Page 7 of Escorting the Bodyguard (Hearts for Hire #4)

Ford

Gemma moves closer in the dark.

Not touching me—just enough to change the air between us. It warms, tightens. Feels like a fuse waiting to be lit. My hand is still on her face, thumb resting against the edge of her cheekbone. I should move it. Should roll away. Should remember I’m here to protect her, not to want her.

But I don’t.

Her gaze on me is steady. Curious. Waiting. Like she already knows what I’m going to do.

And I do it.

I kiss her.

Soft at first. Testing the edge of a line I swore I wouldn’t cross. She exhales against my mouth, and then her lips part, meeting me halfway, like she was just waiting for the excuse.

The kiss deepens. Her fingers thread into my hair. My body goes tight, cock straining against the waistband of my shorts. She shifts, sliding one leg over mine until she’s half on top of me, all heat and softness and sin, wrapped in the curves I’ve been dying to touch since the moment we met.

Her hand slips beneath the hem of my shirt.

And everything in me seizes.

I catch her wrist. Not rough. Just enough to stop her. She goes still.

There’s no question in her eyes, not yet—but there will be. She doesn’t know what she’s reaching for. Doesn’t know what I can’t let her find. I don’t give her the chance to ask.

I move her hand away from my shirt as I kiss her deeply, keeping her focus anywhere but there. Then I guide her up, one firm grip on her thigh, shifting her weight higher until her knees bracket my head. Her breath hitches.

“Sit,” I say, voice thick.

She hesitates. “I’m going to smother you.”

I look up at her, dead serious. “Then my headstone’s gonna say I died doing what I loved.”

A beat passes. Then she obeys.

She shimmies out of her sleep set first, slow and silent, like she’s daring me to stop her. I don’t. I can’t. I just watch, hungry, until she’s naked above me.

Her pussy hovers above my mouth—bare, wet, and fucking perfect. I grip her hips and pull her down, burying my face in her without hesitation. The taste of her hits like a drug. Warm and slick and messy in a way that makes me forget everything else.

She moans and rocks against my mouth, one hand braced on the headboard, the other gripping my hair like she’s hanging on for dear life.

Her thighs tremble, thick, soft, strong as they flex around my face.

I want to lose myself here, between her lush curves and the way she writhes when I touch her just right.

When I slide my hands up her waist and feel the give of her soft belly under my palms, I nearly groan.

Every inch of her body is a fucking obsession.

“Jesus, Ford,” she moans, breath hitching. “You’re so good at this…”

I grin against her skin. “You only like me for my youth and stamina.”

“It’s definitely a perk.”

I nip her clit in mock punishment, and she jerks, gasping.

Then I suck it between my lips and flick with my tongue, and she cries out, sharp and desperate.

“Ford—fuck—I’m gonna?—”

I double down, fingers curling inside her as I keep licking, relentless until she breaks. She comes hard, hips jerking, thighs clenching around my head, her whole body shuddering with it.

I lick her once more, just to hear the way she whimpers—sensitive and undone. I could stay buried in her for hours, worshipping every curve. But I don’t. I press a kiss to her inner thigh before letting her go.

I look at her, really look at her. Her skin glows, her chest rising and falling with every breath. She’s wrecked and radiant, and it hits me square in the chest. I’ve never wanted anything so badly.

She kisses me hard, tongue licking into my mouth like she needs more. And fuck, so do I.

My restraint snaps. I flip her onto her stomach, grip her hips, and shove a pillow beneath her. My shirt stays on. It always does. I shove my shorts down just enough, line up behind her, every nerve lit and sparking.

I drag the head of my dick through her slick folds, and she moans.

Then freezes.

“Condom?” she asks, breathless.

My whole body locks.

“Shit,” I mutter, glancing toward the nightstand. “I don’t have one.”

The words feel like a death sentence. My cock throbs against her ass, and I’m about to lose my fucking mind.

She reaches blindly, opens the drawer. We both stare at the crinkled foil square sitting in the back corner like a lifeline.

“Thank fuck,” I breathe, snatching it up.

“We’re using it.” There’s relief in her voice, too.

“Fucking right we are.”

I rip it open and roll it on fast, my body practically vibrating with the need to be inside her.

“This okay?” I ask, voice rough.

She nods, voice breaking. “Please.”

I line up again, rub the tip through her wetness, and slide in slow. Inch by inch. Her body clenches around me like a vice, and I have to grit my teeth to keep from losing it right then and there.

“Jesus, Gemma,” I breathe. “You feel—fuck.”

I start to move. Deep and slow at first, every thrust dragging a sound from her throat that I feel in my bones.

I watch the ripple of her ass with every stroke, hands locked on her full hips as I drive into her. She pushes back against me, greedy for more. Her moans sharpen. Her hands clutch the sheets.

“Harder,” she gasps. “Don’t hold back. I can take it.”

I grip her tighter and give it to her. Deep, punishing strokes that make her cry out with each one. Every thrust unspools something in me I didn’t mean to give—need, possession, something close to worship. I bury it. Just keep moving.

Sweat slicks our skin. My control starts to unravel. I reach around and rub her clit, tight circles in rhythm with every thrust.

She screams my name as she comes again, body convulsing, pussy pulsing around my cock.

And that’s it. I drive into her one final time and let go, spilling into the condom as my body breaks open.

The room goes quiet, the only sound our unsteady breathing. I ease out, tie off the condom, and toss it in the trash before lying down beside her.

She turns toward me, slow and sleepy, fingertips grazing the hem of my shirt again. The softness of it—of her—makes something catch in my throat.

I go still.

She’s reaching for comfort. Touch. A little closeness. And I want to give it to her—God, I want to. But that’s exactly the problem.

Because if I do…I know what happens next.

She’ll see the scars. She’ll ask what they mean

And then she’ll know. About what happened. About who I couldn’t save.

And once she knows, she won’t look at me the same.

I don’t deserve her trust. Not when I failed when it mattered most.

This is already more than it was supposed to be. I care more than I should. And if I don’t put space between us now, I’m going to ruin it.

“I’m gonna check the cameras,” I say, my voice flat.

I get up, tug my shorts back into place, and walk out.

Gemma doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t try to stop me. That almost makes it worse.

Her scent clings to me. The taste of her remains in my mouth. It feels like something I should be able to shake off.

But I can’t.

In the surveillance room, I shut the door and lean my forehead against the cool metal cabinet.

Try to remember how to breathe.

Convince myself this is still just a job.

That I don’t already want more than I should.