Pawn (Ironclad Bodyguards 1)

by Molly Joseph

  He glared at her. “Does it matter?”

  “No, it doesn’t matter. But you didn’t have to punch him that way. What if he doesn’t wake up?”

  He let go of her and spread his arms. “I never realized how much you cared about Fredrik. Maybe I should’ve just butted out and let him drunk-rape you.”

  “He was only kissing me.”

  “He wouldn’t have stopped there. Wake up, Grace. He’s not a good person. He’s not a trustworthy person.”

  “Why are you yelling at me?”

  “Because I couldn’t stand to see him touching you.” He took her arms again in a firm grip. “I can’t stand to see anyone else touching you because I’m fucking falling in love with you.”

  She stopped fighting his grip and stared at him. “What? No, you’re not.”

  “Yes, I am, and it’s not a good thing, because I’m not supposed to get involved with clients.” He pulled her closer, until they were almost nose-to-nose. “You’re still paying me, damn it. Every week.”

  His fingers opened and closed on her arms. He loved her. She could hardly wrap her mind around it. She stroked a finger down the developing bruise on his jaw.

  “Don’t,” he said.

  “Don’t what?”

  “Don’t touch me when I’m angry. When I’m angry with Fredrik. Angry with myself.”

  She touched his thick, wavy hair, his prominent cheekbone, thinking how intimidating he looked when he frowned. But he would never hurt her. Now that she’d calmed down from her freak out, she realized he’d never meant to hurt her. Only protect her.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have flipped out on you.”

  “What happened tonight wasn’t your fault.”

  “It wasn’t your fault either.” She moved closer to him, pressing her breasts against the solid wall of his chest.

  He flicked a look down at her. “Don’t. Not advisable right now.”

  “It’s my birthday.” She pressed the bruised spot on his jaw, just hard enough to make him grimace. “You said I could have whatever I wanted.”

  His eyes darkened. “Don’t fuck around with me.”

  “I’m falling in love with you too.” She said it quietly, because it scared her. “I don’t know where we’re going to end up. But I know I want you right now. I need you. Please…”

  He took her hand before she could hurt his bruise again. “You’re drunk, baby.”

  “Not anymore. Not too drunk to know how I feel.”

  His body vibrated with tension as he pressed his forehead to hers. “Do you want to know how I feel? I wanted to kill him, Grace. When I saw him on top of you, scaring you, I wanted to rip off his head and light his corpse on fire. I still kind of feel that way.” He stroked his fingers over her cheeks. “Do you see why I can’t be with you right now?”

  She swallowed hard and forced herself to meet his tortured gaze. “I think this is the perfect time to be with me. Maybe it will help both of us feel better.”

  He held her off when she would have embraced him. He looked down at her gown, at her breasts pushed up by the laced corset.

  “Grace,” he said in a long, low growl.

  She stood and let him look her over, and frown, and struggle with his conscience. Her conscience was clear. She loved him. Nothing else mattered to her, not Fredrik’s insults or her ruined party, or the increased tensions in the house.

  “Sam, please,” she said. “I want you.” She pulled out the heavy artillery. “I need you to help me forget.”

  His jaw muscles clenched. He stared into her eyes, a searing look. A moment later his arms came around her.

  “You want to forget, baby?” he asked in a low voice. It sounded like a warning.

  “Yes, please,” she said.

  “Then get out of that fucking dress.”

  She went still at the force and authority in his tone. She felt scared again, but it was a good kind of scared. He turned her around and pushed her hair out of the way to undo the back of the gown, pausing every once in a while to press a rough kiss against her nape. He pushed the gown down over her hips and squeezed her breasts, and nuzzled more kisses down to her shoulder. His stubble scratched her and his breath was hot against her ear as he undid her bra and yanked off her panties. Rough. Scary.

  Sam.

  He lifted her away from the pile of silk and tulle and carried her to the bed. He tossed her down and pushed her back, just like in her fantasies, except that this was really real and she was about to implode from wanting him. Why was he still dressed? She made a complaining sound, trying to draw up his sweater.

  “Wait,” he said, capturing her hands.

  He went back to the door and jimmied it shut as well as he could with its broken frame, and then he stripped, revealing broad shoulders and a ripped six-pack, and his long, muscled legs. He grabbed a condom from the stash in the nightstand, then returned and pinned her down on the bed, spreading her thighs open with his knees. He palmed her pussy and thrust two fingers inside her. She felt so hot, so ready.

  “Tell me no if you don’t want this,” he said in a strained voice. “If you don’t want me.”

  She couldn’t answer with his fingers teasing and exciting her. Instead she grabbed his arms and squeezed his thick muscles, and ground her clit against his hand.

  It must have been enough of an answer, because he bared his teeth and turned her over, arranging her on her hands and knees. She arched her back and surrendered to the urgency of his touch. He let go of her for a moment to put on the condom, and then he was back, grasping her hips. She felt his hard cock pressing against her pussy. God, she was so wet. All he ever had to do to arouse her was look at her, touch her, speak to her. Spread her legs.

  He nudged her legs wider with his knees and pushed into her, an abrupt invasion that had her clutching the bedsheets. He drove all the way to the hilt and stayed there. She gave a low moan.

  “You’re mine,” he said. “You feel that, baby?”

  “Yes. Oh, God. Yeah…”

  He swiveled his hips, pulled out and thrust in again just as hard. “Your pussy is mine, Gracie. Only mine. Say it.”

  “Only yours,” she choked out.

  “And I’m gonna take care of you, always. I’m gonna take care of you tonight. I’ll make you forget…”

  She was already forgetting. He reached down to part her pussy lips and smoothed a fingertip over her aching clit. “Oh, don’t,” she said. “That feels too…good.”

  “Don’t?” he asked in a dangerously seductive voice. “Do you get to tell me ‘don’t’? Or are you mine? My sexy little plaything?”

  “Damn it.” She was his sexy plaything. She sure as hell was. “Oh, please.”

  “Say it.” His fingers stopped running rampant over her clit and twisted in her hair. He pulled her head back and pressed his stubble-rough cheek to hers. His voice rasped in an insistent whisper. “Say it. I’m yours.”

  Her pussy clenched around his cock. “I’m yours.”

  “Nothing else matters, does it? Not tonight.”

  She spread her legs wider. He pinched her nipples until she was practically in tears—from pleasure, not sadness. When he wasn’t pinching her or stroking her clit, he was clasping her closer, so she felt the muscles of his abs against her back. He fucked her hard, but it didn’t hurt. It felt exciting and heavenly. Your pussy is mine, Gracie. Only mine.

  “Sam,” she cried, “God, please… I want…”

  “What do you want?”

  His voice alone was almost enough to make her orgasm. Add in his stroking and thrusting and hair pulling and groping…

  “Tell me,” he said. “This is your birthday, little plaything. You get to have anything you want.”

  Her hips jerked as he teased her clit. “Oh, I want...” I want you. I love you.

  “Tell me,” he said in his stern-bodyguard voice.

  “I want to come while you fuck me hard,” she moaned. “I’m so close. I’m so close i
t hurts. You feel so good inside me.”

  He fucked her until she was a shuddering heap of need, then delivered the perfect snap of his hips to send her into a spiral of wailing release. Her walls clenched and her mind went blank. There was only him and her and pleasure, and exhausted satisfaction. A few moments later, he grasped her hips and surged inside her, driving deep through his own orgasm. If he wasn’t holding her, she would have melted onto the bed in a boneless puddle.

  “Jesus, Gracie,” he sighed. He drew away to take care of the condom, then he was back, gathering her close as he lay beside her. The sheets were a tangled mess. Her brain was a tangled mess, but oh, her body felt wonderful and her fears had quieted. She rested her head against his chest and snuggled into his warmth.

  “You really are mine,” he said in the silence. “And I’m a jealous, possessive son of a bitch. Just warning you.”

  She trailed a finger though his dark mat of chest hair. “I love being yours. You make me happy.”

  He tilted his head to look down at her. “Say that again. That I make you happy.”

  “You make me happy.”

  He lay back and sighed. “I want to make you happy, Gracie. I want it more than anything in the world.”

  “And you want me to be safe,” she reminded him.

  “Well, yeah. That goes without saying.” He twisted some of her hair around his finger and gave it a little tug. She turned her head up and he kissed her.

  “Again?” he asked. “It’s your birthday. Whatever you want.”

  “I want you,” she whispered.

  He knew just how to touch her to make her feel better, to make her forget. And if she felt like she was losing herself a little, well, that was probably only temporary. She would enjoy this while it lasted.

  Today was her birthday, and she was allowed to have anything she wanted. Right now, she wanted to writhe in Sam’s arms and let him chase all the bad things away.

  Chapter Nine: No

  “If you beat Saad Al Raji, you’re asking for trouble. You can only do so by cheating. You’re nothing but a pretending, seducing harlot. If you don’t withdraw from this match I’ll find you and when I’m done with you, you won’t be able to call yourself a woman anymore.” —Anonymous Internet threat

  By the time Sam rose from Grace’s bed, Fredrik was gone. He’d left before dawn, flipping off the security camera with one hand and hauling his luggage behind him with the other. Gone into the wintry night, no forwarding address. Sam and Renzo turned the house upside down trying to locate the thumb drive Fredrik had made for Grace’s birthday. Krishna had muttered and gestured toward the sky. Praying? Prayers weren’t going to save them.

  Fredrik was no longer on their team.

  “Who’s going to tell her?” Renzo fretted.

  “I’m going to tell her,” said Sam. “It’s my fault this happened.”

  Renzo argued half-heartedly that it wasn’t his fault, but it was his fault. He should have locked Fredrik in, tied him up, barred the door. He’d been upstairs instead, losing himself between his client’s thighs. He was an unprofessional, self-indulgent asshole. He’d failed. Krishna glanced at him. Krishna, who could say more with a glance than a politician could say in an entire speech. His glance said, you failed.

  Sam walked heavily up the stairs to the third floor and found Grace standing by the sofa. No wedding gown today. She was back in her owl pajama pants and a sweater that didn’t match. She looked both sleepy and anxious. “Did you talk to Fredrik?” she asked.

  “I didn’t talk to Fredrik. Fredrik is gone, Grace. He left.”

  She leaned against the arm of the couch, or maybe she collapsed against it. “Is he coming back?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  He would have given anything in the world to not be part of this moment, the moment when Grace realized everything had been for nothing. Her planning and preparation, this frozen ordeal in Helsinki, the secrecy about her seconds.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. It wasn’t enough. Grace was still leaning against the cushions. She wasn’t looking at him, but somewhere over his shoulder. She was running through all the possibilities, which was probably why she looked so bleak.

  “He might come back,” she said.

  “He might,” Sam replied obediently. But he won’t. Tell her all of it. “He took everything with him though, everything he brought, all his luggage. He took the thumb drive. I’m sorry, Grace. I don’t think he’s coming back.”

  “He took the thumb drive?” She started pacing, pushing her glasses up on her nose. “Everything was on that drive. Every game, every plan, everything we talked about.”

  “Grace—”

  She turned back to him. “There must be a way to silence him. A way to find him and get the drive back, and make sure he doesn’t talk to anyone.”

  “If he created the drive, he already had the information.”

  “We still have to get it back,” she said, throwing her arms in the air. “Do something. Call the government contacts at the State Department. Call the QueenOps agents, or the people at your agency. We have to find him and stop him from talking to Al Raji’s side. He could tell them everything! Every freaking thing!”

  “Grace, please, calm down.”

  “Calm down?” Her voice went up in volume with every word she spoke. She glared at him from across the room. “Why didn’t you go after him as soon as you realized he was missing? Maybe he’s still at the airport. Why aren’t you calling someone, why aren’t you taking some kind of action?”

  He opened his hands at his sides. “There’s no action to take. He was always free to come and go.”

  “But he has my secrets. He signed a confidentiality agreement.”

  “Which he’s not allowed to break. Yes, maybe he won’t. But we can’t chase after him or detain him. We can’t take any action unless we can prove he’s talking to someone, and right now we don’t know where he is.”

  “He took my thumb drive—”

  “With his information on it, which he owns either way.”

  She stared at him, dumbfounded. “Why are you taking his side?”

  “I’m not taking his side. Look, stop pacing around.”

  She stalked over to the chess board, picked it up and flung it at the window. Pieces went everywhere, knights and bishops, kings and queens, rooks and pawns. “This is because of you,” she yelled.

  “Yes, it’s my fault,” he admitted. “I’m sorry. But Grace—”

  “You’re sorry? That’s all you have to say? You’re the one who fought with Fredrik. You made this happen.”

  “Grace.”

  “You’ve ruined everything for me, do you realize that? Everything’s over now. Everything’s gone, all my work, all my chances of winning. We might as well pack up and go home.”

  “You need to calm the fuck down,” he shouted over her tirade. She slammed her laptop shut and threw that at him, and then headed for his laptop. He pounced on her and gathered her against him before she could grab it and wing it through the air. She struggled to free her arms, but he could hold her for a lot longer than she could struggle.

  “I’m so angry with you,” she shrieked. “I hate you for making this happen. I want you to leave now, right now. I want a different bodyguard.”

  “You’re welcome to hate me, but I’m not leaving. You need to settle down, Gracie. I’m going to hold you like this for as long as I have to.”

  She nailed him in the ankle with her heel—damn her and her Jiu-jitsu. He went down and she ran from him, down the stairs. He heard the front door slam and went limping after her. By the time he got to the ground floor, Renzo was pulling her back inside.

  “It’ll be okay,” Renzo said to her. “We’ll regroup. We’ll come up with new strategies.”

  He waved Sam away and took Grace into the living room. Sam hobbled back upstairs and picked up the chess board, and searched until he’d located all the pieces and put them back in order. He picked up her lap
top and rebooted it. It still worked. One piece of good news on this god-awful morning. He sprawled on the couch and laid his head back against the cushions.

  Grace’s match was in eight days. They were leaving for Dubai at the end of this week, so she could acclimate to the weather and the two-hour time difference. Grace could replace him before then if she wanted to. Zeke might advise her to replace him once he learned what happened, but Sam didn’t want anyone else taking over. He knew Grace. He understood her moods and her needs, and what made her tick. He’d researched the match venue and the transportation systems around it. He’d studied floor plans of the goddamned hotel.

  He was in love with her, damn it. He wasn’t leaving.

  He went to the desk and wrote a report about the previous night’s incident to be filed with Ironclad. He left out the part about being in love with Grace, which would have gotten him fired, but admitted that Fredrik’s departure was almost certainly his fault, which might also get him fired. Grace was supposed to win this match. If Sam wasn’t here, there wouldn’t have been all the drama with Fredrik, and she might have been victorious.

  She might still be victorious.

  “Sam?”

  He looked up. Grace stood inside the door. She appeared calmer, if not happier. She was wearing the bracelet Renzo had given her, twisting it around her wrist. “So, on second thought, I guess this probably isn’t the best time to start over with a new bodyguard.”

  “Probably not,” he agreed.

  “But I don’t want to sleep with you anymore. I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  Sam stared at her. He couldn’t come up with any words.

  “And I don’t want you talking to my seconds. I just want you to be my bodyguard. I want you to move down to the second floor.”

  She said all this in a distant monotone that made his soul clench. “You want me to move into Fredrik’s old room?” he asked.

  “Yes. I’m going to need privacy. I’m going to need to really...just...buckle down and concentrate. No offense, but—”

  “No offense?” He couldn’t let her talk anymore in that detached way, and break things off with him, like nothing mattered here but winning her damn match. “No offense, but we had a relationship, you and me. A few hours ago, we had a relationship.”