SWNOVELS Bossy Bodyguard: Part 1 – Chapter 3
I don’t like possessive men. Period. Nine out of the ten times, they think that I’m their object of desire and a toy to play with when bored. Like a kitten who would hiss at anyone who tries to steal his favorite toy.
But when Cillian said it…
I don’t like to share what’s mine. And you’re mine for tonight, Doll.
It wasn’t possessive. It was demanding. An order. A prayer, if you will. And it was just for one night. I was his, and he was mine.
So why not have a little bit of fun?
My eyes ran over his form in the suit, stripping him naked in my head and wondering how hot he’d look with tattoos all over his body. Did he have them all over his body? I was willing to find out as soon as I got him alone.
It was different with him standing so close in the elevator but not touching me. My thighs were still a little shaky at what he had told me to do in the hallway, and I had done it without a single thought. Because no one challenged Emma Moore and won. I had done it out of pride. I wasn’t afraid if anyone saw me and enjoyed the show, but some small part of me had done it for the approval in his eyes and the soft way he called me good girl.
My lips still felt the press of his lips and the bite of his teeth. How he had kissed me… claiming my mouth with his, tasting me and devouring me.
The elevator stopped on the top floor, my nerves twisting in my stomach. I clenched my clutch and walked into the private suite which had high ceilings, spacious marble floors in black, and furniture covered in blood red velvet. My attention stayed on the St. Andrew’s Cross with its cuffs and the staged four-poster bed.
“Do you want something to drink?”
I turned around to see him drop his membership card in the bowl by the door containing a key fob. Was he a regular here? Did he bring all his conquests to the suite?
“I would like some champagne,” I replied, walking towards the sprawling couch in front of the fireplace, throwing my clutch on the armchair.
“It’s much better than I thought,” Cillian hummed, looking around the suite as if he was seeing it for the first time. “Less dungeon-y.”
“Is this your first time here?” I asked because I wanted to know.
How the hell did a man like him enter Vixen, the sex club, and not get laid every time?
He glanced at me, his eyes on my feet where I was fiddling with my heels. “Do they hurt?”
Frowning, I shook my head. “No.”
“Good. Keep them on,” he said, removing his silver cuff links. My insides warmed, leaving the heels alone. “It is my first time in the club.”
I tilted my head, watching him remove his suit jacket and neatly hang it on the coat holder. My mother wasn’t a good mother among various other things, but she was good at teaching me how to move gracefully, sit, talk, eat, smile and even move my eyes. I could notice that Cillian’s movements were also methodical. Yet clean. He made something as small as removing his suit seem like an art. I could stare at him all day.
I would guess he was in the military or a cop. Or worse… a hitman.
“Then why do you have a premium membership card?” I asked, crossing my legs so the dress hitched just a little over my thighs, but his eyes didn’t stray from my face when he walked to the couch holding a bucket of rocks with champagne, and two flutes.
He looked absolutely ravenous and delicious in the dim glow of fire. With his black shirt stretching over his broad shoulders, revealing more tattoos on his neck and rolled-up sleeves, he was sex on legs. Powerful yet sensual.
No one should look that good holding a bucket of champagne and flutes.
That was just illegal.
“Would you believe me if I said my friend gifted me this membership on my fortieth birthday?” he asked, his dark eyes warm.
I nodded, too stunned to speak. He didn’t look like he was forty. More like early thirties. Damn. He has fine genes.
“W-when was it?” I asked and leaned to pour the bubbly drink in a flute. I needed a drink or two.
“Today.”
My eyes snapped at him, seeing him sit so calmly.
He turned forty… today.
I parted my lips to speak, but I stopped when the cold drink poured over the glass, spilling over the coffee table. I jumped and moved the bottle on the side, mumbling a small sorry.
“You seem surprised.”
“Yeah, um, sorry—happy birthday!” I stuttered, hating myself for being a nervous wreck. “I thought you’d be in your early or mid-thirties, that’s all. You look handsome for your age.”
Shut. Up. Emma.
A small smirk curled over the ends of his lips and my attention was caught by the scar running across it. It was strangely erotic.
“I’m glad that you think that, Emma. I suppose you are in your early twenties?”
I swallowed the lump in my throat. I’m nineteen. So I guess it counts. “Yes,” I said, tucking my hair behind my ear and took a sip of the champagne, humming at the fruity burning taste.
Technically, I shouldn’t be even up here in a suite. The sex club had strict over twenty-one policies but there were certain perks of being the sister of the club owner.
“So, how do you want to celebrate your birthday, Cillian?” I asked, taking another sip, keeping my voice sultry and my body angled.
But he wasn’t looking anywhere else but my face. I hated that.
“You.” His eyes were as dark as his hair when he said the words firmly.
“Me?” I asked, a flush creeping up my neck.
“After I find out what your dirty little mouth can do, I’ll fuck your sweet cunt.” I took a shaky breath when he leaned his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands together and gazing at me with primal hunger. “Maybe even your little ass if you’re into that.”
Oh. My. God.