I know she is a virgin.Makes sense. The way her asshole father keeps her sheltered, never letting her out of her gilded cage long enough for anyone to lay a finger on her.
Of course she’d be untouched.
Fuck, the thought alone makes my cock ache even more. Knowing I could be the first, the only one to show her what it’s like; how good it could feel, how good I could make her feel. I want to ruin her for anyone else, make sure every pleasurable sound she ever makes is because of me.
I want to spread her legs and taste her sweet little pussy, while making her squirm and beg until her voice is wrecked and she’s marked as mine, inside and out.
Every inch of me aches for her, and she hasn’t got a clue what she’s doing to me just by existing in my line of sight.
She’s trouble, all wrapped up as temptation, pretty as a prize, and so fucking off-limits it almost makes me laugh. If I had any brains left, I’d ask for a reassignment. Hand her off to someone less likely to ruin her. But I can’t let her out of my sight. Not because of the job. Because I’m not sure I could stand it if someone else touched her. The idea of another man’s hands on her; any of these goons with their fake smiles, makes something violent twist inside me. I want her to be safe. I want her to be mine.
A staff member walks over, acting all syrupy sweet, to the point she seems fake. Asking if I want something to drink while I wait for my girlfriend. “Your girlfriend,” she says, like it’s nothing. I don’t correct her. The lie tastes good.
My girlfriend.
I let myself imagine that for half a second; Ivory laughing, curling up in my lap, letting me spoil her, letting me have her the way I want to. Knowing there’s no world where it could actually happen.
Not in hers. Not in mine.
But I let myself feel it anyway, selfishly allowing myself to have that one stolen moment.
She looks up and blushes again after catching me staring. Even from where I’m sitting, I can see the pulse flutter in herthroat and the way her breath catches. My hands itch to touch her. I flex my fingers, wanting to wrap them around her waist and pull her close, to bury my face in her hair and tell her she’s safe. That she never has to be scared again.
We leave the salon not long after, and I keep my hand on her lower back, just above the curve of her ass. She doesn’t flinch. If anything, she leans into my touch, seeks it out, like she wants more. My blood heats, pulse pounding in my ears. I want to push her up against the nearest wall, slide my hand into the waist of those jeans, just to see how wet that freshly waxed little pussy is for me. Then bend her over and take her right there, let everyone see who she belongs to.
My phone buzzes, the vibration cutting through the fantasy. I check the screen.
Andrew Ashford.
Of fucking course.
“Penthouse. Now.”
The world slams back into focus.
I’m not her boyfriend. I’m the hired muscle. Just a tool, a body.And it’s a punch straight to the gut, harder than any I’ve taken in a fight.
I swallow the lies I’ve been feeding myself sour now, all of it draining away. Whenever I’d let myself imagine her hand in mine, her laughter, a life where I get to touch her because I want to, not because I’m paid to protect her, it evaporates.
Reality hits cold and heavy over everything.
The ride back to the hotel feels completely different now. Ivory is silent, already shrinking into herself, head down, shoulders hunched like she’s bracing for a blow. I can feel the nervous energy rolling off her, wanting to close the space between us, pull her into my side, promise her she’s safe. But I keep my hands to myself, jaw clenched, pulse thudding as I try to push out any trace of the fantasy still clinging to me.
By the time the elevator doors open, I’ve put the armor back on.I’m the bodyguard. Nothing more.
Ashford is waiting when we walk in, posture perfect, suit pressed so sharp it could cut glass. His wife, simply a shadow figure on the sofa, her eyes fixed on nothing. Ivory sits where she’s told, remaining small and silent, like a kid waiting for her punishment.
Ashford wastes no time. “Ivory, Damian Crest will be joining us for the gala this weekend.” His voice is all business. “He’s a good man, smart. Comes from an excellent family, and he’s expressed a great deal of interest in our partnership. In you.”
Crest.
I know of him.
He’s rich, powerful, and not someone I’d trust with a stray dog, let alone my daughter. He’s the type of guy who thinks women are contracts with legs, nothing more. My fists curl so tight my knuckles pop. The last bit of hope drains out of Ivory’s face, her lips part, eyes glassy and lost.
Ashford folds his hands, cold-hearted and precise. “He’ll propose to you that night, and you will accept. I expect you to show gratitude and maturity at the announcement.”
It’s not a question. Nor a request. Just a statement of fact, making her aware she’s already been handed off. I want to punch him in his smug mouth.
