Page 9 of The Bodyguard Affair
I lace my hands in hers and give a reassuring squeeze. “Don’t even worry about it.” I tilt her chin back to me and gently catch her lips with mine to show her it’s okay. And holy shit. She tastes like she smells: tart, fresh, electrifying. Every swipe of her tongue against mine leaves a tingle in its wake. And when she arches her hips into me, dragging her nails down my back, I lose the power of speech entirely. Every thought, every word, all logic and reasoning go up in smoke. With a swift movement, I pick her up and do exactly what I wanted to do. Carry her across the threshold and into the bedroom.
It’s not as smooth as I’d hoped in the darkness in an unfamiliar apartment. But the silver moonlight filtering through the blinds offers enough light to find a wide cedar dresser with anattached mirror. I set her on top of it, her thighs clinging to either side of my torso like a lifeline.
“Is it okay if I take this off?” I ask between kisses, tugging at the back of her tank top.
She nods and helps me pull it over her head.
“Fuck,” I barely manage as her breasts fall out. I’ve always considered myself more of an ass guy, but I’ve officially changed my mind. I’m so fixated, I barely notice she’s made quick work of getting my shirt off.
Her gaze blazes from my chest and down my stomach, followed by the soft pads of her fingers. “Whoa. Sorry, I just…haven’t touched real abs. Ever.”
“You’ve touched fake ones?” I clarify, trying to maintain an iota of control as her hand drifts to my waistband, where things are growing more and more uncomfortable by the second.
“I once dated a guy in high school who had so little body fat, he had a bit of a six-pack. But yours look hard-earned. Do you even eat carbs?”
I slide her a cheeky grin. “More than you’d think.”
“Liar,” she whispers, her thumb dipping lower and lower beneath the hem where my skin burns, wanting her.
“Do you have a condom?” I whisper, trying to suppress the urgency. “I don’t have any on me.” Hooking up with a woman was certainly not on my agenda for this trip home.
“I might.” She hoists herself upward a little too hard, smacking her head on the mirror behind us.
“Jesus. Are you okay?” I ask, cradling the back of her head as she hops down from the dresser. That sounded like a hard hit.
She plops on the edge of the bed, defeated, head in hands. “I’m sorry, I’m absolutely shit at this,” she informs me, her tonesour as she flicks on the lamp by her bedside table. Her room is smaller than it looked in the dark, though still fairly nondescript. The furniture is nice and new, but there are still no photos or personal items, aside from a small bookcase overflowing with paperbacks, a bottle of pink nail polish, and some hair ties on the side table.
“We don’t have to do anything,” I say genuinely, lowering myself onto the mattress next to her. “And not because I don’t want to.” I really fucking do. But in the yellow glow of the lamp, she looks…sad. If she’s not in a good state of mind, maybe hooking up with her isn’t the best idea. The last thing I want is for her to wake up tomorrow morning filled with regret.
She nods, biting her bottom lip before leaning back against the wooden headboard. “I just feel bad. I got you here under the pretext of food and sex and you got neither.”
“Even without food or sex, this is the best night I’ve had in a long time.”
“You’re not just saying that to make me feel better?” she asks skeptically.
“I don’t lie to make people feel better, Andi.” I look her in the eye when I say it, because I mean it and I want her to know it.
She nods, seemingly accepting it, however reluctantly.
I debate whether I should take this as a cue to leave. The last thing I want to do is linger and overstay my welcome. But she still looks sad, and honestly, I like her company. I want to know more about her, so I settle myself on the side of the bed.
“So you mentioned you’re a writer?” I ask, hoping it’ll lighten her mood or at least take her mind off what just happened.
“A wannabe writer, I guess. I’m not published or anything. No one has ever read a word of anything I’ve written.”
“Doesn’t mean you’re not a writer. If you put pen to paper, you’re a writer.”
She shrugs and bites her bottom lip again, unsure.
“What do you write?”
Red flushes her face. “I’m scared to tell you. You’ll make fun of me.” My gut twists at the idea that she feels like her passion isn’t something to be proud of.
“Why would I make fun of you? Do you write knock-knock jokes or something? Instruction manuals for bizarre household items?”
“Pet obituaries, actually.” She holds the lie for all of two seconds before folding, erupting into a laugh along with me. Seeing her smile again feels like pure sunshine breaking through the dark.
“For the record, it’s a noble profession. Pets are purer than most humans, and they should be honored,” I argue.
