Chapter 7
Sabrina
I’m just blow-drying my hair, cursing the frizz, and fully aware I’ve made a deal with the devil.
Not the actual devil.
Just the one outside in the black SUV who’s been haunting my every waking moment—and way too many X-rated dreams—with that deep voice, sinful smirk, and arms carved out of testosterone and temptation.
Ego.
Theo.
My bodyguard.
My problem.
Because for the past week, I’ve been good. So good. Professional. Polite. Only a few accidental stares.
Okay, maybe more than a few. And maybe once—fine, twice—I imagined what would happen if he just lost control and kissed me like I feel him watching me when he thinks I’m not looking.
And maybe I liked it.
Maybe I want it.
Lord help me.
The blow dryer whines as I flip my head over, fighting the puffiness at the crown and trying not to think about how this stupid Saturday field trip got accomplished with a special thanks to some anonymous donor buying the whole bus fleet for the day.
Gee, wonder who that could’ve been?
Thirty degrees.
An entire Catholic school—which translates into a hundred and ninety-seven four-to-fourteen-year-olds.
One Broadway show.
Three dozen faculty and staff members, including me—dressed for comfort.
I glance down at myself and wince.
Fleece-lined black leggings.
A soft cream blouse tucked just barely into the waistband.
And my favorite cardigan—dark pink, snug, long enough to cover my hips, warm enough to survive the morning chill.
I left a few more buttons than usual on my blouse undone because I was hot.
Blowing my hair dry always makes me sweat, and I didn’t want to be sticky while corralling kids into their assigned seats.
I thought nothing of it.
Until the knock comes.
Twenty minutes early.
“Shit,” I mutter, killing the dryer and giving my hair a quick fluff. I tuck a strand behind my ear, hoping I look passably put together.
I swing open the door.
And immediately regret it.
Theo’s standing there in all his tall, broad-shouldered, bodyguard glory. Black sweatshirt unzipped just enough to show the tailored tee beneath, sleeves pushed back to reveal his tattooed forearms, and that unreadable expression stamped on his face like a warning label.
Our eyes meet.
Then his gaze drops.
And his nostrils flare.
I follow his line of sight—and realize.
Oops. Oh. No.
My blouse is indecently parted.
And my pink cotton bra is showing through the gap like it wants to be part of this conversation.
“Oh God,” I whisper, fumbling to close it, but I barely get the fabric between my fingers before he’s stepping forward.
Inside. Into my space. Into me.
“Goddamn, Angel,” he growls, voice low and rough like gravel in honey. “It was gonna happen sooner or later. Might as well be sooner.”
“Theo—”
I don’t finish.
Because he’s already there.
His hands cup my face, big and warm and sure, tilting my head up with so much control and so much care I forget how to breathe.
Then his mouth crashes into mine.
And I’m gone.
Gone in the taste of him. The pressure. The fire.
His lips are hot and demanding.
His short beard scrapes gently against my skin.
And I don’t even think before my hands are on him, gripping his shirt like it’s the only thing holding me upright.
I moan.
Out loud.
Into his mouth.
And he responds with a sound that vibrates through my entire body, one hand sliding to the back of my neck, the other fisting in the hem of my cardigan like he’s two seconds from losing whatever control he has left.
This is madness.
Hot, glorious, maddening madness.
And I don’t want it to stop.
His mouth is everything.
Hot. Demanding. Possessive.
Like he’s been starving for me, and this kiss is the only thing keeping him alive.
And me? I’m no better.
I melt into him like butter on a summer sidewalk—gripping his shirt, clinging to him, kissing him back like I’ve forgotten how not to.
Because this? This is not a dream.
This is real.
Theo Montego—my terrifyingly sexy, larger-than-life bodyguard—is kissing me in my living room like I belong to him.
And the real issue I’m having is that I want that.
I want to belong to him.
His tongue strokes mine, coaxing a whimper from deep in my throat. One of his hands slides from my face down to my waist, dragging me closer.
I feel the hard line of his thigh slot between mine, and then I feel him, pressed thick and hot against my stomach, and I gasp.
“Oh my God,” I breathe, pulling back just an inch.
But he doesn’t let me go.
“Not God, Angel,” he rasps. “Just me. Just Theo.”
Then his lips are on me again, hungrier this time, more urgent. He walks me backward, one slow, steady step at a time, until the backs of my knees hit the arm of the couch.
I collapse into the cushions with a breathless laugh, and he follows, looming over me.
His mouth is back on mine, but now his hands are exploring—skimming under the hem of my blouse, fingers splaying across my stomach, dragging up and over the soft curve of my ribs.
My cardigan slides off one shoulder.
My blouse rides higher.
My brain? Long gone.
He groans when he feels my bra—soft cotton, stretched tight over my aching breasts—and I arch into him like my body’s made of need.
His hands are so big, he can almost fully hold me.
He squeezes my breast, and I swear to God, I almost come on the spot.
“You’re so fucking sexy, angel. So soft. So goddamn pretty. Fuck, I want you,” he mutters against my neck, kissing, biting, tasting like he’s marking territory.
My fingers tangle in his hair.
“So do something about it.”
His growl vibrates through me as his mouth trails lower. He tugs the edge of my blouse higher, just enough to expose the soft underside of my breast.
He dips his head and closes his mouth over my hard nipple through the bra. I arch my back and moan. His other hand reaches down between my legs, and I whimper. His thumb brushes over my hot core, and my hips lift on instinct.
“Fuck. You’re so hot for it, aren’t you? Hold on, Angel. I got you,” he growls against my tit, sucking harder.
And I want more.
I want everything.
His fingers find the waistband to my tights, and he’s moving inside the fabric, sliding through my slippery folds.
He finds my clit with ease, and he strokes me in time with the pulls his mouth is wreaking on my tit.
And then—I explode.
I come so hard I hear bells or alarms. His fingers slow, his kisses move from my breast to my lips.
And those bells are still ringing—only, as I come down from the high of my hard, fast orgasm I realize that part is actually real.
BEEP BEEP BEEP.
The alarm on my phone sounds like a fire siren.
“Oh no,” I gasp, jerking up.
Theo freezes.
And I mean freezes. Like someone hit his off switch.
He’s staring at me, eyes dark, chest heaving, jaw tight.
The second round of beeps sound, and he sits up.
Fast.
Like he’s yanking himself back to reality.
“Field trip,” I mumble, my whole face burning. “The alarm. I set it to remind me when to leave.”
He nods once, then drags a hand down his face and stands.
No curse. No complaint. No lingering touches.
Just this coiled, quiet retreat.
I sit there, dazed, and breathless, blouse rumpled, cardigan half-off, heart trying to sprint out of my chest.
What the hell just happened?
I look up.
He’s at the door now, back turned, fists clenched at his sides.
“What—what was that?”
I can’t help but ask.
Embarrassment at my quick surrender threatens to consume me.
But I wait before I panic. I just need him to respond.
He doesn’t answer at first.
Then, after a long pause, he says quietly, “Get your things, Angel. We’re gonna be late.”
And just like that—the moment’s gone.
And I’m left with a hollow feeling as I slide back into being just his client once more.