ONE

"Watch out, Madam!"

I almost miss a step when he grabs me deftly by the waist. Holy God! My heart race accelerates rampantly, but I know I'm safe whenever he's around. 

Still intoxicated by the alcohol running through my veins, my lips stretch into a rather pathetic smile as I look at him—at his insanely hot, rugged face.

"I know you'll protect me so why should I be too careful, huh?" I breathe out the trace of margaritas I had tonight, barely holding my vision.

The only thing I see is his ever serious face—smile-less yet beguiling—and the deep frown on his forehead that I'm used to by now.

How hot!

Do I want to touch him? Hell yeah. God knows how much I desire to run my fingers over his cheek, to touch his lips, and to… I gulp again.

For fuck's sake, Mia, you can't succumb to alcohol! You're better than this drunk lady here. My inner wisdom snaps some sense in me.

"Let me help you to your room," he whispers curtly, his voice thick and deep.

I close my eyes and instantly I'm in the air, his strong arms holding my body tightly in place. Automatically my arms encircle his neck, and my head easily rests into the hollow of his neck. Slowly he clambers the stairs, his steps calculated and precise.

Again that pathetic smile curves my lips at the feeling he evokes. A smoky and woodsy fragrance surrounds me as he ascends from the grand foyer, an awfully familiar scent of his. I think I like it very much now.

"Hmm… You smell wild," I murmur. “I fucking love your scent, Mr.Grumpy.” I giggle, but he doesn’t respond.

Does he wear cologne? Nah, he's not the type. So what is it?

He scrambles into my unnecessarily big bedroom and he lays me down carefully. On the king-size plush with so many pillows, a white duvet covers me upon his will. I suck in a deep breath, watching his every move despite my blurred vision.

As he edges back, my mood sinks in.

Why can't he just lay here with me? I don't wanna be alone. Not tonight after the terrifying evening I've had, and many unpleasant days I recall. If I could, I'd just hold him tightly and never let go until the new day arrives.

My drunken eyes are battling to stay awake, to watch him and his ember eyes that remind me of the blazing sun in the summer, yet as bewitching as the bonfire on the beach.

"Can I take your shoes off?" he asks hesitantly, his gaze on the bronze gladiator heels I'm wearing.

“By all means, Mr.Grumpy!” I dramatically fling my leg toward him. 

I can barely gauge his reaction, but possibly he’s giving me his signature solid look, a frown on his face. 

“Oh, c’mon! Hurry,” I mutter with a pout, thanking my pilate instructor for getting me this stamina for my leg to remain in the air. 

Sighing, he sits on the bed and takes both of my feet onto his lap. His fingers graze against my skin as he unhooks my shoe, and heat sears through me at every touch.

What the heck, Mia! He's your employee, for crying out loud! Since when do you get to feel the shit about him? Or anyone who isn't Patrick Kingston?

Oh, Patrick. What do I do with him?

As the legal wife of the prominent business magnate in Portland, how do I dare forget about this title every woman in this city envies? I smirk at the thought, for it's very pathetic.

He takes off my last shoe, gently, and slowly he rises up. His large and pleasant frame hovers beside my bed, and as always he doesn't utter a syllable as he makes sure everything around me is in order.

That's my bodyguard.

The windows seem well shut, the AC is running to my liking, and other security details he affirms; the ones only he understands. I just watch him as he does it all. But fuck, I need to get out of this dress—it's too tight.

I try to get up but my muscles are nearly wobbly, my head as heavy as a bag of stones, and I know I can't sleep with this dress on. How will I make it to my dressing room? With all my strength, I manage to stand up as she shuts the bathroom door.

"I want to—" I trip and my speech hangs.

"Madam!" He rushes back speedily and basks me into his arms.

"Where are you going?" he asks, a frown on his face as though I'm some incorrigible kid he badly wants to punish. I slowly draw myself back and focus. "You need to sleep, Madam."

"I need to take off my dress," I breathe. His gaze falters. "Can you help me?"

"Um . . ." He's hesitant.

"Just unzip my dress and I'll do the rest," I snap. He looks appalled, eyes narrowed ina confused fashion. "It's an order," I add.

I can't even move with my free will, let alone taking the zip off which is always a challenge even when my wit is not as scattered as it is right now.

I need his help.

"Yes, Madam.” He gently takes me toward his chest, as though he's hugging me.

I can feel the acceleration of my heartbeat, and I pant mildly. He's only trying to secure my balance, I know this much, but why am I enticed nonetheless? It's as though I'm yearning for something more.

Something I shouldn't do.

My face closer to his chin, his trimmed beard scratches my forehead. God, it’s electrifying. And then, much to my dismay, I feel his hand on the back of my neck—hard and firm. I hold my breath, flexing as his strong fingers clutch the zipper of my dress.

I sharply gaze up at him, but his impetuous eyes remain firm, an indescribable gleam settling in them. He slides the zipper downward, smoothly, which goes up to my butt. He gulps softly as his hand stops right there, and I think I’m a mess in and out.

Despite the chilly AC in the room, it still feels hot.

"It's done," he tells me, his voice husky.

I don't move; neither does he. His lips part slightly, and mine seem to so badly want to mingle with his. Fuck! What's happening to me? What am I thinking? Or imagining? What the hell, Mia!

"Thank you," I whisper softly, but my eyes refuse to leave his illusive face full of mystery. I see the bruise on his jaw and my heart shatters. "I-I am so sorry for dragging you into trouble earlier," I whisper, remorseful.

He got the bruise because of me and the last thing I want is anyone getting hurt at my expense for any reason.

"It's my job to protect you, Madam," he returns.

More than a sense of accountability, it's the tone of his voice that turns me nuts. It's like he can die for me, and it's as exciting as it is scary.

"Does it hurt?" I try to touch his face but he winces back. "Sorry," I add fast.

"No, it doesn't." His voice is monotonous; not that I'm surprised.

Adamantly I hold his face gently with my palms. He doesn't move this time. Tentatively, my fingers reach for the bruised part and touch it without putting pressure. He flexes a bit, certainly not from the pain, but he doesn't move away.

Instead, he's transfixed as he stares down at me, as though he's thawing in my touch. I gently run the back of my hand on his jaw, and the fatal attraction of his lips makes me want to do something sinful.

Am I drunk? Am I really drunk? Yes, I am drunk, that's why I'm doing this. Or else what is this? I want to kiss him. Fuck, I so want to taste his sexy lips that hardly let out the words.

Will it be a crime if I do it? Just this once in the name of alcohol? My brain gets occupied with lewdness and he remains patient despite the hint of danger he finds in me.

My lips are getting closer to his when I hear, "You need to rest, Madam." He pulls back, his breath heavy. 

I should be thankful, right?

"Okay." I tug myself out of his grip, my feet jelly but capable enough to make a step or two. "You can go now," I deadpan.

Caring less of my wounded ego, I slide the sleeves of my dress down my shoulders as I turn around.

"Good night." He walks toward the door, and at the same time I let my dress loose.

It falls straight to the floor.

He holds his stance, hesitant to move a step father. He knows I'm naked; wearing nothing but a pair of fine black lingerie, half of my body out in the open, and I stand still watching his wide back.

I mean no temptation to him, however; I just feel out of my damn mind. I fall into bed unceremoniously, and he nearly turns around, but stops midway. I pull the covers to my neck and shut my eyes.

I hear the door closing, and he's out of my room.