Triple-Duty Bodyguards: Chapter 17

I lie as still as possible, watching a thin beam of sunlight slide through the room. As the minutes go by, the strip of yellow light moves slowly across the carpet, then the bed, until it’s finally cutting a line over Briar’s cheek, lighting up her hair in bright strands of gold.

I’ve barely slept all night. I couldn’t. I felt too bad.

We screwed up yesterday.

I remember the raw fear in Briar’s face when I found her sprawled on the bathroom floor, and suppress a shudder. We’ve been doing this far too long to not notice when a client is in distress. It was a real shock to see her so fragile last night; an even bigger shock when she asked me to stay with her. I assumed she’d pick one of the other two. Kenta would be the obvious option, and even though she and Matt fight, it’s obvious that they’re attracted to each other. I don’t know why any woman would invite some giant, scarred Hulk into her bed. But she picked me. She didn’t even hesitate.

I don’t understand it.

She stirs. Her plump lips part, and a soft breath flutters a strand of hair off her cheek. Slowly, her big eyes blink open, batting a few times before they focus on me.

“Morning,” I mumble.

She stretches slowly, a soft noise escaping her lips as she rolls out her tight muscles. Great. I thought one advantage of staying up all night would be the lack of morning wood, but apparently, that’s not going to happen.

“Morning,” she murmurs, then slumps back onto the pillow, looking at me. Her eyes run over my face, and I’m suddenly aware of how close we are. Just a few inches apart. I can see every detail of her face: the soft, smooth skin, the long lashes, the tiny sprinkle of gold freckles across the bridge of her nose. I’m so enchanted it takes me a second to realise that she can see every detail of my face, too.

Shit.

I turn to look at the ceiling, but her hand suddenly flies out, catching my jaw. Everything in me goes still as the pads of her soft fingers rub into my stubble. “Why do you do that?” She whispers, her voice husky and low from sleep.

“Do what?”

She twists her head, showing me her cheek. “Turn away. You always hide your scar from me.”

I frown. “I didn’t know I was doing that.”

“Sometimes, I think you don’t. But you did, just then. I saw it on your face.”

I shrug. “I assumed you wouldn’t want to look at it, I suppose.”

Her eyes narrow. “Well, I do want to look at it,” she snips, tugging my jaw towards her. Her fingertips trace over my cheek, just a millimetre from touching me. “Can I touch?”

I can’t speak. I give a tiny nod. Her fingers smooth over the scar, feeling the bumpy, ragged texture.

“Does it hurt?” She murmurs.

“No. Itches, sometimes.”

“What happened?” I tense, and she shakes her head. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have asked—”

“It’s fine. On our last job, we were working counter-terrorism in…” I bite my lip. “A, uh, foreign country.”

Her mouth twitches. “Confidential, is it?”

“Kind of. Let’s just say the Middle East. We were supposed to be doing recon, but our patrol got captured. The guys locked us up and tortured us for information.”

She sucks in a breath and pushes closer, brushing her thumbs over my face. “They cut you?”

“Among other things.” A shiver rolls up my spine as memories press into the back of my head. Dark, and black, and full of pain.

She must see it in my face, because she switches subjects. “Matt said that you used to carry a picture of me.”

Shock rocks me. That son of a bitch. Why the Hell would he tell her that? I’d honestly prefer to discuss the torture. “One picture,” I admit. “I’m sorry. With everything going on right now, that probably seems creepy.”

“No,” she whispers. “Things like that aren’t creepy when you’re a celeb. I had, like, twenty posters of Justin Timberlake in my bedroom when I was a teenager. I didn’t apologise when I met him.” She tucks some hair behind my ear. It’s too short to stay there, so it falls out again. She tucks it back, over and over, until she’s essentially just stroking my hair. I don’t understand what’s happening. “How did you get it?”

I rub my face. “A guy in our patrol, Damon, had a sister who worked as an editor for a magazine. She sent all of her issues to him. You were on the cover of one. I thought you were—beautiful, I guess. I couldn’t stop looking at you. He noticed, thought it was hilarious, and ripped it out, stuck it over my bunk. At first it was a joke, but then, when we moved on, I just… couldn’t bring myself to toss it. So I folded it up and kept it with me. It was like having a lucky charm.”

“Huh.” Her face is thoughtful. “So did you, like, jerk off over me, or what?”

My mouth falls open. “I…”

She laughs. “It’s okay. It’s sort of a given when you do lingerie shoots that people are gonna wank over the shots. And I’d much rather it be a lonely soldier in his barracks than some creepy stalker.”

“I didn’t, though,” I say honestly.

“Hm?”

“I didn’t—do that. Which probably makes it weirder.” I run a hand through my hair. I’m shit with words, and there’s really no way to put this without sounding completely deranged. “It wasn’t a lingerie shot. It was a picture of you on the beach, wearing a white t-shirt and this ridiculous, huge floppy hat. You were holding an ice cream and smiling at the camera, and… I don’t know. You were so beautiful. And it was so ugly down there. Some guys had girlfriends, or kids, or families that they were fighting for, but I didn’t have any of that shit. But I could look at that picture of you and remember that beautiful things still existed in the world. Sunshine, and ice cream, and happy girls on beaches wearing floppy hats. It reminded me that that’s what I was putting myself through Hell for. So that stuff could still exist.”

She sits up slowly, her eyes wide. I grimace, heat rising to my face. I sound like a total creep. “I’m sorry. That must be—”

She cuts me off. “I think you’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.”

I stare at her. It’s a completely preposterous thing to say. “I’m not beautiful,” I sputter.

“No?”

“No! I’m… people turn around and stare at me in the street. I make babies cry, I’m not beautiful—”

She cuts me off with a kiss.

For a second, I’m taken aback. She presses closer, running her tongue against my bottom lip, and I feel almost clumsy, like I’m on the back foot. But then she softens, her body melting against my front, and my hindbrain takes over. I wrap my hands around her hips and drag her into me, yanking her onto my lap. She keens as her pelvis hits mine, winding her thighs around my waist like a vice.

God. I’ve wanted this ever since I set eyes on Briar. Kissing her feels exactly how I imagined. Like sunshine, and beach days, and summer afternoons. Happiness glows through me, lighting me up inside. The kiss gets harder and rougher. Electricity sparks everywhere our skin brushes; I feel the rub of her cotton shirt against my skin, and the soft press of her tits through the fabric.

Her little hands slide up my bare chest, twisting into my chest hair, then wrapping around my neck. Her nails scrape up against the skin, and I can’t stop the growl that falls out of my mouth. With every little shift of her hips against mine, I feel a throb of blood between my legs. I grind back up on her, and she gasps, reaching for the waistband of my boxers.

Shit. We’re going way, way too fast.

“Briar.” I shake my head, forcing myself to pull away. “Briar, stop.”

She sits back and looks up at me with pink cheeks, then rolls her eyes. “Let me guess.” She drops her voice. “We canny do thes. It’s against company policy, lassie. A’m sorry, it’s just no’ ethical.”

My lips curve. “I think it would only be considered unethical if we took advantage of the asset’s vulnerability.”

She snorts. “Good luck taking advantage of me, mate. I’d kick you in the nuts so hard your balls fell out of your mouth.” She dips her head and starts nibbling on my throat, making my whole body jerk under her. “So dinna fash yersel.”

“No, I just—” I reach up and wrap a hand in her hair. “Don’t have protection.”

She swears. “Me, neither. It’s been a while.” She purses her lips, thinking, then just shrugs. “Well, we’ll just have to get creative,” she breathes in my ear. “They must teach you how to improvise in the SAS, right? I’m sure you can work something out.”

My heart skips a beat. I nod, putting a hand on her waist and flipping her onto her back, landing on top of her. My pulse is pounding in my ears. I can barely believe this is happening. Briar squeaks as her head thumps against the pillow—and then moans as I drag myself down her body, nudging my face under the hem of her sleep shirt.