Scandalous - Michael B Jordan

chapter 12

god fucking damn it. she knew exactly how the fuck she was looking at me. "like i'm your only anchor." it wasn't a statement, it was a warning. this woman wanted more than my mouth on her. which wasn't something i did. ever. i didn't kiss women. i bent them to my will, then i fucked them and left. no kissing. no attachments.

a shitstorm of emotions raced across her face before something close to calm settled in. i was stupid enough to presume her next words would be every bit the actress she was.

"right now, you are my only anchor." guileless, and with a trust i didn't fucking want, she laid her shit out there.

and because my dick had been hard since the damn shower last night, i bit out questions i had no business asking. "a man? family? support system?"

"no, i don't have anyone." no hesitation, she rattled off her response without blinking.

fuck. fuck. "why?"

"why what?"

"why no support system?" i've been around too long not to see the warning signs. famous actress or not, a lonely chick was a lonely chick. add a uniform, whether it was the service or azul's damn logo polos, and you became a target. i wasn't above using a uniform to score, but a chick who clung to you? not my scene and not fucking happening.

her chest rose with an inhale. "cortez and naomi were it." her eyes a clearer shade of hazel this morning without her pupils dilated as fuck, she stared at me for a moment. then she dropped a bomb. "i just fired them."

i wasn't surprised she fired her asshole agent, expecting the unexpected was how you survived. shit rarely surprised me after afghanistan and iraq. only a fucking fool would let himself get taken off guard after spending any time downrange.

i figured something was up when she called her lawyer then he had her security contract switched to her control. the ramification of hollywood's it girl firing the team that managed her career while i was her security detail? now that fucking threw me.

"you got someone else in place?" i had no business asking. my job was singular. protect her from the paparazzi. i got paid whether she threw her life away or not. i didn't need to get involved.

she shook her head. "no."

not involved. christ. i had her hair in my fist, she was looking up at me with misplaced trust, and my dick was itching to get in her mouth and have those full lips wrap around it. to mention, i was contemplating kissing the fuck out of her just to see what she tasted like.

this wasn't a dangerous combination, it was a fucking catastrophe. she was a catastrophe. a naturally submissive, sexy-as-fuck catastrophe. she licked her bottom lip again. jesus, i need to remember my fucking job.

i changed the subject. "tunnel vision, ringing in your ears, light-headed, anything?" she's already almost passed out on me once, which hadn't made me fucking happy. in fact, it's done the opposite. i was pissed as hell she didn't tell me about her fear of needles, or blood or whatever the issue was, but she clearly knew it going in and tried to mask it with bravado.

not that i didn't respect that, but her laid out on the floor wasn't happening. she reached up and grasped my forearm in her small hand. "i'm good."

i knew the move. i knew every signal she was putting out, and they were all green lights. i also knew who the fuck i was. i didn't screw around with clingy women, i kept everything simple and clean. that meant no attachments and no bullshit drama. this chick was drama on steroids.

she was also begging for the kind of attention i knew how to give. she'll be exactly what i wanted between the sheets. hell, she'll fit my needs like a glove, but i was a fool to even consider going there.