Necessary Risk (Bodyguard) (12 page)

But he couldn’t get involved with a client. It was unprofessional, and he needed to focus on protecting her. He couldn’t do that if he was letting his dick do the thinking.

And yet…he couldn’t stop thinking about the look on her face as she’d stared up at him, her green eyes dark, her lips parted, her cheeks flushed. Mentally he rewound the situation, allowing himself the luxury of imaging the outcome if he’d let things play out differently.

He’d have kissed her, gently at first, almost teasing, before slipping his tongue into her sweet little mouth and kissing her hard and deep. He’d have slipped his hands under her ass and lifted her, her legs sliding around his hips, his throbbing cock cradled against her. He’d have laid her down on that island and stripped her shirt over her head. He’d have buried his face in her delicate neck, tasting the skin there before traveling lower, palming her small, perfect breasts as he traced the outline of her nipples through her bra with his mouth. She’d arch up into his mouth, and he’d suck her deeper until she writhed beneath him, her legs still hooked around his hips.

He looked down at the bar of soap in his hand and shook his head. And then he slicked it over his palms.

He braced his forearm against the wall of the shower while his opposite hand slid down between his legs to grip his hard cock. As the spray from the shower pounded his shoulders and back, he stroked himself, one long, slow, teasing pull. His balls were heavy and ached for release, despite the fact that he’d already satisfied himself that morning before his swim. He’d woken from a dream about Sierra, almost painfully hard.

In the dream she’d slipped into the guesthouse in the middle of the night, completely naked, and had begged him to fuck her. Begged him, pleaded with him, told him she needed his cock inside her
now
. He’d bent her over the edge of the bed, hands spanning her small hips, and had lined himself up with her hot, slick entrance, ready to thrust into her, when he’d woken up.

He pumped his fist up and down, his eyes closed while thoughts of Sierra filled his head. Her mouth around his cock. Taking her from behind, her pert ass bouncing against his hips as he slammed into her. Pushing her legs apart and tasting her, discovering what sounds she made when she came for him. What she would look like riding him, small breasts bouncing as he watched his cock disappear into her body. What it would feel like to hear her call out his name, shaking and sweating and completely satisfied. His breath came faster, and he swelled, his lust for her so raw and sharp it hurt. With a rough grip, he pushed himself to the edge, stroking faster. Pressure coiled at the base of his cock, and with the fantasy of climbing on top of Sierra and sinking into her tight, wet depths as she cried out for him, he grunted and came, his cock pulsing in his fist.

His chest heaving, he leaned his forehead against the slick tiles of the shower. His head didn’t feel any clearer. Not at all. But at least the ache and the tension had dissipated. For now.

After toweling off and pulling on sweatpants and a tank top, he grabbed a beer from the fridge. Settling himself on the couch, he flipped through the channels until he found ESPN and the tail end of the Dodgers game. He took a long pull on his beer, wishing he could have more than one. But even though he was off duty, he couldn’t allow himself to indulge.

Seemed to be the theme of the night.

Never in his ten years as a bodyguard had he struggled so much to maintain a professional relationship with a client. And it wasn’t for lack of opportunity. Over the years, he’d had his share of clients come on to him, and he’d never been even remotely tempted to give in.

With Sierra, everything was different. From the moment he’d laid eyes on her, there’d been something about her that had drawn him to her. Something almost intangible yet magnetic. An instant connection of some kind that he’d never experienced with anyone before, and especially not a client.

If anything happened to Sierra because he let himself get distracted, he wasn’t sure he could survive it. He’d failed to protect his mother years ago, and he was barely living with the pain and the guilt of how he’d failed her. He saw it in his father’s eyes, that undercurrent of disappointment that was always there. He saw it in himself, in the way he held himself back when it came to relationships. And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it because he couldn’t change the past.

He took another pull on his beer, absently rubbing a hand over the center of his chest, trying to soothe the soft, dull burn that seemed to be permanently lodged under his sternum. The game went to commercial, and he flipped a few more channels until he landed on a syndicated repeat of
Family Tree
, which had aired for almost ten years in the nineties. The scene featured Steve Simmons and the actress who’d played Sierra’s older sister, as well as a five- or six-year-old Sierra, who’d just caught her siblings breaking something and trying to cover it up. Mouth wide, she planted her little hands on her hips and said, “You’re gonna be in soooooo much trouble!” The last word came out like “twuh-ble,” upping the cuteness by another factor.

Tiny Sierra was freaking adorable, with her pigtails and big green eyes, and freckles dusting the bridge of her nose. Even though the show was dated and corny, he found himself smiling as he watched. It was hard not to when she was on-screen. She was sweet and cute with a little bit of attitude. She laughed at something, and he noticed that her nose scrunched in the exact same way it still did. Maybe someday, when Sierra had kids,
this
was what her daughter would look like.

For some reason that thought made his chest hurt even more.

*  *  *

Sierra sang along to the Jackson 5’s “I Want You Back” as it played from the small wireless speaker on her kitchen counter, basking in the morning sunshine streaming in through her kitchen windows. Spending time with her friends last night had been exactly what she’d needed to lift her out of the funk she’d been slinking around in for the past couple of days, and she felt recharged.

She poured pancake batter onto the hot griddle and checked the frying pan next to it, inhaling deeply as the scents of frying bacon and freshly brewed coffee mingled together, and she thought of her dad. When she was a kid, he’d made a huge breakfast every Saturday morning, usually bacon, eggs, hash browns, and pancakes. Coffee for him and her mom, hot chocolate for her and her sister. After breakfast she’d curl up on her dad’s lap, her older sister beside them on the couch, as they watched Pee-wee Herman or cartoons, laughing themselves silly. Her dad had done a mean Pee-wee impression, and it had never failed to send her into a fit of teary-eyed giggles.

She missed him every single day, and she found herself missing him even more in light of recent events. She missed the calm, warm stability he’d provided. She missed his voice, his laugh, the security of his arms around her. He’d died over ten years ago now, and it still hurt. Losing him was the hardest thing she’d ever gone through, and she hadn’t handled it well. No one told you that grief wasn’t an emotion but an entire state of being, forced on you by the loss of a loved one. It wasn’t something you felt, but something you lived through and with, day after day, month after month, year after year. She’d made mistakes, a string of bad teenage decisions, but in the end she’d come out on the other side of her grief ready to take her life in another direction.

Her dad had missed out on so much, and she hoped he’d have been proud of the decisions she’d made once she’d made it through the fog of grief. He’d always supported her acting, but she had a feeling he’d have been even prouder that she’d gone to college. That she had a career that gave her life real purpose and meaning.

That she was happy, most of the time.

She stretched her arms above her head, spatula still in hand. As the song launched into the chorus, she brought the spatula back down and held it in front of her, using it as a microphone, singing at the top of her lungs and dancing along. She executed a fast spin, almost losing her balance as her socked feet slid against the tiled floor. She froze, dropping the spatula with a small squeak, as she registered Sean standing in the doorway, watching her and looking achingly sexy in a simple black suit and white shirt undone at the collar, a light-blue tie clutched in one hand.

He stared at her, and she felt suddenly self-conscious in her messy bun, oversize T-shirt, panties, socks, and nothing else. His eyes slid down her body, lingering on her legs before migrating back up to her face, his gaze leaving heat tingling across her skin. For a second, maybe longer, they locked eyes. Sierra could feel the electricity arcing in the air between them, and the hair on her forearms stood on end.

Sean cleared his throat and shoved his hands into his pockets as he stepped into the kitchen. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

She bent to pick up the spatula, and when she stood up again, she found his eyes once again on her. Heat pulsed between her legs as she imagined how good they’d feel wrapped around him.

She reminded herself of the way he’d rejected her yesterday as she reached for the mugs. “Would you like some coffee?” she asked over her shoulder.

“Please. Man, that smells good.”

“Are you hungry?”

Before he could answer, his stomach growled loudly, and they both laughed, some of the tension ebbing. She shot him a smile, hiding everything beneath the surface: how badly she wanted him, the tiny twinges of fear that she was already in over her head with him, trusting and wanting too easily when she was still smarting from the rejection yesterday.

She clung to that rejection, unsure if she was pissed or relieved that it gave her the chance to strengthen her defenses. He’d started to tear down those carefully constructed walls so easily that a little distance was probably a good thing.

“I’ll grab you a plate.”

As she brewed him a cup of coffee, Sean sat down on one of the stools lined up in front of the island. She got three plates down, for her, Sean, and Zack. He deserved a nice hot breakfast too, after spending all night on duty and putting up with Taylor’s flirting. Although he hadn’t seemed put out by the flirting. No, he’d been flirting right back, and pretty competently too.

She’d also noticed the way Alexa couldn’t seem to take her eyes off him, but hadn’t spoken to him at all once Taylor had started flirting with him. Sierra just hoped that little triangle didn’t get messy. Knowing Taylor, she’d have her fun and then move on. And knowing Alexa, she wouldn’t say a word about it, always so eager to make everyone around her happy, often at the expense of her own happiness. Alexa was too sweet for her own good, and Taylor was too busy having fun to notice.

She set a plate laden with scrambled eggs, bacon, and pancakes in front of Sean, whose face lit up as if he’d just won the lottery. “Oh my God, this looks good.” He looked up from his plate, and warmth suffused her at the expression on his face, all big smile and crinkling eyes. She passed him a knife and fork, and he cut into the pancakes and took a big bite, groaning softly as he chewed. Jesus. The man even made eating pancakes erotic. Or maybe she found a deep, raw sexual appeal in just about everything he did. She loved to watch him, no matter what he was doing. Pacing as he talked on the phone. Driving. Swimming laps in the pool. Leaning casually against a wall, little lines digging in between his brows as he read an e-mail on his phone. Pushing a hand through his hair when he was thinking.

The way he moved couldn’t have been more appealing.

A couple of her metaphorical bricks started to crumble, and she scrambled to shove them back into place.

When he’d swallowed, he spoke again. “It doesn’t just look good. This is delicious. Thank you.” The words were so simple, and yet they tugged at something deep in her chest, his words like dynamite against her walls. Jack had never appreciated her cooking, always wanting to go out to eat so that they could be seen together. Her hurt feelings had only ever been a secondary consideration for him.

“You’re welcome. I like to cook.” She loaded up her own plate and sat down beside him, where they ate in companionable silence for a few minutes, her Motown playlist still humming softly through the speaker. Her phone chimed from its spot on the island a few feet away, and she reached for it.

She opened the text message, and her eggs turned to ash in her mouth. The message was from an unknown sender, and it contained a picture of her friends leaving her house last night. There was no text with the message. Just the picture, which spoke volumes on its own.

Someone had been watching her. Someone had taken a photograph of her friends. And that someone had been close by last night. Her hands started to shake as fear and anger boiled up inside her, her breakfast now sitting like a brick in her stomach.

“What is it?” Sean asked, his brow furrowed. Without a word she held out the phone to him, her fingers trembling.

“Son of a bitch,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous as he took the phone from her. Despite her fear, that growl sent a thrill shooting through her. His expression darkened as he studied the picture for several long seconds. He pushed away from the island, her phone still in his hand. “OK, here’s the plan. Tell your friends about this and have them be on the lookout for anything unusual or suspicious. Tell them to report anything out of the ordinary both to the police and to me. Change your number. I’ll start going through the security cam footage from last night to see if we got whoever took this on camera. I’m also going to send a copy of this to Antonio Rodriguez. He’s a detective with the LAPD.”