I’M SO FUCKED.
I breathe through my nose. Suppressing whatever tries to heat my veins and disorient my head. Lust? Irritation? Infatuation?
I stare him directly in the eye. Unabashed, but I keep thinking, never in my goddamn life have I wanted to accept an order like that one as badly as I do now.
I’m highly aware that I’ve always been drawn to alpha males. The kind of men who want to top me as much as I want to top them. I get my way almost every time, but just toying with the vulnerability of being with someone just as strong, just as dominant, lights me up to the fucking max.
Imagining that person while I stand here, right now, I realize that Farrow Redford Keene is the penultimate match.
He’s your bodyguard. Thank you, moral conscience. It’s why I refuse to let my gaze slip down to his mouth or his six-foot-three build. I don’t even let him read my reaction for long.
I retie my loose drawstring pants. And then I kneel on the rug before lying on my stomach. A position I rarely find myself in.
I prop myself on my elbows. And crane my neck over my shoulder. Keeping a narrowed eye on Farrow. He removes his silver rings. One-by-one.
Christ. His fingers—those fingers are going to be on me. The back of my neck is boiling hot.
His brown eyes travel languidly along my back muscles—ones that showcase my diehard love of swimming. And proficiency in the butterfly stroke.
After he pockets his rings, Janie hands him a bottle of oil. “A dreadfully bad idea or good one to film this for reference material?”
“Bad,” I say, for no other reason but this one, “if it leaks somehow, people will start asking who’s my amateur masseuse.”
Farrow rolls his eyes at the word amateur, but he also agrees, “Don’t record.”
We both know people would fixate on Farrow in this hypothetical video recording. Because he’s a.) fully-tattooed, b.) the kind of attractive that makes you crave a “happy ending” and c.) his hands would be on me.
It’d make him famous.
Famous people can’t protect famous people. Or else I’d be the bodyguard to my own siblings. And once a bodyguard needs a bodyguard to protect themselves, they’re worthless to security.
Farrow would lose his job.
Jane lounges on the loveseat. “I’ll watch attentively then and take mental notes.” Lady Macbeth, an old black cat, springs onto her lap and collapses, purring. Janie kisses the cat’s fur and scratches behind her ears.
That damn cat better not distract Jane. I’m not about to repeat this massage.
“Cela n’arrivera pas deux fois,” I tell her. It will not happen twice.
She strokes Lady Macbeth, her bright blue eyes on me knowingly. “Je regarde. Profite du massage, Moffy.” I’m watching. Enjoy the massage, Moffy.
I stay propped on my forearms and glance over my shoulder again. Standing, Farrow oils his palms, so damn confident. His smile stretches at the sight of me watching, his bottom lip piercing too hot.
Everything about Farrow is lightning cracking the night sky.
He lowers.
Fuck—here we go.
He rests his knee beside my waist, and the sole of his boot is on my other side. Straddling me without touching me. Not yet, at least.
“All the way down, Maximoff,” he says in that deep, gravel voice. “Arms flat by your sides.”
My pulse pounds in my neck. I tensely extend my arms by my waist. Which forces me to look away from Farrow. I’d rather hide my face, so I put my forehead on the decorative pillow. Concealed, but also staring at nothing.
“Don’t kill me,” I snap.
He leans forward, his lips near my ear. “Hurting you is the antithesis of my job description.”
Right.
“Trust me,” he breathes. “Relax.” The silky part of his voice soothes me from head-to-toe like stepping into a steaming sauna.
Fuck.
Me.
My normally bound shoulders want to unlock, and I force my arms to stay still and not bring them to the pillow. My whole back is exposed. And only the gray fabric of my drawstring pants lies between Farrow and my bare ass.
I’m not wearing any boxer-briefs.
He can probably tell.
I shut my eyes. Breathing stronger. The anticipation killing me.
And then his warmed, oiled hands start at my tailbone. Holy shit. Using the weight of his body to dig deep, he runs his thumbs and palms up the length of my back. Reaching the base of my neck and kneading circles around my broad shoulders.
A sharp breath catches in the pit of my throat. Holyshitholyshit.
His fingers and hands create hypnotic movements up and down my back, shoulders, and even my biceps and forearms. Every time he anchors his weight to knead and rub my body, I imagine his pelvis near my ass—I grit down.
Tighten my eyes shut more. I can’t get hard.
“Relax,” he breathes, his thumbs running up the back of my neck. That feels too fucking good.
He leans nearer to my body as his large hands travel down my build and then veer to my waist. Teasing against the band of my drawstring pants.
Don’t fantasize.
Don’t fantasize.
I breathe through my nose again. If I rotate and sit up—would we kiss? Stop thinking. When he leans closer again, I picture his lips beside my jaw. Nipping my ear before sucking, then I turn and we—no.
Yes.
Hell yes.
I’m still lying on the ground. He’s still massaging my tight shoulders that refuse to unwind. His lips do brush my ear, and he actually, realistically whispers, “Let go.”
I can’t.
The moment I let go, I’ll cross a line that can’t be crossed.
He kneads my traps harder, deeper, almost bringing me somewhere I can’t ignore. To a state of euphoria. My eyes open but nearly roll back, my mouth slightly agape. Fucking…
I grab his wrist.
Suddenly. Instinctively. And he freezes, his palms on my lower back. Without releasing him, I use my other arm to prop my body. My chest rises in a heavy, ragged breath.
I glance at him.
Farrow breathes just as heavily, his eyes searching mine for reasons as to why I stopped him. I imagine shifting his hand lower. To my waistband. Beneath the fabric.
Do it.
I blink once—remembering that Jane is here. And then I think: that shouldn’t be the only reason why I stop.
He’s my fucking bodyguard.
I let go of his wrist.
The old loveseat squeaks as Jane sits up. “I can leave you two alone if you’d like—”
“No,” I say firmly and stare hard at Farrow, waiting for him to reject that offer with me.
Farrow sweeps my body with a heady gaze, practically saying, I would’ve said yes. And then he stands up off of me.
I have no real time to think.
My phone rings on the coffee table. An incoming call. Not a text. I quickly stand and grab my phone. I see the caller ID: my little sister, and I become laser-eyed.
Colossally focused.
I concentrate on the here and now. Everything else behind me.
I put the phone to my ear. “Luna?” Strange breathing filters through the speaker. I frown. “Luna?”