The Bodyguard

25.

Jasper's Pov

disclaimer: when writing in first person pov it's not uncommon for reality to be skewed. Jasper's thoughts and perception are how he views it, but that's not necessarily how it happened. I think it's important to note for upcoming chapters when I write in his pov, because they will be very one-sided and prioritize his experience. As a whole, Jasper is a very unreliable narrator, so don't take everything he says and does at face value. Enjoy :))

As expected, I was late to the shoot in the morning.

But this time, it wasn't my fault.

Well, partly.

I had every intention of showering and making it there just in the nick of time.

But as I was learning, Ace was beginning to become such a distraction it was almost a nuisance.

I hated how easily I responded to him, but it was irreversible now.

Could I ever go back to before? Before I knew what it felt like to be consumed by his touch?

Because the sex wasn't even just great, it was outstanding.

Probably the best I've ever had. Although I would never tell him that.

Somehow it was about more than just the sex. Because sex itself was so easy to come by.

It was disposable, meaningless even.

It was about him.

I would've been slightly less irritated if I weren't left with the reminders so unabashedly imprinted on my neck.

Even when I scolded Ace in the car, he just laughed it off with that annoying, perfect laugh of his.

"Are you fucking serious?" I hissed. "I specifically told you: no marks."

"I'm sorry Jas. I really am," but his laugh told me otherwise. The first time he'd used the nickname outside of sex.

"Besides, you didn't seem to be complaining much."

And then, his teasing smile.

"You and your neck fetish," I huffed. "It's actually disgusting."

Ace pulled down the collar of the jacket he was wearing, revealing a map of hickies and bite marks courtesy of me.

He grinned.

"I could say the same about you."

So, not only was I late, I had to somehow cover my neck with either makeup or clothing.

When we got here, I'd rushed straight to my designated dressing room, hoping no one from my family noticed the time.

They were all getting photographed and interviewed right now, which gave me time to attempt to look presentable before the makeup and hair dressers got here.

Which is always how these things would go.

They'd make me look like some posh, uptight version of myself. The way a politician's son should look.

World's away from the person I preferred to be. The person I was.

I knew my mom hated the way I looked and dressed. My hair was always too messy. My clothes always too ill fitting for her liking.

But my appearance was one of the only forms of control I had left. She'd yet to take that away from me.

Which is why at these shoots, she'd give specific directions to the team. Ones I couldn't defy. It was her way of obtaining some semblance of the control I'd taken from her.