Page 20 of Escorting the Bodyguard
“What do you mean?”
He’s quiet for so long I think he won’t answer. When he finally speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper.
“You can be standing right next to someone and still not be able to stop them from bleeding out.”
The confession hangs between us, heavy with meaning I’m only beginning to grasp. Whatever happened, whoever he lost, it’s still bleeding inside him. I can feel the tension radiating from his body, see the way his shoulders have drawn tight.
The stillness that follows doesn’t need filling. It’s the kind of quiet that comes after someone shares a piece of their soul.
“You’re here now.” My voice is steady despite the way my heart is racing.
He starts to turn away—that automatic retreat I’ve watched him do a dozen times over the past few days. But this time, something stops him. Maybe it’s the way I’m looking at him, or maybe he’s just tired of running from whatever this is between us.
He turns back, and the look in his eyes makes my breath catch.
The kiss, when it comes, is nothing like the desperate collision from four nights ago. This is deliberate. Slow. Ford’s free hand comes up to cup my jaw, his thumb brushing across my cheekbone with a gentleness that makes my chest ache. He’s not running this time. He’s staying, choosing this moment, choosing me.
He kisses me like he’s trying to memorize the taste, like he’s decided to stop fighting whatever he’s been feeling and surrender to it. There’s something almost reverent about the way his mouth moves against mine, like this moment matters in a way neither of us expected.
His body is solid against mine, all heat and tension and restraint. I feel the stutter of his breath against my cheek as my hands find his shoulders, fingers curling into the soft cotton. He makes a sound low in his throat—surprise or pleasure or relief, I can’t tell—and deepens the kiss.
This isn’t about control or games or the charged tension that’s been building between us for days. This is about need. Raw, honest need that neither of us can deny anymore.
When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard. Ford rests his forehead against mine, eyes closed like he’s trying to center himself.
“Gemma,” he says, and my name sounds different in his voice. Softer. Like something precious.
I don’t know what comes next. Don’t know if this changes everything or nothing or something in between. All I know is that for the first time in four days, the careful distance between us has finally cracked.
And I’m not sorry about it. Not even a little bit.
7
Gemma
“I can’t believeyou said yes to this.” I breathe in the fresh air and revel in the freedom of being outside as we walk up the steps to The Museum at the Fashion Institute of Technology.
Ford’s jaw is already tight as his eyes sweep the street, probably memorizing every face, cataloging every potential threat. “One hour,” he mutters under his breath. “This was a bad idea.” Even here, in broad daylight outside a fashion museum, he’s coiled tight as a spring.
I think about the last week since Ford kissed me again—how we’ve christened every surface in that safehouse with incredible sex that left me breathless and boneless. The kitchen counter. The desk in the surveillance room. The living room couch when we couldn’t even make it to the bedroom.
But even mind-blowing orgasms haven’t been enough to cure the restlessness scratching under my skin.
It had taken three days of careful arguments about my mental health and the fact that I was slowly losing my mind in that safehouse before Ford caved. He didn’t want to risk it, but we compromised on one hour at this quiet museum.
“There’s been no sign of him for over a week,” I remind him. “No sightings, no credit card activity, nothing.” Like waiting for a storm that might never come.
“That’s not as reassuring as you think it is,” Ford mutters, but he reaches over and squeezes my hand as we approach the entrance.
The security guard barely glances at us as we pay admission. Ford’s jaw unclenches by maybe half an inch as he takes in the spacious, well-lit galleries and the handful of other visitors scattered throughout—mostly art students and a few fashion enthusiasts like myself.
“See?” I gesture around the peaceful space. “Perfectly safe. The most dangerous thing here is probably someone getting too excited about a vintage Balenciaga and knocking over a display case.”
He doesn’t laugh, but his mouth twitches. “Stay close to me.”
I should probably examine why that small concession makes my chest feel so warm, but I don’t want to. Not today.
As we move deeper into the galleries, my shoulders relax and my breathing deepens. I’m practically buzzing with excitement to show Ford everything I love about this place.
