvenient. I immediately avert my gaze as she laughs at the sight of me and Lars. “You found yourself a new best friend.”
“Looks like it. Is he always such a suck up?”
“He’s a gentle giant. Wouldn’t hurt a fly, though you wouldn’t know it to look at him.” She calls him over and he nearly knocks me over with his wiggling butt as he licks her bare legs, trying to get as close as possible for an ear rub. He seems to really like Andi.
She approaches, shifting her weight back and forth on either foot. “So…should we…get to it?”
When she inches closer, peering up at me with those big eyes, awareness rushes through me from head to toe. She smells citrusy, like a mixture of grapefruit and oranges. “It’s okay, we don’t have to rush.”
“I figured most people would just…go home and bam. Penetrate.”
A laugh rockets out of me. “I guess that’s how it usually happens.”
She covers her eyes, the flush of embarrassment tinting the apples of her cheeks pink. “As you can see, I’m terrible at this.”
“You’re doing just fine,” I assure her, smoothing my fingertips down the inside of her arm, over her elbow, and fuck, her skin is soft. Encouraged, she relaxes into me, the peaks of her full tits pressing against my chest.
My breath hitches at the contact, and the air shifts. My fingers twitch to lift her off the floor, to feel those thighs lock around my waist as I carry her to the bedroom and touch her every-fucking-where. But there’s something about this woman that makes me want to slow down and savor every second. My thumb traces the soft line of her jaw, finding its way to her pouty bottom lip, breathing her into me until she tilts her mouth up to meet mine.
She pushes up on her toes and comes in faster, harder than I expected. Our lips crash together. And by lips, I mean teeth. The collision is so hard, I have to take a step back to get my bearings.
She slaps her hand over her mouth, eyes wide, mortified. “I am so sorry,” she whispers, gingerly reaching to touch my lip with the pad of her thumb. “Shit. I think your lip is bleeding.”
I run my tongue over my lip, tasting that coppery note of blood. It stings a bit, but not enough to shift my focus from her. Honestly, if anything, I find it kind of funny.
