Chapter 15

HUXLEY

One month.

I’ve managed one month with this absolutely perfect woman in my life, and I haven’t so much as kissed her.

I don’t know how it hasn’t happened, how I’ve managed to control myself.

I think it’s because there is so much at stake.

I rely on her for my accommodation and my job. I rely on her father for my employment and a recommendation when I leave.

I can’t have my reputation being tarnished if I came on to a client instead of protecting them. I would never get hired as anything more than a bouncer for the rest of my career. High-paying clients require glowing references.

That being said, it really is a miracle that I have managed to hold myself back for this long.

So many moments have happened between us.

The way we held hands in that room at her father’s opening event after she’d been assaulted.

The way she whispered in my ear in the club that she’d rather be dancing with me.

The way I opened up about my past in the car that night.

The way she threw her arms around me and hugged me when I got all choked up about the cake.

So many times I have nearly kissed her.

So many times I’ve both regretted not doing it and also thanked my lucky stars that I didn’t.

That’s what I am: a walking conflict, constantly fighting an internal war inside my chest.

~I want her, but I can’t have her.~

“I’m good, thanks.”

Zainab declines another drink.

This is the third time tonight she has declined shots or cocktails or more champagne. I’ve noticed that she paired every alcoholic drink she has had with a glass of water.

She is still enjoying herself, laughing with her brother and his friends, but she isn’t drinking half the amount that she did on other nights out.

~I wonder if that has anything to do with her therapy session.~

I saw she had put Dr. Churchill on her calendar on Sunday afternoon. Feeling nosy, I looked him up and found a website of a prominent therapist in South London.

She was in her office for two hours and emerged quiet and pensive.

Now, on a Friday night, she is showing restraint for the first time since I’ve met her.

Faisal’s friends are clearly used to drunk Zainab, and this moderated version of her is making them more pushy than before with the drinks.

As patronizing as it sounds, I’m proud of her for the way she is standing her ground tonight.

The group moves on to a club where every room has a different style of music. They split up. Everyone goes into a room that caters to their music tastes, creating a nightmare for the security team.

For once, I’m grateful that only Zainab is my target. It’s easy to follow her from room to room.

It’s more difficult for the three security guards that Faisal has because they have to keep an eye on him without confusing him with his crew. They all dress the same and look relatively similar in the dark lighting of the nightclub.

My client is very easy to spot. She’s wearing a fuchsia dress, impossible to miss.

Her long hair cascades down her back, and her hips sway in an inviting manner as she weaves into the R&B room.

She’s alone; it seems none of Faisal’s friends are interested in this genre of music.

I find a spot for myself on the far side of the room. I take up my usual stance, arms crossed, back against the wall.

I nod my head in time to the song and keep my eyes firmly locked on Zainab. She finishes the glass of water in her hands, puts the empty glass on the bar, and opens up her clutch.

She wipes her mouth and then rubs on some lip balm. Her eyes meet mine, and a smile spreads over her lips.

~Fuck. She is so fucking beautiful.~

It’s like being punched in the gut, knowing that I can look at her but never have her.

A bitter feeling settles in my stomach as she snaps her clutch closed and wanders over to me.

She stops right in front of me, her legs long and tempting in the fuck-me black heels she’s wearing. Her toes are painted the same pink as her dress.

She’s always so put together. Even in the morning, when her hair is wild and her eyes are sleepy, she’s stunning.

I’ve never met someone who can pull off every look, from sweaty and flushed at the gym to washed out and hungover.

“Dance with me, Griff?”

I shake my head immediately in response to her question.

She pouts at me, pushing out those full lips of hers.

“Why not?”

“I’m on duty.”

“So?”

“So, I’m paid to protect you, not dance with you.”

She looks around the small room and gives me a lazy smile.

“It’s just the two of us; it’s okay,” she insists.

She holds out her hands. “Dance with me.”

I survey the room, checking that we are definitely alone, that there is no one from Faisal’s crew in here.

Once I’m sure it is safe, I indulge Zainab and place my large hands in her small ones.

The smile she gives me convinces me that I have made the right decision.

She pulls me into the crowd of bodies. I’m about half a head taller than everyone else. Only one other guy is my height, and he gives me a nod of acknowledgment in a sea of shorter people.

Zainab takes my hands and, without any hesitation, settles them on her lower back. Then she puts her hands on my shoulders, slides them up and over, and locks them at my nape.

We’re in the position for slow dancing, but the sensual rocking of her hips to the beat is definitely not appropriate.

I can feel her body writhing under my hands. I slide them around and settle them on her waist, finding that a safer place than above her ass.

Her fingers play with the short hair at my nape, running over it, gently scraping her nails against my scalp.

It feels really fucking good.

My head is bowed a little so that I can look down at her. She smiles so innocently, clearly pleased that she has gotten her way and now her security is dancing with her.

I tell myself that I can protect her even better by being this close to her, but really, who am I protecting her from? It feels like it should be from myself at this point. There is a throbbing in my pants that I ~really~ shouldn’t be feeling.

Zainab leans up on her tiptoes to ask in my ear, “How old are you, Griff?”

“Thirty-four,” I reply.

I have to get close to her so that she can hear me over the music. Unfortunately, this means I breathe in her sweet, light perfume.

It has the comfort and freshness of fabric conditioner but also a sweet, sultry undertone that makes my mind go straight to the gutter.

I’m ten years older than her. If being her bodyguard wasn’t enough of an incentive to keep my hands to myself, being a decade older than her should be.

All of those thoughts fall straight from my head when Zainab turns around in my arms.

I would have thought it would be safer to have her back to me. That way, her beautiful face, round breasts, and tempting legs are harder to see.

Instead, I’m gifted with her ass. She must know what she is doing as she rubs herself provocatively against me.

Her ass brushes over the front of my pants, making my cock twitch with excitement. It’s desperate for the slightest bit of attention from her.

My hands are still on her waist, gripping tightly now that she is grinding against me without a care in the world.

She obviously does not have the same hang-ups about our situation that I have.

Her hands come down over mine, and she moves them for me. My breath catches in my throat as she slides them higher, over her ribs.

I’ve been doing the two-step behind her. Now, I find myself frozen as she guides my hands onto her breasts. She isn’t wearing a bra beneath her dress, and I can feel every part of her.

Her nipples are hard and pressing against the fabric. I let out a groan, and I’m sure I hear her giggle over the music.

Just as I close my hands around her breasts, cupping them, she pushes my hands away.

For a second, I think she wants me to stop touching her, but instead she moves my hands lower. She guides them down over the swell of her hips and her soft belly until they are on her thighs.

My palms drift over the hem of her dress. Once I’ve cleared it, she pushes my hands up, so that they slip under the hem.

My eyes scan the room, but no one is paying us any attention. We’re hidden within a mass of thriving bodies.

Other couples are probably as close as we are to doing their own dirty dance. Everyone is too drunk or too lost in the music to care about us.

We’re invisible.

Zainab slides my hands inward, so that they dip between her thighs. My thumbs brush over the edges of her thong, and I inhale sharply.

Zainab leans back and rests her head on my shoulder. She turns her head and looks up at me with longing.

“Touch me, Griff.”

My fingers are aching with how much they want to move, but I force myself to keep them frozen.

I swallow hard. I can’t tear my gaze from Zainab’s big, round eyes.

“How much have you had to drink?” I ask quietly, just over the noise of the music.

“I stopped drinking like an hour ago,” she says. “I’m not drunk, Griff. Touch me, please. I’m dying here.”

Her eyes aren’t glazed. She has paced herself tonight, but she’s still had alcohol when I haven’t had a drop. This isn’t right on so many levels.

~And yet…~

She pushes my right hand so that my palm slides over her thong. Instead of pulling my hand back, I cup her pussy. She moans and bucks her hips forward, pressing herself into my hand.

~Fuck. I am going straight to hell.~