Page 17 of Escorting the Bodyguard (Hearts for Hire #4)

Gemma

The kiss is everything I’ve been starving for without knowing it.

Ford’s hands frame my face like I’m something precious, and when his mouth meets mine, all the careful control I’ve maintained for weeks dissolves.

He’s kissing me like I’m air and he’s been drowning, like he’s trying to pour every apology, every promise, every desperate declaration into this one point of connection.

When I sigh his name against his lips, something shifts between us. I’m not the composed woman who’s been building a life alone anymore. I’m just Gemma, raw and wanting.

“Gemma,” he breathes against my mouth, my name sounding like a prayer.

His hand finds the back of my neck, fingers gentle, and we stand there breathing each other in, everything we’ve been through pressing close like a second skin.

After what feels like hours, but is probably only moments, I take his hand without a word and lead him toward the bedroom.

I move toward the bedside lamp, but Ford's hand catches my wrist before I can turn it on.

I look at him, and I see the hesitation there. The vulnerability of someone who’s spent years hiding the broken parts. His jaw ticks once before he meets my eyes.

“I want to see you.” I don’t push. Just wait.

His gaze holds mine for a long moment. One breath. Two. I can practically see him wrestling with years of hiding, of keeping the damaged parts locked away in darkness.

Then he lets go of the switch and leaves the light on.

It’s such a small thing. But it feels like everything.

We stand there, neither of us moving. The space between us hums with anticipation and nerves and the weight of what we’re choosing. Then he steps toward me and kisses me. Slow, careful, like he’s relearning something precious he thought he’d lost.

My hands drift to his shoulders, and I feel the tension coiled there. He’s trying to stay relaxed, but his body is braced for rejection he thinks might still come. I kiss him deeper, pouring everything I can’t say into the contact. I’m here. I want this. You’re safe with me.

He breaks the kiss with a shaky breath and reaches for the hem of his shirt.

His fingers hesitate at the fabric. Then he pulls the shirt over his head and lets it fall.

And there he is.

The scars stretch across his ribs and spiral around his back, raised lines that speak of heat and metal and pain I can’t imagine. They map his torso like a roadmap of survival, twisting over muscle that’s too stubborn to break.

He doesn’t move, just watches me take him in, like he’s waiting for the moment I decide it’s too much.

I don’t rush to touch him. Instead, I let myself really look. Let him see that I’m seeing every inch and I’m still right here. When I finally reach out, it’s to press my palm against the center of his chest where his heart hammers against his ribs.

“You’re not hiding anymore,” I whisper.

He sounds wrecked. “No.”

“Good.”

Then I pull him closer and kiss him again. Hungrier this time. Less hesitant.

He undresses me with the same careful attention I showed him, hands reverent as they map every curve, every freckle scattered across my pale skin. There’s no urgency in his touch, no desperation. Just appreciation, like he’s cataloging every detail he missed while he was gone.

When his fingers trace the soft swell of my breasts, the curve of my hips, the gentle roundness of my belly where our baby grows, I arch into his touch like I’m coming home.

We move to the bed slowly, every touch deliberate. When he lays me back against the pillows, the lamplight catches the silver in his gray eyes, and I can see everything he’s feeling written there. Love, regret, hope, fear. All of it laid bare.

Ford kneels beside me, his hands coasting over my hips, up my ribcage, across the underside of my breasts like he’s trying to memorize me by touch.

“Fuck, Gemma,” he murmurs. “You’re so goddamn beautiful. Every curve, every soft line of you.”

I shiver at the low rasp in his voice. At the way his gaze trails down my body like it’s something he’s been aching for.

He kisses my collarbone first. Then lower, mouth moving between my breasts, tongue teasing across my nipple until I gasp and arch into him. His hand cups the other, warm and firm, thumb circling until I can barely keep my hips still.

“I’ve missed this,” he says against my skin. “Missed the way you sound. The way you taste.”

He slides one hand between my thighs, parting me gently, fingers stroking through the slick heat of my pussy. My breath catches, hips rocking into his touch.

“Shit,” he groans. “You’re already so wet.”

“Because of you,” I breathe. “It’s always you.”

His fingers move slow and steady, one sliding inside, then two. Deep and curling. His thumb finds my clit and starts a rhythm that has me panting in seconds.

“Let go for me,” he whispers, kissing the side of my neck. “I want to feel you come on my hand.”

And fuck, I do.

It builds fast, heat coiling low in my belly, legs trembling around his wrist as he works me open and tightens the circles on my clit. My climax crashes through me, sharp and hot, my whole body shaking as I come with a cry.

Ford doesn’t move. Just keeps whispering in my ear.

“Good girl. That’s it. Fuck, I love how you fall apart.”

I’m still catching my breath when he eases his fingers out and brings them to his mouth. Sucks them clean.

“Could taste you all night.”

“Then do it,” I say, half-daring, half-pleading.

But he just smiles, slow and dangerous.

“Next time.”

He moves up over me, the weight of his body pressing me into the mattress in the best way. I reach for him, palm dragging down the ridged muscle of his stomach until I find the thick line of his cock, hard and hot through his briefs.

“Off,” I whisper.

He shoves them down and kicks them away. And then he’s fully bare. Nothing hidden. His cock heavy and thick and flushed at the tip.

I spread my legs for him, still sensitive but greedy for more. He fits his hips between mine, the blunt head of his cock brushing against my entrance, and we both freeze.

His eyes find mine. The world stills.

“This okay?” he asks, voice hoarse.

I nod. “I want you. All of you.”

He sinks in slow, inch by inch, until he’s fully seated inside me. The delicious stretch makes me gasp. The feeling of him filling me so completely, the way he holds still to let me adjust—it’s overwhelming in the best way.

“Jesus, you feel good,” he grits out. “So fucking tight.”

He starts to move. Long, deep strokes that make me clench around him. Every thrust is controlled, reverent. His body moves like a man who’s not in a hurry, who wants this to last.

I wrap my arms around his shoulders and pull him closer, so we’re chest to chest, breath mingling.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

“More than okay.”

He groans when I squeeze around him. “Fuck—don’t do that unless you want me to lose it.”

“Maybe I do.”

His hand slides under my thigh, hitching my leg up so he can drive deeper. The new angle has me gasping, clinging to him.

“I’ve got you,” he says into my hair. “I’m here.”

Every thrust after that is slower. Harder. Deeper. Like he’s driving the truth of those words into me.

When Ford’s eyes lock with mine, gray and intense and full of wonder, something breaks open in my chest.

“I love you,” I whisper, the words spilling out like they’ve been locked behind a dam.

I’ve been holding them back since he said them to me, afraid to be that vulnerable, afraid to hand him that much power over my heart.

But now, with him moving inside me, looking at me like I’m everything he’s ever wanted, I can’t hold back anymore.

His breath catches, and for a moment he goes still. “Say it again,” he whispers, voice rough with emotion.

“I love you, Ford.” The words come easier the second time, like my heart is finally remembering how to speak its truth. “I love you so much it terrifies me.”

When he kisses me this time, I taste salt and realize one of us is crying. Maybe both of us.

“I love you too,” he breathes against my lips. “God, Gemma, I love you so much.”

His words unlock something inside me, and I clench around him, body tightening like a fist.

“Oh fuck,” he groans, voice guttural, hips stuttering as I pull him deeper. “Gemma, baby, come for me.”

It doesn’t take much. Not with the way he feels, the way he sounds, the way his eyes stay locked on mine like I’m the only thing in the world that matters.

My orgasm rolls through me, hot and sharp and impossibly deep. I cry out his name as I come, thighs trembling, nails digging into his back.

Ford’s control snaps.

He surges into me with one last thrust, burying himself to the hilt as he follows me over the edge. His mouth finds mine as he groans through it, cock pulsing inside me, his whole body shaking with the force of it.

He stays pressed against me, heart pounding, breath ragged, his body heavy and warm and everything I never knew I needed.

Neither of us moves for a long moment.

Then he shifts just enough to wrap his arms around me, tucking my head beneath his chin. We lie there in the lamplight, quiet but not distant. Present in a way we never were before.

“I’m sorry,” he says into the stillness, his voice rough with emotion. “For leaving. For being afraid. For making you think, even for a second, that you weren’t worth staying for.”

I press a kiss to his chest, tasting salt and the faint residue of his cologne. “You’re here now.”

“I’m here now,” he agrees, his arms tightening around me. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

I wake to sunlight streaming through my bedroom windows and Ford already awake beside me, watching me with soft eyes.

My heart kicks. Instinct screams fix yourself . Hair, breath, face—something. Anything. The familiar panic of being seen as less than perfect floods through me.

I start to shift away, reaching for the edge of the comforter, but his hand slides to my waist.

“Don’t,” he murmurs, voice low and a little raspy. “You’re beautiful.”

Just like that, the panic fades. I settle back against him, letting myself be seen.

“Morning,” I whisper.

“Morning.” He presses a kiss to my temple. “How are you feeling?”

“Good.” I stretch against him, enjoying the solid warmth of his body, the way his hand automatically adjusts to stay connected to our baby. “Really good.”

He disappears to the kitchen and returns with coffee—decaf for me, full strength for him—and we settle back into bed like this is something we do every Sunday morning.

He’s wearing just his boxers, and though I catch him glancing down at his scars once, he doesn’t reach for a shirt.

Progress. I’m wrapped in the sheet, hair a disaster, completely bare-faced.

“The Times ?” he asks, reaching for the newspaper I keep meaning to cancel but never get around to.

“You read me the headlines,” I say, curling against his side. “I’ll provide commentary.”

We spend an hour like this—normal couple things that feel different now. He reads about political scandals while I mock the fashion pages. I steal sections of the paper while he steals sips of my coffee after his is empty.

It’s domestic and easy and everything I didn’t know I was missing.

“Want to go look at baby stuff today?” Ford asks casually, but his eyes are serious when they meet mine.

“Yeah,” I say, throat suddenly tight with emotion. “I’d like that.”

The baby boutique is overwhelming in the best possible way—tiny clothes and impossibly small shoes, cribs that look like they belong in fairy tales, more gear than I ever imagined one small human could possibly need.

Ford throws himself into research mode. He studies car seat safety ratings like they’re classified documents and grills the sales associate about changing table safety standards. When he finds the baby monitor display, he’s all focus, asking about range and reliability like he’s planning a mission.

“You know the baby won’t be here for months, right?” I tease as he compares the features of different models.

“I want to be prepared,” he says seriously, then picks up a pair of socks from a nearby display. He holds them in his palm, staring down at them, and something shifts in his expression. His voice catches slightly. “Jesus. They’re so small.”

My heart does something funny watching him. The man who once planned combat extractions is completely undone by baby socks. My ex-Army Ranger. Mine.

We’re looking at strollers when he crouches beside me, his hand covering mine where it rests on my belly. The saleswoman has wandered off to help another couple, and we’re alone among the baby furniture, surrounded by the promise of the life we’re building.

“I missed the beginning,” he says quietly, eyes meeting mine. There’s regret there, but also determination. “But I’m here for everything that comes next.”

Instead of words, I cover his hand with both of mine. For the first time since he left me on that Brooklyn street corner, I believe in us. Not just the idea of us, but the reality. The daily choice to stay, to build something together, to love each other through the hard parts.

“You’re here now,” I say, echoing the words from last night.

“I’m here now,” he confirms, and this time when he says it, it sounds like a vow.

Ford tucks the tiny socks into the crook of his arm like they’re mission-critical. When we finally step out into the afternoon light, I don’t wonder if this will last. I know it will. Because this time, we’re not just falling. We’re choosing.