Page 1 of The Bodyguard’s Innocent Obsession (His Obsession #3)

Lachlan

I’ve been in Senator Prescott’s office for four minutes and thirty-eight seconds. Long enough to know the man sitting across from me is scared. Not panicked. Not desperate. But worried in a way that runs deep. Worry that wears grooves into your face and takes years off your life.

“I’ve brought in private security before,” Prescott says, his voice low and tight. “But this is different.”

I nod once, not saying anything yet. Let him talk. Let him lay it all out.

The office is exactly what I expected. Rich mahogany paneling, leather chairs, shelves lined with first editions and gleaming brass bookends. It’s the kind of room that smells like money, power, and the kind of bourbon they don’t sell to regular people.

Prescott leans back in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin. “You familiar with the housing bill I’ve been pushing?”

I raise a brow. “The one that’s got the billionaires pissing themselves?”

His lips twitch. Not quite a smile. “That’s the one.”

I have heard about it. Everyone with half a brain has. Prescott’s trying to close the loopholes that let mega-corporations buy up entire neighborhoods, gut the communities, then flip the properties for profit. It’s got the public cheering, and some very powerful men foaming at the mouth.

He continues. “Two days ago, someone tried to break into our Lake Tahoe property. Security scared them off, but they left a message carved into the front door.”

“What did it say?”

“Back off. Or next time, she’s gone.”

I go still.

“Your wife?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “My daughter. Arabella. I’ve received notes here before saying that they will target her if I refuse to back down. I haven’t told her about that, though, so please don’t mention it to her.”

I nod again, not bothering to point out that Prescott is going about this the wrong way. Keeping secrets won’t keep her safe. Secrets can kill.

Luckily, I’m here to stop that from happening.

Prescott presses on. “My wife and I now have a bodyguard with us full-time. I’ve brought in a team of three men to monitor the house around the clock.

But Arabella...” He trails off, jaw tightening.

“She’s not prepared for this kind of threat.

She was homeschooled for most of her life, kept out of the spotlight as she was growing up because I thought that was the best thing for her.

And with everything going on now... she barely leaves the house anymore.

I need someone I can trust. Someone who’s handled high-risk protection before. ”

“I have.” I keep my voice level. “Ex-Special Forces. Ten years private sector after that. High-profile clientele. Politicians. CEOs. Celebrities.”

“I know your record. That’s why I called you.” He looks me dead in the eye. “I want you to guard her. Full-time. Don’t let her out of your sight. Not even for a second.”

“You think the threat’s real?”

I already know the answer, but I want to see if he’s like most of the politicians I’ve met before, with his head stuck up his ass and no clue about how the real world works.

“I know it is.” His voice hardens. “And I’m not waiting around to see how far they’ll go.”

I nod once. That’s all the answer I need.

I don’t care about politics. I don’t give a shit about rich men playing god with legislation. But I care about the job. I care about doing it right. And if someone’s threatening a sheltered young woman to get to her father, I’ll bury them before they ever get close.

“I’ll protect her,” I say simply.

Prescott exhales, tension bleeding out of his shoulders. “Good. She’s in the kitchen. Come on, I’ll introduce you.”

I follow him through a corridor that screams generational wealth, with crown moldings, marble floors, oil paintings with ornate gold frames. There’s not a single scuff on the polished surfaces. Everything is curated. Controlled. Cold.

I’m already forming a picture of her in my mind. Some pampered, overprotected rich girl. Fragile. Delicate. Probably rolling her eyes the second she hears she’s got a bodyguard. Probably thinks I’m going to be some stuffy ex-cop with a gut and a clipboard.

We turn a corner, and the vibe shifts immediately. The kitchen is wide and sunlit, warm wood and soft pastels. It’s like stepping into a different house altogether. It’s something homier, almost dreamy.

And there she is.

Barefoot at the island. Curves hugged in a pale pink dress that hits mid-thigh.

Piping delicate roses onto cupcakes, swaying slightly to the soft music playing from a speaker beside her.

There’s a dusting of flour on the tip of her nose, a smudge of frosting on her wrist, and her hair is pulled into a messy braid that’s unraveling around her face.

She hasn’t seen us yet. But for me, time stops.

I’ve been shot before. Broken bones. Survived an explosion in Kandahar that killed four of my unit.

None of that hit me as hard as this.

She’s beautiful. Soft. A fucking dream. And something deep and primal in me, something savage, snaps awake.

She’s mine.

Not professionally. Not logically. It’s on a level so instinctual, so visceral, it’s like my blood rewrites itself the second I see her.

She shifts slightly, licking a bit of pink frosting from the tip of her finger with an absent hum.

My cock goes rock fucking hard.

Jesus Christ.

Her mouth, so plush and innocent, puckers around her fingertip, and my brain is instantly flooded with images I should not be thinking with her father standing three feet away. What else could she taste with that tongue? What would she sound like with her lips stretched around...

“Arabella,” Prescott says, his voice fond as he pulls me from the filthy spiral of my thoughts.

She jumps, blinking up at us like she’s been yanked out of her own little world. Her blue eyes are huge as they land on me, and she goes bright pink.

“Oh!” she gasps, scrambling to pause the music. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in.”

Her voice is soft. Slightly breathless. Sweet enough to rot my teeth.

“Arabella, this is Lachlan Decker,” her father says. “He’ll be looking after you for the time being.”

She opens her mouth to reply, but his phone rings. Loud. Jarring. He sighs, already pulling it from his pocket.

“Excuse me,” he mutters. “I have to take this.”

He steps out without waiting for a reply, the door swinging shut behind him. The silence that follows is thick.

She twists her fingers together, eyes flickering down to the cupcakes, then up at me. She laughs nervously.

“So… you’re the guy that’s gonna be following me around for the foreseeable future, huh?”

She doesn’t even know what that does to me.

Her voice, all breathy and unsure. Her flushed cheeks. That nervous smile. Like she doesn’t know she’s the most beautiful fucking thing I’ve ever seen.

I take a step forward. Then another. Drawn in, helpless to stop.

She smells like sugar and vanilla and something else. Something that already has its claws in me.

But it’s more than that. It’s her.

She’s fucking perfect.

That pale pink dress hugs every sinful inch of her body like it was custom made just to torment me.

Soft fabric stretched tight across full, heavy tits that bounce ever so slightly with each nervous breath.

A waist that flares out into wide hips and thick, plush thighs I could bite down on and die happy.

The hem barely skims the tops of her legs, showing off smooth, creamy skin I already want to mark up with my teeth.

Her curves aren’t just pretty. They’re devastating.

A body made to be worshipped. Bred. Owned.

She shifts her weight, and the sway of her hips makes my cock throb against the inside of my jeans.

Tendrils of hair fall across her flushed cheeks and brush against that delicate throat I want to wrap my hand around while I fuck her slow and deep until she screams for me. I swear to God I could come just looking at her.

And the worst part?

It doesn’t look like she has any idea that she’s a damn goddess. No idea what she’s doing to me just by existing in this room. No idea that I’m two seconds away from throwing her over my shoulder and dragging her out of here like some kind of caveman.

I should say something. Anything. But all I can think is... Mine.

“Do you want a cupcake?” she offers, clearly scrambling for something to say, her eyes still flickering shyly away from mine.

I don’t want a cupcake.

I want her. All of her.

She blinks when I reach out, slow and deliberate, and touch her face. Just the edge of my knuckle brushing the flour from her nose.

She makes a tiny sound. A soft, breathy whimper that nearly buckles my knees.

Fuck.

I lean in, not close enough to scare her, just close enough to make her heart race. Her breath hitches. Her lips part.

“You’re mine,” I murmur, low and rough. “And I won’t let anyone touch you, princess. I promise you that.”