6. Sean
SEAN
I make the bed before I leave her room.
It’s not about politeness. It’s control. Structure. The one thing I’m good at.
The sheets still smell like sweat and sex and a woman I’ve wanted since I was too young to understand why.
There’s a faint print where she pressed her knees into the mattress, or maybe that’s just the memory of the hottest blow job I’ve ever had.
If I let myself, I could lose hours right here, memorizing the chaos we left behind.
Sparking the fire again. Over and over until we’re all alight.
But I don’t. I don’t memorize her bedroom, her body. I fight eye contact with the walls instead. I pull the comforter tight, flatten the corners, and get the hell out of there with none of my dignity intact. The other three are still sleeping, still blissed out of their minds.
I walk out like nothing happened.
The house is quiet. Morning light pours through tall windows, casting shadows across the wide floors and curved staircase. Every part of this mansion is custom—arches, glass, stone, wood—and every inch whispers Bailey.
This place was designed to keep the world out. And now I’m on the inside. The worst part is—I know better. This isn’t how we do things. Not ever.
Fraternizing with clients is against every protocol I’ve ever written. I’ve had men benched for it. I’ve ended contracts over less. No matter how high the stress, no matter how beautiful the client, the rules are there for a reason.
We don’t blur lines. We don’t get personal. We don’t fuck the woman we’re supposed to protect.
But last night?
I didn’t just blur the lines. I cut through them with a goddamn machete. And I don’t regret it. Not for one second.
She was strong and soaked through with need. She wanted it. Us. Every command, every hand, every inch. She took it, like she’d been waiting her whole life to give up control in a way that felt like freedom instead of loss.
We are so fucked.
The curve of her hips in vinyl. The way she begged with her eyes before her mouth ever opened. The way she whimpered when I took control.
I hit the hallway leading to the west wing of the mansion, where she’s converted two former guest suites into a full gym.
Hardwood floors. Mirrored wall. Dumbbells up to 120 pounds.
Kettlebells, ropes, resistance bands, a treadmill that probably cost more than my first car. There’s a rowing machine in the corner.
She lives in this place. She curates it. And now I’m moving through it like I belong here.
I don’t. But I want to. Too much. I shake my head at myself and warm up with a set of push-ups—military form, chest to floor, back straight, no slop.
Thirty. Then forty. Then fifty. Still not enough.
The gym smells like cedar and steel. The kind of clean, well-maintained space that should soothe me. Everything here is designed for performance. High-end ventilation. Soundproofed walls. Rubber mat flooring with just the right amount of give beneath my boots. Orderly.
But my pulse is already high, and it has nothing to do with the room.
I stand, shake out my arms, and move to the squat rack. Load the bar to 225. Deadlift first. Form over speed, always.
Discipline.
I’ve always needed it. Not wanted— needed. It’s the only thing that ever quieted the chaos in my head.
Bailey was chaos. She still is. That’s why she needed us last night.
But somehow, when I had her on that bed, under my hand, on my lips…she felt like order. Like I finally understood why I was built this way—rigid, hard, uncompromising. She made my control feel sacred instead of burdensome.
That’s the real problem. It didn’t feel like a breach. It felt like a mission.
Four sets in, sweat drips down the side of my face. I roll my neck. Breathe through the burn. But it’s not enough. Every rep, I see her. Bent over. Spread open. Gasping my name like a prayer.
The bar slams back into its cradle with a loud metallic clang. I pace to the wall, hands braced on the mirror, and force myself to breathe. It doesn’t help.
I’m sweating like it’s summer in the city. I remember her in cutoff shorts and a tank top, barefoot on the fire escape, telling me that one day she was going to live somewhere with so many rooms she’d never run out of places to hide.
She meant it metaphorically. I think.
Now? She’s built it literally.
A fortress. And she let me inside. I don’t deserve that. Obviously, I can’t handle it. Last night, I broke every rule. Took advantage of her needs. I’m just as much of a schmuck as her ex.
Fuck.
I towel off my hands, but they’re still shaking. Not from the workout. From her.
The mansion’s main guest wing has a suite with a private bath. I chose it because it’s the farthest from the kids’ rooms, the kitchen, the heart of the house. I like the quiet. I didn’t plan on needing the isolation.
But now? I don’t want anyone to see me like this.
I step inside and shut the door behind me. The room is marble and glass, sharp-edged and sleek. Cold white walls. Gold fixtures. A rainfall shower wide enough for six. Steam curls up the instant I turn the knob.
I strip in silence. Every layer feels like a lie I told myself.
I’m her protection. This is a job. Last night was just release. It meant nothing to me. We merely provided a service. Nothing more.
I step under the water and lean my head against the tile. Lying never used to feel like this. It hits me in waves—the sound she made when I touched her. The way her mouth opened around my name. The heat of her body under my hands. The obedience. The trust.
God, the trust.
She gave me her body, her pain, her fear—and I took it. Not like a thief. Like a soldier on a mission. Like a man who was made for it.
My cock is hard before I even touch it. Just thinking about the way her thighs shook. The way her eyes rolled back when Huck used his tongue and I whispered in her ear. The memories make my balls ache.
I wrap my hand around myself, slow and firm. Her voice plays in my head. “Please, sir.”
Fuck.
My hips jerk. I stroke harder, imagining her mouth on me again, wet and willing, her tongue teasing the tip while Huck holds her wrists and I tell her what a perfect fucking toy she is.
I grunt, low and sharp. This isn’t about getting off. It’s about purging her from my system. Even if I already know it won’t work.
Bailey Beausoleil has always been under my skin. Last night just made it permanent. I groan her name as I come, hard and fast, heat hitting the tile and swirling down the drain. My body shakes, but not from pleasure.
From the knowledge that this won’t be the last time. Not even close.
I stand there longer than I need to—long enough for the steam to vanish, for the reality to creep back in. My hands brace on the tile. My reflection stares at me in the glass.
Still me. Still dangerous. But not in the ways I used to be. Now it’s internal. Silent. A ticking thing I don’t know how to defuse.
I’m the bomb now. I can’t let Bailey take the hit when I go off.
I towel off and redress slowly. Black T-shirt, black pants. Uniform, armor, mask. When I look in the mirror again, the man staring back is crisp and ready. Almost convincing.
But under the fabric, I’m still thinking about the way Bailey looked at me after she came the first time.
I sit on the edge of the guest bed and lace my boots, trying to ground myself. Control the breath. Recenter. Focus on the mission. Keep her safe. Keep the kids safe.
Don’t touch her again.
I tighten the laces like it might strangle the urge right out of me. I know how this works. I’ve seen it before—men letting the job get personal. Men confusing chemistry with obligation. They lose focus. They get reckless. They get people killed.
I won’t be that man. I can’t be. Bailey has already survived enough. I stand, roll my shoulders, and walk toward the door. Every step feels like pushing back the tide.
The mansion is glorious, and not only because every part screams Bailey. It’s picture-perfect, down to the handcrafted tile and sculpted ceilings. Like an immaculate Italian villa, one that happens to house a slightly messy family. This is the world I’m supposed to protect.
And I will. I’ll draw the line again. I’ll hold it—if only to make sure she never has to. But deep down, I know the truth.
If Bailey Beausoleil looks at me again the way she did last night, the way she said sir like it was salvation, I’m going to break the rules all over again.
I will be just as shitty as her ex-husband. I will take the advantage she hands me. I’m only a man. How the hell am I supposed to say no to that?