“Actually”—the clean-cut guy pockets his phone—“I need to talk to Jane.” He says her name like he personally knows her.
He’s not the first guy to try to pull this. He won’t be the last.
Jane gave me an extensive list of her known acquaintances when I first joined her detail. I have pictures. Names. I’ve even combed through her yearbooks multiple times in the past ten months, just to refresh my memory.
This guy is no one.
I start, “You can’t see Jane—”
He steps forward to combat me.
I put out a warning hand, and he stops.
“My name is Gavin Reece.”
Not familiar. “You need to keep your feet off my fucking curb,” I say like a grumpy old man.
He lets out a disbelieving noise. “It’s not your curb. Sidewalks are a public right-of-way, so you’re blocking my access—”
“You have access right there.” I extend an arm down the street. The law is so gray that it allows paparazzi to plant their asses in front of the townhouses. Even though homeowners own the land up to the house and to the curb.
Gavin sighs. “Look, we’re off on the wrong foot here.”
“I’m not debating you. I’m not your fucking transport or access to see Jane. If you want to approach her house or stand here and disturb the peace, you’re going to eat asphalt.”
Akara is in my ear again. “Second batch of temps should be here soon.” Which means I can go take a shower.
I’m still staring this guy down, but I feel for the wire on my chest and then click my mic. “Solid copy.”
Gavin reaches into his suit jacket.
I’m rigid. Could be a gun. Disarming hecklers is also routine. I’m not armed right now. Didn’t grab my gun, barely tied my pants. Six years on the job, and I haven’t had to use it that often. There aren’t many situations where a gun is necessary.
He pulls out an envelope. “Jane will want to hear this. So if you can’t help me contact her, then please direct me to someone who can.”
My gaze is stern. I’m not your fucking friend . “She did three months of meet and greets. You missed your chance.”
“That was before the ad.”
He means before he knew what she was looking for.
Confirmed suitor.
Which means he’s looking to what…date her…coerce her…fuck her?
Fuck him.
Jane isn’t someone you can casually call up for a quick word. This year, she ranked in the Top 20 Most Instagram Followers in the world. Her mom ranked at 8. Her aunts ranked at 4 and 11.
This isn’t a girl you can email or DM or even cannon blast. She has the tech team, three forces of bodyguards, along with temp guards, and a wall of assistants, publicists, and managers.
He wants to meet Jane. Good luck. She’s an American princess. Take a fucking number and wait forever. Because I’m never letting it happen.
She’s my responsibly.
My duty.
He can go shove his dick in an exhaust pipe.
“What’s in the envelope?” a cameraman asks, swinging his Canon lens to Gavin.
This prick glares back at me. “My resume.” He tries to hand it to me.
I don’t move. “Leave or I’ll drag you off the fucking property.”
“I’m not on it—”
I take one strong step towards Gavin, and he shuffles back in a hurry. “Okayokay.” He raises his hands. All fake bravado.
He walks backwards to his red Bugatti. “I’m supposed to be with Jane Cobalt.” He speaks into the camera. “Everything she listed in that ad, I have. Every single thing.”
Everything in that ad—I don’t have.
What does any of that matter?
My body tenses, and I study the perimeter.
I’ve got a job to do.
7
THATCHER MORETTI
Steam rises in security’s small townhouse bathroom. Hot water soaks my hair, beads of liquid dripping off my eyelashes, and I press a firm left hand against the tiled shower wall. My right hand grips and strokes my long, hard length.
Should be taking a cold shower, but denying myself a release is a worse idea. I’m used to long-stints without sex, even before I became a bodyguard. But I can’t go that long without shooting a load. On deployments, jerking off in a quiet porta shitter was the highlight of some days.
Now I’ve upgraded to a shower. One tall enough where I don’t need to hunch.
Eyes snapped shut, I fixate on the feeling that I crave. Nerves lit, muscles contracted in searing bands—I quicken my pace. Back-and-forth friction of my hand against my throbbing cock heats up every inch of my body.
Come.
Come, already.
An aroused grunt rakes my throat, straining my neck. Jaw aching as I grit my teeth down.
My mind is blank. Just in the present. Until an image pops up in my head. In strong waves, I’m thrusting my erection between her trembling thighs.
She’s clung to me on a mattress. Her legs trying to find support while I feed into her pleasure. I rock deeper inside her soaked warmth that tightens around my cock. And I watch orgasm after orgasm ripple through her body.
I see her clearly.
Brown wavy hair, frizzed pieces caressing freckled cheeks.
Long lashes that shade glimmering, overcome blue eyes.
“Thatcher ,” she gasps.
Fuck.
Instantly, my eyes break open and I freeze. My hand is immobile on my rock-hard dick, veins pulsing with one desire.
“Get it the fuck together,” I growl under my breath and slam the side of my fist at the tiled wall.
Come on. Don’t go there.
Un-fucking-professional doesn’t even come close to what this is. Every time I jack off, I picture my client. And I don’t have thirty minutes to fuck around. I need a quick release, and if I keep blue-balling myself when I’m on the edge, I’m going to leave myself pent-up and agitated all day.
I have to just ride whatever comes to mind. I’ll do some deadlifts later. Say a few Hail Marys. Try not to feel like shit.
But right now, I go with the moment.
Deeper breath, I kick-start the friction of my hand to cock.
And I try again.
I’m back thrusting.
Into her.
She gasps like she’s melting inside hot euphoria. High-pitched, pleasured noises jolt out of her parted lips. “Thatcher, Thatcher! ” Sweat beads around her perked nipples.
Tears squeeze out of her eyes.
Jane.
I give Jane the sex she deserves. Her orgasm arches her body up into my chest. Practically levitating her off the bed. I hold Jane in a protective grip against my build while her toes curl. I stroke the soft flesh of her inner-thigh. Down to her swelling clit.
Her eyes roll.
I kiss the tender nape of her neck.
Her head lolls back.
I fill her pussy.
I thrust.
And thrust.
And feed this unkempt hunger that I’ve left for dead in reality. Watching and feeling Jane come and come and come and pulse around my hardened need.
In the shower, I hit that peak and jerk forward in a powerful release. Cum washes down the drain. I draw out the climax with a few more strokes, and then a knock bangs the bathroom door.
“Thatcher!” Banks calls.
Christ.
I clean off quickly and crank off the water. It should be around oh-nine-thirty. I’ve been up since dawn, but the famous ones are probably waking up now. Once they leave their townhouse, we automatically go on-duty.
My brother could need to use the bathroom. Or he could be telling me he’s about to head out. Or that I need to go. My radio is on the ledge of the sink.
I step out of the shower, the cramped bathroom only big enough for a toilet, sink, and shower stall.
Banks raps the door more aggressively. “Thatcher!”
Concern kicks my ass into gear. Forgoing the towel, which fell behind the toilet, I trek across the bathroom in a few forceful steps. Wet footprints track the floor.
Buck-ass naked, I open the door, and I instantly sidestep.
Banks barrels into the bathroom.
I shut the door behind us, and my brother aims straight for the toilet. Dropping a knee, he grips the sides of the basin.
He’s nauseous.
He waits and takes a few controlled breaths.