11. Monroe
11
MONROE
I t’s those hands—those rough, callus cowboy hands. I’ve only felt those fingertips on my calf muscle, but I’m imagining them in other places. I kick the covers off as my body temperature rises. I’m still half asleep, but I woke up with a tight, coiled desire in my core that was impossible to ignore.
My fingers slide under the waistband of my buttery-soft biker shorts. I find myself already slick with wetness.
Maybe I was dreaming about him …
The quiet, muscular, overprotective cowboy bodyguard enters into my vision without warning. I hold back a moan as I rub my index finger in a circle around the peak of my sensitive clit.
He’s so fucking tall and big and focused … always focused on me, on keeping me safe.
A wave of pleasure washes over me. I’ve never thought about a man like this. I’m yearning to be touched. It’s been months since anyone took control of my body and years since I actually enjoyed it.
Oh my … I want my bodyguard to touch me.
The realization hits me like a ton of bricks. I don’t just want to fantasize about it. If he made a move, I’d be over the moon with my consent.
I continue to caress my clit, circling and brushing over it as the buildup rises to a breaking point.
I want him. I want his touch. I crave it. I crave him.
I picture him in his black T-shirt and jeans, sneaking into my room in the middle of the night. It’s so wrong. So unprofessional. It’s wildly inappropriate, but I imagine him slipping through my door, cowboy hat still on.
He sets the hat down on the nightstand before peeling his T-shirt off to reveal taut, defined abs.
He watches me touching myself with that hard, hungry stare—with the cold, calculating eyes that scan the crowd in search of danger to protect me. This time, he scans the length of my naked body.
He slowly undoes his belt before sliding his jeans and underwear down. He stands in front of me, completely naked, with his impressive, hard length protruding out toward the bed.
He takes a step closer, placing his hands on the mattress, and my eyes trail over his corded forearms. The moonlight casts the perfect amount of light on the muscled planes of his biceps and abs. My mouth waters.
“What are you doing in here?” I breathe. My husky voice betrays my lustful thoughts.
He tilts his head to the side, eyes dipping down to study my breasts. “You want me to leave?” His voice is scratchy, coated with clear, unbridled desire.
He wants me.
“No,” I say firmly, way too quickly.
My face heats, but I don’t think he can see it in the dark room. I continue to rub myself, the pleasure spreading throughout my body, infusing my bloodstream.
He leans forward, that callus fingertip reaching for me. “Move your hand.”
I gasp at the sound in my head; his deep voice, with his Southern accent, telling me what to do in bed so he can please me, sends me into a mind-shattering orgasm. The pleasure rolls over me in waves, and my nipples harden underneath his hoodie as I come from my own fingers.
I lie there for a few moments until the aftershocks of my orgasm dissipate. My fingers are still hovering over me, the sticky feeling tempting me to keep going, to feel it again.
The postorgasmic reality immediately overwhelms me as a knock sounds on the door to my empty room.
“Miss Blue, are you okay?”
Cash’s voice is sexier than anything I can conjure up. My face heats with embarrassment at what I just did.
Oh my gosh. I just had a wet dream.
After the fantasy I had about him, the sound of his voice on the other side of the door feels like a smack in the face. I jerk my hand out of my shorts, wiping the lingering wetness off on the inside of the hoodie.
Oh shit, I’m still wearing his hoodie! And now, it needs a round in the washer …
I scramble out of bed, a deeper flush rising up my neck. My feet patter over to the door.
“Monroe, I’m going to break down this door if you don’t confirm your well-being in?—”
I twist the knob and pull the door open. I bite my lip, looking up at Cash’s concerned face sheepishly, praying he can’t smell the light but distinct scent of my arousal.
I just masturbated, picturing my bodyguard stripping down to his birthday suit and telling me what to do. Get a fucking grip!
The word PERVERT flashes through my mind.
He’s dressed in a black T-shirt, but his lower half is clad in gray sweatpants. He’s not wearing a hat this morning, and a five-o’clock shadow lingers over his jawline. His eyebrows pinch together as he scans my body from top to bottom with clear concern. My blush deepens from the recent imaginary scene.
“Were you still sleeping?” he asks.
I slowly exhale, my heart pumping faster than usual. I nod, pushing loose tendrils of hair out of my face.
“It’s so hot in my room.”
Why the fuck did I say that?
He inhales slowly, scanning me from head to toe again, a wrinkle between in his brows. “Ember texted to say that you need to leave in five minutes to get dolled up for the show tonight. It’s noon.”
I nibble my lower lip. Sleeping almost twelve hours straight after the first show and with a serious case of jet lag isn’t completely out of the ordinary for me. I nod, needing to get rid of him.
“I’ll be waiting,” he says, turning away from the door .
I shut it, leaning back against it with a heavy sigh. “Shit.”
My cheeks are flaming. As if there wasn’t already enough tension with Zade hovering over me and Clint constantly flirting with me, now I’m having dirty thoughts about my bodyguard.
The meet and greet backstage is always one of my favorite parts of the night. Getting to interact with my fans one-on-one helps me to remember how everyone has their own story. My music has had such a positive impact on women across the globe going through difficult times. That’s why I love what I do. I write about real feelings, heartbreak, and healing. My goal is to not only inspire my audience, but to help them feel less alone when life gets hard.
I always have the meet and greet right after my performance because I’m too wired and anxious before. I smile brightly for the last photo with a group of girls celebrating a bachelorette trip here. They wave at me and laugh with each other as Ember ushers them away.
“All right, time to head out. They have the limo ready,” she says.
Exhaustion overwhelms every one of my limbs. “Tonight went well.”
Ember nods, smiling. “It was perfect! Concert content on social media is starting to really blow up. Tickets for the rest of the tour are sold out. ”
I nod. My body feels numb.
We walk out of the room, flanked by Brooks and Danny. Right as I start to wonder where Cash disappeared to, he materializes to my left. His face is grim as he marches beside me, staying a modest two feet away. My white duffel bag, filled with some comfy clothes I can change into in the limo, is clutched in his hand.
“Impressed?” I question.
Cash’s emerald-green eyes slice to meet mine briefly. His face is a mask of seriousness, impossible to read, until the corner of his mouth lifts for a split second.
“Definitely.”
My stomach does a backflip, preening with his praise. I freeze when he drops down to one knee in front of me, grabs my shoe, and lifts it up to balance it on his knee. I didn’t realize my laces had come untied. He carefully knots it into a bow before placing my foot back on the ground. My stomach does a flip.
“Better be careful, Redford.” I lean toward him, my voice dropping to a whisper. “You’re on a dark road that could lead to you becoming a fan.”
He opens his mouth to reply as he stands upright, when a crowd of bodies spills through the hallway. The man at the forefront of the mass of people has bright purple hair and is wearing a T-shirt with my face on it. He’s taller than the rest of them, with broad shoulders and a camera hanging around his neck. His eyes widen the instant they land on me. His finger rises to point at my face.
“Monroe Blue! Monroe Blue! It’s really her!” he shouts.
The others stop chattering among themselves and turn to face me, where my feet have frozen to the concrete floor. A beat of silence passes by as recognition crosses their faces. Cash is the first to move, taking a step in front of me.
Panic ensues. The horde surges forward, led by the man with purple hair. I can’t even count how many there are because they’re coming in fast from a hallway to the left with no end in sight. It looks like a scene from The Walking Dead . The only words I can make out that most of them are speaking are my name. The rest is fast-spoken Korean, which I don’t know.
Cash reaches a hand back toward me, and I instinctively grab for his fingers. He turns to Brooks, Ember, and Danny.
His voice immediately morphs into a deep, commanding tone. “Join hands and block their path. I’m taking her back to the dressing room.”
His hand clamps tighter around mine, spinning me around and directing me back the way we came. He keeps his body in between me and the mass of fans, whose voices are rising in volume and echoing through the hallway. We walk quickly to the dressing room, which has a lock on the door.
Ember, Danny, and Brooks know exactly what to do. I hate when it happens, but this wouldn’t be the first time Ember has had to physically stand between me and a crazed fan who might just want a picture but risks causing a dangerous stampede without the proper planning, location, and parameters to keep me and all of them safe.
“Cash! Behind you!” Brooks yells toward us.
I glance back in time to see the man with the purple hair nearly upon us, his camera raised and flashing. Cash is already standing between me and the man. He drops my duffel bag as he flips his body around. He uses his right hand, which I’m holding, to position me a step behind him as he pulls back his left fist, launching it into the nose of the man. A sickening crack—the distinct sound of a bone being crushed—reaches my ears. It happens in slow motion. The thick veins in my bodyguard’s forearm and the cold look in his eyes are permanently etched into my memory.
The blow knocks the fan out cold, his big body crumpling to the ground in a heap, camera crashing down with him. My mouth gapes open in pure shock. Cash grabs my bag and tugs on my hand, pulling me closer to his side and whisking me down the hallway again without a second look at the man. My heart is pounding out of my chest at the speed of a galloping horse.
What the fuck is happening?!
Cash’s hand tightens again, squeezing my fingers together. He passes by my dressing room door without even a pause.
“Where are we going?” I ask, looking behind us once more. I can still hear the noise from the crowd echoing down the hallway.
I don’t even know where another exit is from here. As far as I know, this hall leads us right back out to the stage I just performed on.
“Somewhere safe, away from here,” he says, eyes sweeping the empty halls.
He turns abruptly down a hallway I’ve never been down before. The sign on the door says Emergency Exit Only—Alarm Will Sound . Cash pauses at the door, releasing my hand and dropping down to his knees to unzip my bag .
“Where’s that hoodie of mine you stole?”
I don’t have time to be embarrassed or answer because it’s on the top of the stack of clothes, waiting for me to sink back into once we are safely in my limousine on the way back to the hotel. He hands it to me, zipping the bag back up.
“Put it on,” he clips.
I obey, slipping the cozy sweatshirt over my head. He slowly exhales, reaching down to tug the hood over me. His eyes search mine for a brief moment. I can see the rage boiling over in their inky green depths. His jaw tics as his heated gaze dips down to brush over my lips before he turns toward the door, grabbing my hand tightly again and snatching up the bag. This time, he interlaces our fingers and squeezes gently. I squeeze him back, and my heart pounds for more than one reason.
He pushes the handle to open the door. I brace for the sound of a loud alarm, but nothing happens.
“Fucking safety protocols, my ass,” he grumbles.
Despite the fear of the unknown and what might lie in wait for us outside, I have no choice but to follow him out into the chilly Seoul night. He seems to know exactly where we are, which is a damn good thing because I’m as lost as a stray puppy.
And with a left hook like his, who could possibly hurt me?
He keeps me close behind him as we quickly walk along the side of the building. There’s a high fence on our right side, stars directly above, and the building we exited to the left. Directly ahead of us are streetlights and police officers directing traffic as fans wait for Ubers or make their way toward the parking lot and the public transportation system. With the crowded streets, Seoul’s travel relies heavily on mopeds.
As we approach the crowd leaving in a steady, calm stream, icy fear slithers up my spine.
If they recognize me, it could be a repeat of what happened in the hall … but now, there are thousands of them.
I hunker farther down inside the hoodie, which swallows me whole, thankfully.
Cash leans down to my ear as we reach the other people. “Just stay low, Princess,” he whispers. “Trust me.”
Princess …
I don’t have time to react to the nickname because in the next moment, a policeman holds his hand up to stop us so that the line of cars and mopeds can go by. Concertgoers surround us, speaking Korean. It’s disconcerting to not understand any of what they’re saying, except for my American name. If they recognize me, we won’t even know until they try taking a picture.
The crisp night air causes me to shiver. Cash wraps his arm around my shoulders, tugging me close, like we’re a couple. I lean into him, his body heat spreading over me like an extension of the hoodie I’m so addicted to. I’m afraid he can feel my heart thundering against his side. He doesn’t loosen his hold. He rests his chin atop my head, his fingers gently brushing up and down my arm.
Finally, the police directing traffic allow us to cross the street. I have no idea where he’s taking me.
Are we walking all the way to the hotel?
We’re making our way by the parking area lined with mopeds when Cash slows our pace. A man turns on his moped and uses the kickstand to stand it upright. His girlfriend tugs on his arm, handing him her phone as she poses in front of the stadium with a bright smile. He seems annoyed, but obliges her, stepping away from the bike and taking the photo.
Cash doesn’t waste a moment. In one swift movement, he reaches down, lifts me up by my waist into the air, and slings me onto the back of the bike. I yelp in surprise at the abrupt motion. He then swings his long leg over the seat, the duffel shoved in front of him, before he grabs the handlebars and revs up the engine. He reaches for my hand, tugging it around him. I lock my arms around his waist tightly, feeling his taut muscles under his shirt. He kicks the bike into gear and speeds down the street with angry shouts following us. My pulse jumps against my throat with the thrill of the unexpected ride.
The man is still screaming at us in Korean. I can only assume whatever he’s saying is a colorful spew of profanity at having his bike stolen because he was taking a picture. I turn my head to look back at the couple. The wind catches my hoodie, whipping it off my head.
Recognition flashes on the nearby faces. They stand frozen in shock as we slow to a stop at a red light.
“Fuck, you gotta cover your face, Princess,” Cash growls.
I reach up to pull the hoodie back over my head as I see several hands rise, phones poised to take a video of the spectacle. An A-list celebrity and her bodyguard stealing a fan’s moped right after the show is a headline anyone would click on.