Page 32 of The Bodyguard Proposal

I’m squinting at the phone, because I don’t remember exactly being wet down there. But I don’t remember being dry either. Is there a middle ground? But also, wow this is analysis I can’t believe I’m doing.

Still, maybe—just maybe—it rings true that I wanted this night to be so hectic fun, I wasn’t quite present in my own physical desire… Again, was I even wet? Should I have touched myself more or made Judd touch me more before a penetration attempt was made? I remember his hands on me and that was nice. I also remember fantasizing that a certain someone was there instead of Judd…

Remembering that lapse, my pulse picks up. Heart rate is already high, but I blame Huan. He keeps confusing the data.Trying harder, I imagine only Judd in this bathroom and think Huan isn’t in London at all.

I’m not getting wet at the thought. Or slippery. Or pre-slippery when you feel wet on the inside before it reaches the outside.

“His fault,” Huan says through a locked jaw. “If you weren’t ready, it’s his fault.”

“Because as your client, I can do no wrong?”

“Yes.”

He must be kidding. “But seriously, there are two sides. Equality and all.”

The way the muscle in his jaw jumps, I’m seeing Huan unravel layers of calm like a time-lapse video. His eyes practically glitter. “If you don’t know what you are doing,” he finally forces out. “You ask the person you’re with.”

“Great. I’ll pencil in a Q&A next time I’m about to ride a stranger on a toilet.”

“Also known as foreplay, Ms. Chahal. Standard in sexual intimacies.”

“Intimacies sound like what you do in a knitted bonnet.”

“I’m trying to be polite around you and use appropriate words.”

“And if you weren’t?” I demand.

"It's better if I don't answer that."

“Well, expert Huan, maybe I like to skip to the end of things. Rush the foreplay. It happens. I'm sure you've rushed the foreplay before.”

Spread some lube up around your business, push the other person's hand around here and there for they never really know how to touch you like you need to be touched. It's all very pleasant, as I've admitted before. Sometimes tingly.

“I assure you,” he snarls. “I wouldn't rush the foreplay, Ms. Chahal.”

My shoulders almost hit the wall. I have literally fallen backwards, and it would have been a rough landing if he didn’t place that strong hand in the middle of my back. His strength keeps me safe. “N-never?” I ask.

“I am a man who takes care of his woman’s needs.”

Warmth pools in my belly. Lucky bitch.

“Care to elaborate?" I wiggle, pressing my shoulder into his chest.

He stares straight at the door, not commenting on what must be an uncomfortable position for him. His client’s thigh draped over his, jostling around. “Forget it.”

“I don't want to.”

My petulant tone makes him look back at me. Good.

“You’ll have to,” he says.

A more forceful hunger skirts down my body. Down there.

At this point, our faces are perilously close. I notice Huan has a few freckles on his cheek. I foolishly want to count them, but it feels risky to track his cheekbones because Huan is hot. Point blank. It’s not that I don’t know this because I do, but this—when part of his face and shoulder are wet, his forearms noticeably larger than mine, and how we’re both worked up, and now, freckles… I can’t.

Nobody says anything for some dragged out moments. As we're both in this heaving state, I wonder if Huan is counting any of my features, like how many eyelashes I have, or the exact angle of my sharp nose, or the soft lines in my mouth—but that’s ludicrous. We keep breathing deep and stare potently at each other.

“Do you really think I’m toxically masculine?” he finally asks.

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